Beneath the black palms, p.8
Beneath the Black Palms, page 8
“Anythin’ will help us, sir. My son. Firstborn—only twenty-three an’ taken back to God’s glory.” The man pointed across to the far median. “Two young girls ova dere his keeds. Four an’ nine.”
Monty scanned the intersection, watching other poster-clad family members walk up and down car lanes, pleading for compassion, scooping an occasional dollar. The light flashed green. Monty returned to the man, meeting his crystal gaze. “Sorry. No cash.”
Before, “God bless,” could leave the poor man’s lips, Monty’s engine charged west.
II.
Lamont Craig II decided he’d had enough for today, soon as that pricey foreign roadster left him penniless, flying down Willow—its driver a disheveled shell of a man. He guzzled a large Gatorade from out a cooler in the rear of his “work truck”—a ’92 Suburban with magnets across its body that read:
CRAIG ELECTRICAL CO.
You’ve been Had by The Rest. Now try The Best!
1-888-GO-CRAIG
His wife, Eloise, was fanning off his granddaughters with a newspaper beside him, misting water above their beaded braids. Their faces were painful to take in, two pairs of his dead son’s eyes beaming back. He handed the bottle to his remaining son (Trey, eighteen), busy counting donations they’d gathered before the heat beat them down. “What it do?”
“Made like two hunny.”
Lamont reflected, adding the total for the past two days in his mind: $520. A drop in the bucket—the urn for what they needed to send his boy to heaven right. There was no savings to dip, no retirement plan to plunder. This was all a bad dream, aftershocks in play for the rest of his days.
How could his boy be gone in a whisper?
Eloise loaded the girls into the car, its insides finally cool enough to buckle them. The men climbed inside. As Lamont drove home, the blank looks off every person he approached in that intersection churned the brain. Never mind what they thought: another dead thug on the ghetto streets. To them his boy was probably just some hood that deserved what he got. But he didn’t. No one earned the right to be on the wrong side of a bullet—no matter who they were. And Lamont Craig III—Meezy to the homies—was his son. His blood…taken out like a rabid dog for wearing the wrong color shoes. He sparked a Marlboro 100 to vanquish them all, those dumb stares, ghosts out his lungs into a blistering sun.
Eloise and the girls gently wept in the back seat; Trey handed over fresh Kleenex as the Suburban pulled into the driveway of their weathered abode. Couldn’t remember the lawn ever being green or window bars not rusted. His brother would often joke about the place, calling it The Kennel, often met by Father’s sneer; Pop’s knees had been obliterated by years spent crawling floors, wiring nicer homes in better neighborhoods so his family could eek out this life. One thing was certain: There was no way he’d be another stooge on his knees when he grew up. Life was one big hustle, either the moon or the gutter, and Trey wasn’t going to gamble on something better—he would achieve it—become a professional in this world. He’d already killed the SATs and been accepted to two private colleges. Wasn’t like he was in line for any grants or scholarships though. The plan was to hit Long Beach Community for his undergrad; hopefully by then, he could save enough working for Pops and take out a loan to help make that dream a reality. But there was one major caveat: He wouldn’t be taking over the family business, like his brother was supposed to—and that wouldn’t be tolerated by Pops. Shit, just going to community college got met with a chuckle by the old man. With this sudden death in the family, that dream would have to be a secret from now on.
The room he shared with Junior had cracks in the walls covered by pictures of Gang Starr and Tribe. (He never called him Meezy. He was Junior since day one—no matter what the streets claimed.) Band posters were all that Momma would allow, never tolerating big titties or butt cracks inside her home. He opened the closet, staring at Junior’s blue wardrobe, taking out a puffy Dodgers jacket and sniffing it, burying emotion deep inside. He slid it on in front of the mirrored door. His hands dug into the pockets, right one hit something cold, hard. Instantly, he knew what it was, slowly pulling out the revolver, noticing it was loaded.
The fuck, Junior?
When did it all go south?
He opened a high drawer, one used for socks and undies, burying the Smith & Wesson deep inside. He wondered how much it’d fetch on the street. Could buy a haul of textbooks. Knew exactly who to approach: Kermit. Tomorrow they were going down to the funeral home too—same one Kermit’s dad owned. He’d probably be there, working. Kermit ran with a questionable crew, like most boys out here. Surely, he’d know someone that needed a piece—hell, maybe even himself. Trey took another glance in the mirror before tearing off the jacket and kicking it into the closet.
III.
A brisk, salty breeze welcomed Monty back to Manhattan Beach, ocean a snoring beast in the distance. To think his great-grandfather had the foresight to purchase large swaths of acreage up this coast many years ago; Monty still held title to several homes and businesses throughout the community. Would’ve had more if Mother hadn’t begun selling off parcels to eager socialites and celebrities throughout the ’70’s. Didn’t really matter though—not like he had any children or other family to pass the fortune. If he ever got short of money, he’d just sell a home for five to ten million and go on with his humdrum ways. There were no worries in store for Monty, so when the issue of a potential new neighbor moving in next door became a possibility, it tilted his barge.
ESPN radio had no reports of any Dodger players being traded yet. Monty felt a short relief wash over as the Jag climbed up his narrow driveway, then descended into a subterranean garage. The home was originally built as a two-story, back when his father still controlled the acreage between it and the coast. Upon his passing, after Mother’s selling spree to uphold her gilded existence, the home was demolished and rebuilt to accommodate four stories, cementing a panoramic view above all who’d built downhill. Monty rarely even visited the first two stories, now converted into storage, filled with Mother’s artifacts from her global escapades and priceless paintings sheathed in plastic. He rode the elevator up, arms heavy with pickle jars. Approaching the kitchen, a sound of the television brought concern. In the living room sat his best and only friend, his neighbor—a relief pitcher for the “Boys in Blue” named Robbie Slate.
“Elle’s having another one of her Real Housewife parties. Had to bail, man. You don’t mind, right?”
Monty tossed him a beer can from out the fridge.
Robbie caught it with his right arm—the left shackled in an intricate brace from a recent labral tear procedure.
“My place is your place—why I gave you that emergency key. You didn’t have a problem with the new security system, right? Same code.”
“Nah, it was cool. What’d you do to it?”
“Upgraded the surveillance—smaller cameras. Guess I just got bored with the old one. They’re coming out next week to set up the exterior.”
“You don’t have outdoor cameras?”
“I do, but the monitor’s busted. Wear and tear.”
Robbie popped the can with his teeth and sniffed its contents. “This a new South Bay brew or what?”
“Nah, they’ve been ’round a few years. Harbortown Ales. Specialize in Belgians but this is their unfiltered Citra DIPA. Drink it.”
Robbie swilled. “Tastes like oranges…grapefruit even.”
“People are going ape shit for it—camping out along Western.”
“Fuckin’ delicious. You buying in?”
“I’ve made it known that I’m willing to invest. They’re all young though. Kids. The brew master ain’t out his twenties. See what happens, but yeah…I want in.” He cracked his own can. “Heard you haven’t been placed on the chopping block yet.”
“Who told you that?”
“Radio. If you get traded, wanna sell your house back to me?”
“Fuck no. We’ll rent in whatever shit city they send me.”
“If you get traded.”
“Yeah…if.”
“Think it’ll happen?”
“Fuck if I know. My numbers were solid, before…” He raised his broken wing.
“What the doc say?”
“I’m on ice for at least ten months—best case scenario. Anyway, if I don’t hear from my agent by midnight tomorrow, I’m good for another season.”
He plopped on the couch, admiring a yacht in the bay.
“Lemme ask you something, Monty.”
“Shoot.”
“Beer, you serious? Why don’t you put money in real estate—I mean, it’s in your blood, bro?”
“Golden Road just sold to Budweiser for nearly a billion. How’s beer not lucrative these days? I own enough property as it is.”
“I’m talking new developments. Have you been in downtown lately?”
He laughed. “No.”
“Elle and I were at this charity function the other night—”
“What charity?”
“Some foundation for the blind—or maybe it was prostate cancer. Shit, I’m at so many of these things, I lose track.”
Monty reflected on the last time he ever did anything nice for anyone other than himself. Charity? He should try it one of these days.
“What was I saying?”
“Downtown.”
“Yeah, so, we’re at this dinner at the Ritz—I’m gazing out the windows, taking in the view. Fuckin’ cranes galore, man. Every corner has something new going up—and I mean up—high in the sky. Most of the designs are batshit too. Everyone’s got a boner for Frank Gehry, right? So, then it hits me. The Future.”
“Future smacked you in the face?”
“Kinda. Marvels are being built, man. Mini metropolises. Giant works of art. Live/Work/Play. Condo owners never have to venture out their building’s grounds. That’s when it hits me—this is the future of Los Angeles. Build some giant campus—a contained city within the City, make it shaped like something weird—a legion of colliding locomotives or some shit. Next door, a developer builds another, even more outlandish—the view out every unit window framing another 3-D Dali built across the way. That’s the future. Build ’em high and keep folks dumb—drunk on steel. I’ve already got my accountant reaching out to developers, ones moving into South Central. Never been done before in the history of L.A. The future is now, and if you don’t buy in, you’re gonna miss out, man.”
Monty snickered into his beer.
“That funny to you? Think I’m crazy, right? I’m not.”
“No, I feel you. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“My father used to always say the future depended on investing in children—their livelihood…education.”
“Whose children? You an’ I don’t have any dogs in that race.”
“I know but kids own the future—can’t argue with that—even ones that brew beer.” By the twist on Robbie’s face, the concept was lost, so Monty refrained. “Forget it. That’s a good idea though—yours. I’m sure you’ll make a killing.”
“Damn right.”
“’Nother beer?”
“Please. Hey, you should come with Elle and me to the next event. She thinks you look generous. Always says you got them Vin Scully eyes. Very kind.”
Monty headed for the kitchen, smiling. “Don’t know about that, but Elle’s an angel for thinking.” The word charity flashed like neon in his brain.
Why hadn’t he entertained it earlier?
He knew the answer, it reflected back at him, eye to eye in the sleek refrigerator door. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer. Come here, check this out.”
Robbie rose from the couch and joined Monty before a ceramic nude bust of a female torso, hanging at the hallway entrance. “That’s cool, man. Erotica. New?”
“Yeah. See anything weird about it?”
Robbie analyzed the bust. “Nah.”
Monty switched off the hall lights. Inside the ivory nipples were pinpoint red dots.
“No way. New security cameras?”
Monty nodded. “These spy minis are all over. Pretty cool, right?”
“Shit, yeah. Maybe the home security market is where to invest?”
“Possibly…or else we just keep on living our dang lives.”
Monty smiled as Robbie mimed slurping an areola.
Next morning, the Jag pulled into an industrial corridor just north of Old Town Torrance. The Strand Brewing Co. was located inside a large warehouse where craft beer was brewed and bottled on a daily basis. Monty retrieved two amber growlers from out his trunk and walked inside to have them filled. The tasting room staff didn’t know him very well, but they knew of him—word through the beer community about some stiff with deep pockets, hoping to pay to play in their business. He sipped a pint of pale while his bottles were filled, sitting at a picnic bench, scrolling through his cell to see Robbie’s trade status. Looked like his neighbor was safe for now, their conversation yesterday keeping Monty awake for part of the night. He should do something positive with his inheritance. An act that would cost little to him but change someone’s life for the better. Fuck real estate, that empty void often displaced those truly in need. A random monetary donation would be like tossing a stone into a lake, watching the ripples, knowing that he made the impact. He’d start off small, maybe pay for someone’s groceries or write a check to a soup kitchen or…
What would Vin do?
The beerback called his name; he approached for both growlers. The moment his fingers touched that icy brew, it hit him like a crisp jab.
Yesterday: that family with the funeral!
A grin climbed his face as he rushed to the Jag and peeled out the lot.
The intersection mirrored the day before, family members at every median in the ninety-degree heat. Monty spotted the father at the southerly light; he hooked a right down Long Beach and cut a quick U, heading back to Willow. The father looked in his direction, but upon seeing him, turned and headed back to a foldout chair set up with an umbrella. Monty honked to get the man’s attention. Soon as he craned, Monty waved him over.
IV.
Lamont leaned Meezy’s poster to his chair and approached the foreign roadster, thinking, Fuck this white fool want? Grin on the dude’s face was waxy—kind he’d seen in a hundred horror movies. Before he could open his mouth, the man spoke.
“I’d like to have a word with you.”
“’Bout what?”
“This whole production you got here.”
“Production?” Lamont sneered. “Get the hell on witchoo.”
“I mean no disrespect—that came out wrong.”
“Ya think?”
“I wanna help. Can we talk somewhere?”
Lamont scanned the intersection; Trey was giving him a look, wondering what was going on. He waved him over. The light turned green. “Meet me in the parking lot—over there,” he pointed, “beside that Suburban.”
Trey’s face remained blank, wondering who this white man was in the vintage Air Jordans, along with his agenda. By the frozen look on Pop’s face, figured the old man held the same thought.
Monty stood silent for a beat, wondering if they’d misheard him. “Said I’d like to cover the costs…for the funeral—all of ’em.”
Lamont: “May I ask why? I mean yesterday you—”
“That’s just it. Yesterday got me thinking. Seeing your family out here, that picture of your son—couldn’t recall the last time I ever helped anyone beside myself. Look Laah…what was it again?”
“Lamont. This here is my son, Trey.”
“Lamont. Trey. Nice to meet you. I know this may sound bizarre, and I understand your tentative reaction, but hear me out. My name is Monty Laughlin. I’m a lifelong Angeleno from Manhattan Beach who is capable of erasing the financial burden of your tragedy. That’s all there is to it. There are no hidden fees with this offer or monetary gain seen on my behalf—only the satisfaction of knowing that I did something positive today—helping Lil Meezy get a proper burial. Now…all you gotta do is say yes, and we can get started.”
“I’ll need to speak with my wife first.”
“Sure thing. I’ll wait.” He watched as Lamont walked to the rear of the Suburban, tractor beamed by his spouse’s hungry eyes.
Trey stayed put. “You serious about all this, Monty?”
“Cross my heart. Can I ask what happened to your brother?”
“Got shot outside a strip club—Fantasy Castle—over in Signal Hill.”
“Jesus. I saw that in the Times. They catch the bastard responsible?”
“Nope. Never do. Say, what you do for a living?”
“I’m in between things at the moment. Guess you could call me a…beer man.”
“Beer? What, like Bud Ice or somethin’?”
“Craft beer—West Coast IPAs mostly. I’m trying to invest in local breweries.” The kid looked at him as if he were speaking French.
Lamont returned with his wife and grandkids.
Monty said, “Well?”
The woman let go of the children’s hands and walked up to him, a glimmer in both eyes. For some reason, Monty had the feeling she was about to slap him. Before he could flinch, the woman wrapped both arms around his ribs and began to sob.
