Bad Night Is Falling by Gary Phillips Page A

hair uncombed, grey beginning to set in. He was going over the racing form, making tight, concise circles around his picks as he read through the upcoming heats.
    â€œHow’re you fixed for some possible extracurricular work?” Monk poured himself a cup of coffee.
    â€œYou that hard up for a sidekick?” Andrade answered, never taking his eyes off his homework.
    â€œI need,” Monk began, making his way around me counter to sit next to the accountant, “a Spanish speaker for some translating.”
    Andrade put his red-shot eyes on Monk, blinking. “ ¿Cómo? ”
    Monk sketched him in on his case and said, “Basically, it might be needed for a meeting I am hoping to get together with a few of the neighbors. Or else several phone calls. Of course you’d be compensated.”
    Andrade opened the paper, folded it to another page, then folded it down to quarter size agin. “I suppose this would require me to be, oh, how should I say it, around?”
    It suddenly came to Monk he didn’t know where Andrade lived, but assumed it had to be nearby as he’d never seen him drive to the shop. “I’m at the mercy of other forces, Andrade.” He refrained from making a comment on the bruja Limón. “It would help if I got your home number, so when someming jumps, I can buzz you.”
    â€œNo phone,” he retorted, making another pick on his form. “No car, either.”
    â€œHow the hell do you do business?”
    â€œBadly.” He made another find.
    This was beginning to annoy him. Andrade wasn’t the only Spanish speaker he knew, but he was the most handy. “How about I get you a cellular to hold onto for a while.”
    The red pen circled a horse called Distant Gloom. “Sure, I can come back here to get it.”
    Monk’s curiosity about where the strange accountant lived was gnawing at him, but he didn’t want to make an issue of it and tick him off. “Fine. I’ll leave it with Elrod by ten tomorrow. Just so we don’t run up the bill on the damned thing, for now just click it on between”—he consulted his watch—“eleven and three.”
    â€œOn it.” Andrade got off me stool, finally taking a bite of his cruller.
    â€œAndrade …” Monk began, then stalled.
    â€œWhat?” The man rubbed his unshaven jaw.
    â€œThanks, I appreciate your trouble.”
    He made a casual flick of his hand, took a few gulps of his coffee, and tucked his racing form into his jacket pocket. He departed without another word.
    Elrod, standing in the opening leading to the kitchen, was wiping his hands on a cleaning rag. “If his Spanish is anything like his accountin’, you might be peddlin’ backwards.”
    â€œI’ve heard him speak Spanish more than once; as far as I can tell he’s not some gavacho .”
    â€œUh-huh,” the giant remarked dubiously. “You just better hope he’s sober between them hours you told him to be available.”
    â€œYou ever been to his pad?” Monk enjoyed some of his coffee.
    â€œNope. As far as I know nobody knows where he stays. Wait.” He held up the rag in one massive paw. “I think maybe Honest Abe took him home once. Way I hear it, Andrade lost his license for his second DUI conviction.”
    Abraham Carson was a carpenter and regular at the Abyssinia Barber Shop and Shine Parlor where Monk got his hair cut and the neighborhood 411. “I’ll give him a call, thanks.”
    Sitting at the counter, Monk started to go through the files Absalla had left for him. From his stash underneath the Formica counter, he retrieved a compact Te-Amo number 4 cigar. He puffed on the ember and read, sometimes stopping to fill orders for customers who came in. He pretended not to notice the disapproval on some of their faces at the sharp smell. When he got to Kelmont Reeves, he finally found something of interest. It was an