Violent Spring by Gary Phillips Page B

He padded to the front in bare feet. Opening the door, Drier stood there blow-dry fresh, his cologne cloying like a woman’s. Behind him and to the left stood a minicam operator holding his camera at rest, waiting for the word from the maestro.
    â€œI’ve never met you before, Mr. Drier.”
    â€œBut you dug me on the tube, right?” he interrupted.
    Monk blinked, hard. “But yeah, I recognize you from the TV. Now why the fuck couldn’t anything you have to ask me wait until I was at my office?”
    â€œBecause Monk, my man, you’re the wild card in this deal. And from what I’ve read about you, I think you’re going to be where the action is.”
    He hated when people, guys who didn’t know him called him “my man.” The camera operator hefted his device, adjusting the lens.
    â€œYou haven’t heard, have you? It was on the news radio stations about half an hour ago.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe cops and the FBI did a raid at a house near Adams and Western.”
    â€œLooking for Conrad James, I bet.”
    â€œThat’s right, homeboy. ’Course they didn’t find him, but they did manage to roust a mother and her two children out of bed and tear up a chest-of-drawers her grandmother gave her.” The microphone, it must have been at his side all along, appeared under Monk’s nose. The red light winked red on the minicam. Drier swiveled his coiffured head to the camera.
    â€œI’m here with private eye Ivan Monk who has just learned that the combined efforts of the local police and the FBI, operating in a joint task force, have conducted an early morning sweep for the suspect in the murder of Bong Kim Suh. A murder Mr. Monk has been hired to solve by the Korean-American Merchants Group.” The blonde head pivoted back.
    â€œWhat are your reactions to this, Mr. Monk?”
    He mumbled some inanity as a reply. Drier continued for several minutes with questions whose purpose seemed to be to get Monk to pontificate on the state of the cops, the Koreans, black folks or the universe in general. He was getting edgy with boredom.
    â€œFinally, Mr. Monk, if this murder does indeed turn out to have been done by a black murderer, do you think the city will explode again?”
    Monk clamped his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. “Then he deserves a fair trial by a jury of his peers.”
    â€œBut you’ll admit that’s hard to come by for a black man around here.”
    Monk knew where it was going, but what the hell. “Yeah, that’s right.”
    â€œThen the city could go up again if a black man is arrested?” A lascivious gleam lighted Drier’s baby blues. The microphone inched close enough for Monk to shave with it.
    â€œWell I’m sure if that happens, you’ll join me in helping to keep the peace, Mr. Drier.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œI mean right here and now on live morning TV, I’m joining with you.” Monk put his arm around Drier’s shoulders. “As a representative of electronic journalists, as a man who has said he believes in activist reporting, I’m asking you to pledge that you’ll come with me into the deepest, darkest heart of South Central and together we will meet with the brothers and sisters on the battle lines. They respect you down there, you know.”
    Drier’s glare bored angrily into Monk who remained stone-faced looking at the camera. With practiced fluidity, Drier regained his facile composure. Through thin lips he said, “Bearing in mind that my job is to report breaking events, of course I’ll do everything I can to maintain calm if those riotous events should repeat themselves.”
    â€œGood, good.” Monk clapped him several times on the shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Brother Drier, my coffee’s getting cold.” Monk wheeled about and went into the house, silently closing the door behind