Violent Spring by Gary Phillips Page A

back, staring at the names in the case revolving around the inside of his head. He added O’Day’s, unsure at the moment of how much prominence to give it. But time would tell. He got out of bed and trudged into the bathroom. Monk took an invigorating bath, all the while examining the facets of the case. Toweling off, Monk put on his charcoal grey sharkskin suit and a round collar carmine colored shirt which he buttoned all the way up.
    He got a shot of Nicaraguan coffee from the espresso joint on the corner. With time to spare, he tooled his car west on Sunset, past UCLA, the Bel Air Estates (where the Great Communicator and Mommy lived), Brentwood, and on into the sphere of affluence which was Pacific Palisades. Drawing closer to the Coast Highway, Monk put the Ford onto a road winding into the Santa Monica Mountains. On a street called Apollo, he arrived at the gated driveway that led to the Odin Club.
    On either side of the wide roadway was a guard booth, for the entrance and exit. Each was done in the shape of a five-headed plaster-and-lathe dog with a mane of writhing snakes sitting on its haunches. Cerberus at the port of Hades. In the belly of one of the dogs was the two sectioned door that allowed the guards to look out. Each was blonde, with pecs the size of Nebraska straining the black shirts of their uniforms. One was crew cut, the other splendidly Californian in a ponytail.
    A column separated the dogs. At the top of it was a statue of someone Monk presumed to be Atlas. The muscular figure squatted and strained while holding up not a globe, but an oil well. They really mixed their metaphors and mythology around here, Monk concluded.
    Ponytail, on Monk’s side, leaned his large head toward him as he stopped at the closed gate. “Can I help you, my man?” He said it like he was used to turning away the unwanted and unwhite several times a day.
    â€œIvan Monk to see Maxfield O’Day.”
    Ponytail looked at Crewcut, a smirk stretching his thin lips. “Sure,” he said. He arched back into the booth on the stool he sat on and punched something up on a monitor. He looked at it for a few beats, then turned back. “Go on in, Mr. Monk.” He turned a knob on a console and the gate swung upward. Monk drove on up.
    The asphalt drive, lined on either side by a low strip of flagstone, had large palm trees running parallel to it beyond the wall. At the end of the winding path, seemingly in another time zone—or was that another time?—was the Odin Club.
    It was a multi-tiered structure, with several of its levels jutting into a mountain side. All white, sun-washed walls, pillars, tile roofs, maplewood shutters, chrome railing and cut glass panes in a mix-mash of Greco-Roman, Beaux Arts and Streamline zip. The total of it overwhelming and harkening back to the Roaring ’20s when it was built with robber baron money. An ostentatious den for high society parties and some dirty, low-down sex with well endowed chorus girls.
    Monk went up the slab of steps to the entrance of dual oak doors embedded with wrought iron rings. He yanked on one of the doors, and was surprised to find it opened effortlessly. It was guided by pneumatic cylinders on the top and bottom. He stepped into the foyer with its stone composition floor. Instantly, a smooth-haired maitre d’ appeared beside him.
    â€œThis way, Mr. Monk.”
    Monk followed the spry gent into a dining room of forest green carpeting, oak-paneled walls, and indirect lighting. Old and middle-aged white men, some in suits and some in designer workout togs, inhabited the eating ground of the powerbrokers. These were not the men seen eating in the Polo Lounge or Spago, talking on their cellulars while sending the water back because it didn’t have enough sparkle.
    No, these men ate bacon and eggs or cereal and half a grapefruit for a light breakfast. They drank their coffee black and strong and wouldn’t know cafe au lait