There was a knock on the door and a trim bespectacled man in his early forties leaned his head in. “Five minutes, Minnie,” he said, grinning at her and frowning at Monk. He wore a houndstooth sport coat.
“Okay, honey,” she replied, blowing him a kiss. He withdrew but left the door slightly ajar.
Thaxton stretched and said, “I’ll have my man go over these papers and we’ll be in touch with Ardmore.”
“Great, I appreciate your time.”
“Not a problem.”
Monk departed and was at the side exit door when the man with the glasses stopped him.
“What’d you want with Minnie?”
Monk told him, assessing him as a protective younger boyfriend.
“Hey, that sounds like a winner,” the guy enthused when Monk got to the part about the proposed agreement for Thax-ton’s songs. “Let me give you my card. I’m Minnie’s manager.”
Monk guessed there’d been a succession of “sturdy mens” in his age range as her managers. He glanced at Charles Es-tes’s card while handing the man one of his own. “Good to meet you.”
“You know, my uncle wrote a couple of songs when he was a Sugar King. But maybe you’re not going to include him because of what happened. Really, it’s messed up what they laid on him.”
“Your uncle is Burris Parchman?” Monk said.
“He’s not really blood, but our families have known each other a long time. My dad and him went to the same grade school.”
“Charles, get over here,” Minnie Thaxton called out, standing before her dressing room door.
Estes grinned sheepishly at Monk. “Her majesty needs me.”
“What about your uncle?”
“Holler at me tomorrow, man. My celly’s on the card.”
He rushed away and Monk returned to the Ramada Inn on First. After all these years chasing chuckleheads, from the common street thug to the truly flagitious, and getting socked in the head or worse for his trouble, he was still on a budget. It was hard being the People’s Detective, he lamented.
Early the next day, Charles Estes called Monk, who was drinking coffee at a local café. “Hey, man, sorry I kind of misrepresented matters last night. Truth is, I haven’t seen Burris in a long time. I don’t know where he could be.”
“Maybe somebody in your family might know.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” and the line went dead.
That was a kiss-off. Thaxton must have told Estes to get the party line right. Why didn’t she want him talking to Burris Parchman? It must have something to do with the shooting. Phoenix was unknown territory to him. But he had a day left on the room that Antony was paying for, and figured he’d use the time productively.
At the main library on Central, an imposing five-story rectangular structure seemingly modeled on a space-age toaster, he went through collected bound hard copy and microfiche newspaper accounts of the shooting. He studied the coverage in the black newspaper, the Arizona Sun, and the white press too, including the Herald Examiner in L.A. The pieces contained various mentions of the pioneering civil rights work of Hayzell Mumford’s parents, the Reverend Asa Fairchild Mumford and Dr. Justine Mumford, PhD in social anthropology. From World War Two and Jim Crow–divided Fort Hua-chuca, where the reverend was an officer not inclined to bow and scrape to whites, to the early ’90s, the Mumfords were a driving force in various struggles for social justice. From job equality in the public sphere, school betterment for minority students, and housing integration in the greater Phoenix area, they’d been at the center of many pivotal moments of change in the state.
On July 4, 1976, during the nation’s bicentennial, Phoenix, like a lot of cities, put on a large parade and celebration. The Mumfords were to be honored, and, Monk noted in one account, the Sugar Kings were slated to perform. But it had been the week before that the fight had taken place at the studio, so naturally that segment of the festivities had been canceled.
From what Monk could gather, the reverend was not a fan of his son’s avocation. “I cannot be reconciled with Hayzell’s pursuit of these most temporal and tempting of concerns,” Mumford was quoted. Another article contained, “I can only continue to pray that the Lord will guide him out of this episode of his life and return him to the fold.”
More recent online searches showed that the father had died in 1998. The partisans who attended the funeral included Harry Belafonte, Oliver Stone, who at that time was trying to get a film made about the Mumfords, and former Congressman Gus Hawkins, the first black man elected to the California legislature. Monk then read a quote from Nazeen Loveless in the Examiner:
One shot and Hayzell goes down, a fatal wound to his chest. We came rushing in, and at that moment, precisely, his mother arrived to surprise him because she wanted to take him to lunch. It had been weeks since he’d been back in Phoenix.
Monk did an eyebrow raise worthy of Spock. He then searched for references to Parchman. There were no articles about him online except for the time during the shooting. But looking back at the bound hard copies of the black newspaper, he spotted several ads for local clubs where Burris was listed as a headliner. The last one was from 2004. That was just a few years back, indicating he was still active, at least then, in the Phoenix area. Loveless and Thaxton had said Parchman had disappeared before that. Maybe he snuck into town and left promptly. Or maybe not.
Burris Parchman wasn’t listed in the white pages, and though Monk called several music booking agents, he got nada. He did find a listing for the Mumfords’ church, Greater First Congregational Methodist on East Jefferson, once the heart of the black community’s south side.
“Yes, you see,” Monk told the helpful woman over the phone, “I’m wondering for the purposes of this documentary we’re putting together if we could interview Mrs. Mumford. I realize she retired some time ago. Is there a way you can get her a message?”
“I would like to help you,” she said. “Justine would love to participate, only …”
“Yes?” Monk said in a solicitous tone. What sort of bad ju-ju was he racking up lying to a good woman like this?
“She’s been under the weather,” the woman said in a way that suggested Mrs. Mumford wasn’t simply suffering from a cold. She was in her eighties, after all. “Let me see what I can do. Give me a number to reach you at, would you?”
He gave her his cell number and the one to his office in Los Angeles, then hung up.
Monk walked about downtown, came upon a barbecue rib and chicken joint, and had a late lunch. It was past 2 and still over a hundred degrees of dry heat. His cell chimed as he swallowed a bite of tri-tip sandwich. After his hello, a quiet voice said, “My name’s Burris Parchman. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Who told you?”
“Charley did. Course, he also convinced me to let him resurrect my so-called career. Once the Sugar Kings compilation comes out, he said he’d be able to get me some new gigs.” He had a rumble of a laugh like the organ he played. “Well, one thing at a time, I guess.”
“Where are you?” The number and area code hadn’t come up on Monk’s screen.
“Sure, let me give you this address. I’m staying with a friend.”
The house was a neat little Craftsman not unlike those Monk was familiar with in the older parts of L.A. It was east of downtown in a mostly Latino section judging from the Llantas Goodyear and mini-mercado signs.
“Come on in,” a pleasant voice said on the other side of a screen door.
“Thanks,” Monk said, stepping into a freshly painted room with little furniture and no TV. The hardwood floors looked like they’d been recently refinished. The walls were bare.