BLACK Is Back, Page 2

  He pushed open the door and was startled by his assistant, Roxie, peering behind the file cabinets, not at her usual position at her computer. She was wearing her typical ensemble of all black, her full-sleeve tattoos on display for the entertainment of his clients.

  Perhaps another reason he didn’t have many.

  “Good morning. What are you doing?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, and he noted that her customary black hair dye had been abandoned in favor of neon red. “I can’t find Mugsy,” she said, worry etched across her face. Mugsy was the obese cat that had adopted Black when he’d rented the office.

  “What do you mean? The fat bastard never leaves. Too much energy required to move off the couch, unless it’s to destroy one of my prized possessions.”

  “I came in this morning, and he was gone.”

  “And here I was thinking that it was going to be another bad day.”

  “I’m serious. He’s not here.”

  “So am I.”

  Roxie threw him a black glare. “You love that cat.”

  “Nothing lasts forever. Like my executive chair that he willfully shredded last month.”

  “I’m worried he got out and is lost.”

  “Right. Freezing to death in the seventy-degree weather, and wasting away to where he’s only…really fat.”

  “Don’t be an ass-hat, boss. He could get hit by a car.”

  “The car would lose on that one. Like hitting a cow. Or a deer.”

  “Could you please be serious, just for a minute? He’s missing.”

  “Roxie. He’s a stray cat. He managed just fine before finding a sucker like me to sponge off. I’m sure he’s just out roaming around. That’s what cats do. Alley cats. Although the odds of Mugsy being able to fit into most alleys is a stretch…”

  “We need to find him,” she announced, returning to her station.

  Black nodded, as though considering the idea. “And how do we do that?”

  “I’ll go walk around the neighborhood.”

  “Great idea. Instead of doing the work that’s part of your employment, you’re going to spend your day looking for a destructive cat that hates me. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I think he’s got a thyroid problem. I’ve been reading up on it.”

  “He’s got an eating-too-much-and-not-moving-around-enough problem.”

  She glared at him again. “You’re not helping.”

  “You want me to notify the authorities? Maybe they can get a helicopter to go block by block. Do a grid search.”

  The phone on Roxie’s desk rang. She ignored it. “Seriously, boss. I’m worried.”

  Black frowned at the phone. “Are you going to answer that?”

  “Are you going to stop treating Mugsy’s absence like a joke?”

  “Roxie. Your job is to answer the phone. Is that too much to ask?”

  “What phone?”

  The phone rang again.

  “That one.”

  “Oh.”

  Black sighed in defeat. “Fine, Roxie. Answer the phone, and then you can take an hour to look for Mugsy,” he said as he moved into his office.

  “Black Investigations,” she said, and then transferred the call to his desk. “It’s your buddy Bobby,” she called. “Line one.”

  Bobby Sorell was an entertainment attorney who’d helped Black start his PI business and still referred him clients. As well as being the lawyer who’d slept with Black’s eighteen-year-old wife and orchestrated a deal where Black got peanuts while she became a bazillionaire from the royalties of songs he’d written. It was a long story and a complicated one, but over time they’d developed a friendship, and Black now counted Bobby as one of his closer friends.

  Black lifted the headset to his ear and stabbed the line active. “Bobby. What’s shaking?”

  “Not much. The usual. Too little money and too much work.”

  Black knew Bobby was as rich as a Central American dictator. “That’s a shame. I hate to think of you slaving away over a pile of contracts. I mean, the paper cuts alone are hazard enough.”

  “Laugh all you want. My life is complicated,” Bobby said.

  “No argument there.”

  “Enough about my ugly little world. I was calling to see if you could come over today. I’ve got a potential new client for you. And I need a hand with something personal.”

  “Are you coming on to me?”

  “Not like that, you pervert. I mean with a personal issue.”

  “A personal issue? I…hesitate to ask.”

  “It’s nothing like that. I’ll explain it when you get here. Maybe lunch? I’ll buy.”

  “I can’t today. I’ve got a lunch date already. How’s the rest of your day look?”

  “I’m slammed too. What about tomorrow? Lunch mañana?”

  “Now we’re talking. Where?”

  “Let’s say Factor’s at noon?”

  “I’m all over it. See you then. But can you at least tell me about the client now?”

  “He’s in the music business. Should be right up your alley. Perfect for you.”

  “Music, huh? All right, Mr. Mysterious, I’ll see you tomorrow. Consider it a date. And don’t be late – you know I’m a busy guy,” Black said before hanging up.

  Roxie appeared in his doorway, a look of concern on her usually uninterested face. “No BS, boss. I want to go look for Mugs. I can’t concentrate knowing he’s out there, all alone…”

  “He’s not alone. He’s so fat it’s like he’s got a whole second cat accompanying him.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “He looks like a bowling ball with legs.”

  “He’s got a condition.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  She stared at him, a moue of disapproval a testament to his cold-heartedness. In the face of that sort of resistance, he had no choice but to cave.

  “Okay, Roxie, take an hour or two and look for him. But I have to get out of here for lunch with Sylvia – it’s our one-month anniversary, which is kind of a big deal, so please be back by then. Much as I’d like to operate the office’s hours around Mugsy’s walkabout schedule, we still have to make a living, and that means someone needs to answer the phone. Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure, boss. By the way, nice suit.”

  A smile began to form on Black’s face, and then he stopped, suspicious, her flattery as unexpected as it was likely insincere. “Really? Or are you F-ing with me?”

  “No.”

  “No, you’re not F-ing with me, or no, the suit isn’t nice?”

  “Door number two,” she said.

  Black met Sylvia at her favorite restaurant, a small Italian bistro near her apartment that had a light touch and a heavy pour. She was glowing, as usual, radiating an inner energy unlike any Black had ever seen. They ordered lunch, and Black reached across the table and took her hand. She threw him a megawatt smile and waited expectantly.

  “This has been an amazing month, Sylvia.”

  “May. Every year, same time. Right after April.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She got serious. “I do. It’s been incredible for me too. Hard to believe that in this whole city, we managed to meet.”

  “Try in this whole world. Switzerland’s a long way from Los Angeles.”

  “Indeed. A world apart.”

  The waiter brought their drinks: brimming glasses of Pinot Grigio for her, Chianti for him. They toasted and sat appreciatively, enjoying each other’s company, the milestone of thirty days significant for them both. It had been a long dry run for Black before meeting her, and it couldn’t have happened at a more opportune time. Perhaps most significantly, his seething anger had receded since they’d been together, and they were now making plans as a couple, a unit – something Black realized he’d been missing since his previous relationship had crashed and burned.

  They watched traffic through the picture window, a relentless stream of steel an
d metal rolling by on the way to important destinations, and silently thanked providence for their connection – a seemingly accidental encounter that had led to something important for them both. Sylvia’s shaggy blond hair seemed to catch the sun as she moved, and her clear blue eyes sparkled with customary good humor. And for the hundredth time since they’d met, Black wondered at his good fortune and vowed not to blow it, as he had so many times before.

  Their lunch arrived, and they spent a relaxing hour eating, drinking, and soaking up the ambience, insulated from the outside world. When they finally parted with a lingering kiss, and Black returned to the office and Sylvia to the abstract portrait she was painting, he was assailed by a sense of melancholy and wished that he could take the rest of the day off and spend it in bed with her. But that wasn’t to be. She had her production schedule and he had to hustle up some new clients, and neither could afford a dalliance, no matter how sweet.

  For the remainder of the afternoon he caught himself grinning into space like a fool, which seemed to confirm for Roxie that he was losing it. As did most of his actions, so no surprise there. Maybe he was. If so, it wasn’t a bad way to go.

  God knows he’d been down worse roads.

  Chapter 4

  The substantial police presence outside Staples Center was a display of force intended to curb any mischief-minded attendees of the night’s big event: a Los Angeles concert featuring a host of the hottest rappers in the nation, including B-Side, the latest sensation directly from South Central, whose breakthrough debut album had catapulted the youth to instant celebrity six months ago, on the heels of the tragic death of his cousin, Blunt. Blunt had been all raw power and gangsta swag. B-Side was flashier, more of a showman. His rippling pecs and abs were a prominent feature of his celebrity, and his provocative and flamboyant music videos invariably featured the rapper sans shirt.

  It was a sell-out crowd in B-Side’s hometown, and the turnout was fully representative of his stomping ground, with a large gang-related contingent in the house. Security was tighter than a federal prison, with metal detectors and body searches to ensure that no weapons made it inside. Groups of highly visible uniformed LAPD officers roamed outside to discourage drive-by shootings; the temptation to even scores while enemies were waiting unarmed in line could prove irresistible.

  Inside the huge auditorium the seats were packed, and the anticipation was palpable – tonight was more than a concert, it was an event, history in the making. B-Side had come from nowhere, a background singer with Blunt on his only tour, and he’d aggressively claimed the crown left rolling after Blunt’s death.

  Backstage, the dressing rooms were mobbed with the various entertainers’ entourages, and security was almost as thick as out front. Nobody wanted any altercations between adversaries, and any rapper who was successful would have a long list of those he’d dissed and publicly proclaimed were punks or posers. Tonight there were only a few with overt feuds, and they were kept well away from each other.

  B-Side’s posse was in the largest of the six dressing rooms, a twenty-by-thirty suite stocked with every imaginable variety of alcohol and food, the air thick with marijuana smoke as B-Side got his groove in gear. He wouldn’t be going on for an hour and a half, the three acts before him each allocated thirty minutes for their abbreviated sets, and backstage was party time for his crew until he set foot on stage.

  A select handful of young women hovered near the star, who sat reclining in a chair, a red silk shirt shimmering in the lights, a black do-rag on his head, more diamonds on his watch and necklace than on display at Tiffany’s. B-Side had an undeniable larger-than-life charisma, more of an aura than an attitude, and a facility with fast talk that was the province of the street hustler. Tall, handsome, and engaging, he radiated success, and it was evident to everyone that he was going to be one of the enduring stories in the business.

  Miles Ferris, the head of Gravestone records, B-Side’s label, pushed through the door and made his way to his star, trailed by two hulking goons devoid of necks and with faces like losing boxers.

  “Yo, Miles in tha house, give it up!” B-Side called out, and the lively banter and trash talk dropped in volume as B-Side stood and moved to greet him. Miles held out his arms and B-Side hugged him, no small feat given Miles’ considerable girth, ensconced in a two-thousand-dollar hand-tailored silk suit that could have doubled as a car cover.

  Miles grinned and nodded to the girls, who were sizing him up, and then pulled B-Side aside and murmured to him, “You gonna kick ass, my man. This is your town. You own these other suckahs. Ain’t nobody going to remember their names two seconds after you in the spotlight,” Miles added, stressing his street vernacular even though he had a degree from Pepperdine and had grown up in the San Fernando Valley, where his parents were respected physicians.

  “Straight up. Gonna show ’em what time it is.”

  “B-Side time. They gonna come correct when you in tha house.”

  The affirmation formality concluded, Miles departed with a wave to the group and a lingering look at the scantily clad women. B-Side moved beside the most beautiful and took her hand, into which he placed a glass of Hennessy.

  “So you a fan, huh?” he said, raising another glass of the amber nectar in a toast.

  “I was telling my friends today that I’d do just about anything if I was lucky enough to meet you tonight.”

  “Anything, huh? I got a big…imagination, you know?”

  She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Really? That’s good to know.”

  They toasted and sipped the cognac, and then he gestured to the center table, stacked with shrimp on ice and heated containers with food specially prepared to B-Side’s contract rider’s specifications, which for this concert was themed after his birthplace in New Orleans. Gumbo, fried everything, turtle soup; nothing had been spared to deliver a meal that would have been the envy of half the restaurants in L.A.

  “You get any of that?” he asked.

  “I already ate. Besides, a girl’s got to watch her figure.”

  His eyes roved over her curves before settling on her hazel eyes. “You let me worry about watchin yo figure, baby doll.”

  She tittered, and he led her to the table. “How about dessert, then? These here are my favorite,” he said, pointing to a tray with blue and pink chunks of congealed sugar.

  “Oh, yeah? What are they called?”

  “Filibo. They from the islands. Spun sugar, taste like nothing else you put in your mouth. Go ahead. Try one.”

  She looked doubtful. “Sugar?”

  He selected a blue one. “This flavor’s great. I make the promoter get me some for every concert, wherever I am. It’s anise. Open wide – say ahh…”

  She did, and he popped it into her mouth. Her eyes got large and she cooed in approval. “Mmm. That’s great.”

  “You got that right.”

  A large man, easily 6’6” with a shaved head, wearing a B-side tour jacket, entered the room with a gorgeous Hispanic woman in skin-tight leather pants and a turquoise corset top. The girl B-Side was flirting with gave her a long appraising look as the rapper moved toward her.

  “Genesis. You look bangin’ tonight,” he said.

  Genesis smiled. “But the crowd’s here to see you. How you feeling?”

  “Strong. Ready. Been waitin’ my whole life for this moment.”

  “That’s great. You have a few photos left in you? I’ve got the people from Rolling Stone outside who want an exclusive shot.” Genesis was B-Side’s PR person. She’d joined his clique after his record had begun shooting up the charts, hired by Sam Rothstein, his manager, who was upstairs dealing with the venue, verifying the door count.

  “Rolling Stone, huh? Yeah, I suppose I can do that,” B-Side said, grinning crookedly and flashing his trademark Westside gang signs. He turned to his new friend, who was still savoring the candy he’d given her. “Baby, I be back in a flash. You don’t go nowhere, you hear?”

  “I�
�ll be right here.”

  The photo shoot took fifteen minutes, and included a brief interview with the journalist – all the usual questions, which B-Side fielded with aplomb, relentlessly coached by Genesis until he had his answers for the press down pat. She escorted him back into the dressing room as the second act was taking the stage; the thumping of the bass and screaming of the audience sent trembles through the floorboards as they walked.

  B-Side sauntered to the heaping food table and ate some shrimp, then finished off with a piece of filibo. He popped it into his mouth and the familiar sickly-sweet flavor seeped across his taste buds. Glancing around, he didn’t see his new companion, and he walked over to her friends to ask where she was.

  “She in the bathroom. She wasn’t feeling good,” her partner in crime said with a look that made it clear she’d be available to take over any duties her friend couldn’t handle.

  The door at the far corner of the room swung open and the girl staggered out, bent over nearly double, clutching her stomach as she collapsed on the floor. Her friends screamed and ran to her, and Jerome, B-Side’s road manager, moved in and knelt by her side. After a few seconds he stood and pulled the girls back.

  “Give her some room. Let her breathe. Back off,” he warned. They did as he ordered. He pulled a phone from his jacket and speed-dialed someone, muttered into the mouthpiece, and listened intently. “Doctor’s on his way. Be here in a few.”

  The girl began convulsing, and a hush fell over the room. B-Side approached her, and then backed away. “Everyone out. Go on, now. Get out of here. You heard me,” he said, and the shocked hangers-on reluctantly began filing for the door.

  “The man say he want some privacy, you hear? Come on. Party over,” Jerome called, and Genesis joined him near B-Side.

  “What do you think? Drugs?” she whispered, watching the girl convulse, helpless to do anything to assist her.