Free Violent Spring by Gary Phillips

loud impact, the two youngsters would laugh and exude ‘aghhs,’ twisting their bodies as if they too felt the blows.
    The woman studied Monk as he approached the counter. He had his photostat out, pushed toward her. “My name is Ivan Monk. Mr. Li of the Korean-American Merchants Group hired me to look into the murder of Bong Kim Suh.”
    â€œYes,” she said, “I saw the news.” She gestured at a compact portable TV on the counter. It was surrounded by an open box of Baby Ruth candy bars and baseball cards, near a horizontal rack of polybagged ten-dollarsper-pack for three soft-core girlie magazines. The set played a silent soap opera. “I remember your name.”
    Monk replaced his wallet. “Did you know Mr. Suh?”
    Her eyes looked over at the two youngsters, then back to Monk. “No.”
    â€œHow did you come to buy this business?”
    â€œWhy not? It was for sale.”
    â€œBy who?”
    â€œThe Bank. Ginwah Bank. When Kim Suh leave, payments stop, bank take over. We pay them, take over business.”
    â€œHow much did the liquor license cost you?”
    She didn’t miss a beat. “Bank say liquor license belong to Jiang Company, not our concern. We get good rate on store, Bank take care of Jiang.”
    â€œLook, Ms.…”
    â€œChung. Mrs. Chung.”
    A tall clean-cut Korean-American young man stepped from the rear of the store through a door next to the beer case. Monk took him to be twenty-two or three, and he wore knee-length baggy shorts and a T-shirt with a giant ‘X’ on it.
    â€œWhat up, Aunt So?” the new arrival said. He came up beside her on their side of the counter.
    â€œThis is the one the Merchants Group hired.” She shook a thumb at Monk. “Answer his questions, I got work to do.” She marched off into the back.
    â€œHi, I’m David,” the young man said, extending his hand.
    Monk shook it, introducing himself. “I was asking your aunt what she knew about Jiang Holdings.”
    David lifted a shoulder and an eyebrow. “Who are they?”
    â€œThe company that has title to the liquor license of this place.”
    â€œWell, homey, that’s beyond me. I just work here part time to help the folks out and shit.”
    That’s why your aunt sicced you on me. But Monk said, “Do you know anything about the people Suh had working here before your aunt and uncle bought this place?”
    â€œNo. Wait a minute,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I was in here one day and this chick came in, fine too. Anyway, she said she used to work for Suh and was wondering if we’d heard from him.”
    â€œHe owe her money?”
    â€œI don’t know, man. But I think—” He stopped himself in mid-sentence and pulled out a drawer in the counter. He dug around for several seconds then produced a scrap of yellow, blue lined paper. This he handed to Monk.
    â€œCan I keep this?” Monk said, shaking the piece of paper.
    â€œSure. Don’t look like we’re gonna hear from Suh now, huh?”
    Monk handed the young man one of his business cards. “You never know what a dead man might tell you. If you think of anything else, give me a call, will you?”
    â€œSure, Mr. Monk.” And they shook hands again.
    Monk walked past the action video game. Only one kid played now, his eyes semi-glazed, mouth hanging open. The game was called, “Bring me the Head of Saddam Hussein.”
    Out at the curb, Monk noticed two young black men, also in their early twenties, stopped on the other side of Pico Boulevard in a late model, gun-metal grey Blazer with Weld rims. He noticed them because the one in the passenger seat was pointing toward the store. Or him. The utility vehicle pulled away quickly, and Monk wasn’t about to rush out in the busy street and try to get the license number. He got in his car and took Hauser south to Adams, then made a left.