Violent Spring by Gary Phillips Page A

because the factory relocated to a foreign country to take advantage of a home-grown, exploitable labor force. And even the service sector jobs at McDonald’s or the frozen yogurt stand were out of their reach because they just couldn’t take orders from guys too young to date their daughters.
    Monk sat in the enclosed dining area of Oki Dog eating his pastrami sandwich, heavy on the onions and light on the mustard. The stand itself was neutral territory. Gang members, low riders, hip-hoppers and metal heads—there was a recording studio across the street—and beat cops all came to the Oki Dog for at least a weekly repast. Wilshire Division, where Monk was to be in about an hour, was less than two miles away on Venice.
    The patrons came to indulge in such fare as the Oki Dog’s wondrous heaping plate of fries, the spuds cut into long strips with the skins partially left on and served on a paper plate with a few green chili peppers on the side. Or a triple chili cheeseburger and a giant root beer. Maybe even a cholesterol-laden Oki Dog: two hot dogs swarmed in the secret chili, onions and cheese, and garnished with bacon wrapped in a flour burrito.
    Monk ate, ruminating on the case. Two young men in their late teens entered the enclosed area. They were dressed in double breasted suits of some shiny material and each wore bowlers. Scalp Hunters. They were a minor set as far as gangs like the Daltons, the Swans and the Del Nines were concerned. But they weren’t partners to the truce and therefore considered loose cannons by all concerned.
    Each one looked warily from side to side. The taller, beefier one’s gaze settled on Monk for several seconds. Monk returned it with a baleful expression. Eventually he shifted his attention to the one Monk had noticed sitting in the rear booth. He wore the purple colors of a Dalton and had been intent on the three tacos before him. At least when Monk had last looked at him he had. But Monk was sitting with his back to the Dalton, the Scalp Hunters in front of him, standing near the order counter.
    Monk stopped chewing and started calculating. He hadn’t brought his gun and the only way out of the dining area, save a stupid stunt like trying to dive through the picture window, was out the open doorway.
    â€œSay, homey,” the lanky Scalp Hunter began, talking to the other. “You got any money.”
    The other one, working a toothpick back and forth on the side of his mouth, had his eyes riveted on the back booth. “Naw, sure don’t”
    The first one patted himself down dramatically. Suddenly he stopped, dove a hand into a pocket, and produced a wad of twenties. “Oh yeah, I forgot about my ho’ change.” He flashed a twisted smile and turned to place his order with one of the cooks. Toothpick kept looking past Monk.
    The Dalton strolled past the Scalp Hunters, holding his plate of tacos in one hand. The other was down at his side. Toothpick stepped into the doorway, blocking the Dalton.
    â€œWhy you in such a hurry?” Toothpick said in an unfriendly tone.
    â€œIt ain’t none of your worry,” the Dalton replied.
    â€œWell, we just wanted you all to know the Scalp Hunters is ready to sign up on this truce thang.”
    â€œIs that right?” the young Dalton replied skeptically.
    Monk continued to chew, listening, rather than heed his good sense and leave.
    â€œThat’s right,” the lanky one said dryly. “But first the Daltons gotta agree to split up they shit.”
    The Dalton put his plate of food on the table where Monk sat. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at the two. “Just how you mean that, my brother?”
    â€œWell if we gonna be all for one and one for all, then y’all should divide that big money of yours up between all the ones that agree to this truce.” He looked at his huskier companion. “That’s only fair, right?”
    The husky one nodded