BLACK Is Back (12 page)

“I told him he’d get the money when we got Mugsy back. That seemed to throw him. He wanted the money to tell us where we could find him. Jerkoff. Thought I was born yesterday.”

“Please don’t tell people that we’ll pay five hundred dollars to get Mugsy back, Roxie.”

“You think that’s not enough? Maybe we should offer a grand?”

Black sighed. “No. Not that I don’t miss him, but I’d miss the grand more. Maybe we can get a bird for the office and call it a day? A canary?”

“You have no heart. I’m working for a sociopath.”

“Actually, I believe that’s an antiquated term. If you look in the DSM IV it’s now referred to as antisocial personality disorder.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that.”

“You’ve never met any of my exes.”

Roxie kept staring at him in her usual deadpan way, without blinking, her heavy mascara ringing her violet eyes, and Black was again struck by how attractive she could be, if she’d lose the pseudo-Goth thing. She cleared her throat theatrically. “Was there something else?”

“Yeah. Any progress on the Todd Porter thing?”

“Who?”

“Roxie.”

“Kidding. I’ll shoot you what I’ve got. Let’s just say that your boy isn’t an angel.”

“Really. Like, as in, doesn’t pay his parking tickets, or was busted with his wife’s head in his trunk?”

“Somewhere in between.”

“What does that mean? Can’t you just tell me, Roxie?”

“And spoil the anticipation? I bet you read the ends of books before you’re even halfway through. Am I right?”

“I don’t do a lot of reading.”

“Total deflection. But fine. It’ll be on your screen in a few minutes.”

That seemed to end the matter for Roxie, and she returned to her monitor again, ignoring Black. He wondered when she’d stop punishing him for his imagined role in Mugsy’s disappearance. Hopefully the wayward cat would return soon. Or Roxie would see that Black wasn’t to blame for his disappearance.

The call was from Genesis. Misspelled by Roxie. Jeanasass. Probably her twisted sense of humor, or some kind of a dig. He could never tell. He dialed Genesis’ number.

Genesis answered, sounding out of breath. “Oh, I’m glad you called. I wanted to see if you’re available for lunch today.”

Black was immediately suspicious. “I could be. Why?”

“Does there have to be a reason besides me buying you lunch? How about it’s your birthday?”

Black wished hellfire upon Roxie. “I see you and my assistant got acquainted.”

“She’s funny. So how about it? Besides it being the big day, I want to compare notes, since we’re both working on the same side.”

“Where are you thinking?”

She named a trendy restaurant near Beverly Hills. “At noon? I’ll make a reservation.”

“Okay. See you then,” Black agreed.

It was going to be a long, food-filled day. Sylvia had told him to expect to go to a celebratory dinner with her at eight, and that under no circumstances was he to allow anything to derail it, upon pain of death. And now the beautiful Genesis was going to lavish him with high-priced dining for lunch.

At least today wasn’t the day he’d starve. Not that he’d had many of those lately. But still. Anything was theoretically possible, even in a land of impossible plenty saturated with corn syrup.

Black checked his messages and opened Roxie’s, and then took five minutes to digest the documents she’d forwarded. “So he has a sheet. Pot the first time. Possession. Which is akin to spitting on the sidewalk.”

Roxie looked up when he spoke, annoyed, her browsing of undergarments thoughtlessly interrupted by his constant clamoring for her to do actual work. “Could have been pled down from possession with intent to sell, because it was a first offense,” she pointed out.

“True. All he got was probation, which is about right. And he was only eighteen.”

“During his experimental phase.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is still underway, and has expanded to include nineteen-year-old yum.”

Black ignored that. “The second arrest is more disconcerting. Another possession charge, this time for ecstasy. Sentenced to six months, served thirty days due to overcrowding in jail. Which, depending on how loose the case was and how lazy the third-string D.A. who pled it down felt that day, might also have been an intent charge, reduced to possession.”

“Or he could have pled out with a wrist slap if he rolled on someone.”

“Again, always a possibility. What are the odds you can get more on these?”

“Kind of slim. Unless you want me to start committing felonies. Again. So you can do a favor for a buddy.”

“No, I’m not going to ask you to do that.”

“Right answer.”

“Will you continue rooting around?”

“That’s what I was born for. Rooting. Like a swine after truffles.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s a figure of speech.”

“So’s ‘when hell freezes over’ or ‘not if you were the last man on earth.’” Roxie smiled sweetly.

“I’m just asking you to do your job.”

“10-4, good buddy.”

Black eyed her. “Been watching the Seventies channel again, I see.”

“What happened to Mr. I Don’t Judge?”

“I’m going back into my office, now.”

“All right.”

“Right now.”

“You’re still there.”

“I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

“I was reading about signs of early-onset Alzheimer’s. They have a self-quiz you can do. I sent it to you.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You mean you don’t remember seeing it,” Roxie corrected.

“Ah. Another birthday funny. You’re on a roll.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“You didn’t send it to me.”

“
Roxie
. You didn’t send it to me, Roxie. You remember who I am, right?” she asked, poorly feigning concern.

“Very amusing.”

“What?”

“Your little Alzheimer’s bit,” Black said.

“What are you talking about?”

“This conversation’s over, isn’t it?”

“Good guess.”

Chapter 17

La Belle Fenêtre was packed for lunch, as were the parking spots along the curb for the entire block, so Black pulled back around and entrusted his car to the valet, who took the keys from him with disdain in exchange for a yellow stub. Genesis pulled up behind him in a red Porsche Boxter, and when she got out the sun seemed to dim several shades in contrast to her radiant beauty. She favored the valet with a beaming smile as she took her parking ticket, and then approached Black and kissed him on the cheek. Her fragrance filled the air with a seductive mist of hot Puerto Rican temptress – apparently a scent that Black had a liking for, he noted with a twinge of guilt.

“Happy birthday. That’s a great jacket. Very stylish,” she said, apparently as free with her compliments as her charms. “Armani?”

“Thanks. And no, it’s Goodwill. I think they took it off a dead guy.”

Genesis smiled again, apparently unsure whether he was kidding, but decided not to push it. She entwined her arm in his and led him inside, where the maître d’ waited with a stern countenance.

“Nice to see you back, mademoiselle,” he greeted, his face cracking with the hint of a smile.

“You too, George. I have a reservation.”

“Of course. One of our best tables.”

“Perfect.”

The manager took the menus from him, escorted them to a table by one of the large windows, and stood at ramrod attention as Black pulled out a chair for Genesis and seated her before taking his own. A waiter materialized like a genie and took their drink orders – a bottle of Petit Verdot, at Genesis’ urging. Upon his return with the wine, they ordered, and after some light-hearted banter about the craziness of the music business and the foibles of the various artists, lunch arrived.

“The birthday boy, huh? What kind of wild party do you have planned to celebrate?”

“You know. Booze, hookers, coke. The usual.”

Genesis’ eyes widened in mock surprise. “Why, Black. Still waters
do
run deep.”

“Actually, the truth is I’m doing dinner at a new place in San Pedro. Taste of Africa. You heard of it?”

“I read something about it in the Times a few weeks ago. Vegetarian or something?”

“I don’t have any idea. Sylvia just said it was supposed to be great. And organic. Whatever that means.”

“Ah, Sylvia. She seems nice. Simple.”

Genesis’ cell rang. She answered it, her gaze on Black as she listened and silently mouthed the word Sam.

“Both of us? I’m not sure. I think he’s got a dinner planned already. What? Yes. He’s right here.” She listened some more. “No, it won’t be close. He’ll be in San Pedro at Taste of Africa. Can we do it tomorrow?”

She hung up after another twenty seconds and apologized. “Sorry. That was Sam. Wanted to have a meeting this evening at his office when he gets back into town. I’ve got plans, and you do, too, so it can wait.”

“Why a meeting?”

“That’s how he operates. I think he likes wasting people’s time so he can feel important. He’s kind of famous for the early morning and late evening meeting. Apparently his business hours are too important for his underlings, and he expects them to rearrange their lives when he snaps his fingers.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re a fan.”

“Hey, I work for B-Side. Sam goes with the deal. So I can make nice. It doesn’t mean I have to marry the man.”

“There are a lot of egotistical jerks in this business.”

“Tell me about it. Goes with the territory.” She took a bite of her poached salmon and closed her eyes, practically purring her approval. Black tried his halibut and pronounced it delicious. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Genesis took a sip of wine and looked at Black curiously. “So are you going to tell me how your meeting with Moet went?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. I took a ride into the barrio, hung with his crew, smoked a little endo, and represented.”

“Seriously.”

He gave her a sanitized version of his discussion, omitting Moet’s accusations about Sam, but telling her about the B-Side story to gauge her reaction.

Genesis frowned. “You know, Moet’s a player. I mean for real, Black. He’s got a good feel for every nuance of this business, and frankly, even though B-Side’s one of my clients, I’ve heard those kinds of rumors before. I just didn’t think much about them. I mean, that’s the kind of BS that gets tossed around a lot: so-and-so doesn’t write their own raps, he’s an imposter, and so on.”

“In just about every other type of popular music, nobody would care. A song’s a song. Most of the bigger acts have teams of songwriters working for them.”

“Moet explained how that’s different, right?”

“He tried. And I get it. Doesn’t matter whether I agree or not. The consumer’s always right. Even when they aren’t.”

“Because in rap, it’s the lyrics that establish credibility. It’s like discovering that Ginsberg didn’t write his own material. It’s like a violation of the relationship between the listener and the rapper.”

“Was Ginsberg a white rapper? Like what’s his name – Skittles?”

“I think you mean Eminem. No, I meant Ginsberg the poet and author. ‘Howl’?” She watched Black’s eyes for any trace of recognition or mockery and saw nothing. “Anyway, that’s not important. Moet’s right that it would be a huge blow to B-Side’s career if it turned out to be true.”

“You mentioned you’d heard some rumors.”

“Yeah. It was, like, B-Side didn’t write his own stuff, blah blah blah. That he and Sam had stolen some of Blunt’s material for B-Side’s first album. Which was theoretically possible, I suppose, since Sam was Blunt’s manager and B-Side was close to him. I tuned out when it was suggested that they might even have had a hand in Blunt’s death.”

“What?”

“I know. Like anyone would kill over songs. But you have to understand. Blunt’s like some kind of a martyr to many, a fallen hero. And there are all kinds of crazy conspiracy theories circling around about him. That Moet had him killed to put album sales through the roof. That Moet had him killed because he was going to breach his contract and leave his label. That he was killed by one of the many other rappers he’d trash talked. Blunt had at least thirty feuds going when he died, with some pretty hardcore dudes. I also heard the theory that Sam had him killed because he was thinking of parting ways. Or that Blunt was dealing on the side, investing his money in big-weight coke transactions, and something went sour. And of course, the old favorite, that his gang affiliations from his past came back to haunt him. You think you’ve heard everything? Think again.”

“Wow. That’s more than who killed JFK.”

“In a lot of ways, it’s more relevant to his fans. The gang and street life is characterized by a reality you can’t ever understand. A level of brutality and stupidity that’s incredible. Some dead white president fifty years ago? Whatever. But one of their own, taken from the Earth in his prime? That hurts. It’s like a personal affront.” She sipped her wine. “Blunt won the lottery. He got out, made it on his own steam, and seemed poised to rule the world. So of course there’s going to be speculation over who did what and why. For many, it’s the most immediate thing that’s happened this year. And it’s still as vivid in his fans’ minds as if it was yesterday. It’s insane. One theory I heard about B-Side was that it’s some stalker fan who’s trying to kill him in revenge for B-Side taking out Blunt. Crazy.”

“The sad part is that any of those explanations sound better than what we have now as a working theory. And you’re right. They’re crazy,” Black said. “But back up. Run the one about B-Side and Sam by me again.”

“Which? Oh. Yeah. In that one, Sam and B-Side, or just B-Side, or just Sam, had Blunt killed in Jamaica because they wanted his material for B-Side. Which ignores that B-Side’s album didn’t release until months after Blunt died. I mean, I suppose it’s theoretically possible in some distorted logic way that they stole some of Blunt’s work for B-Side’s debut, but I can’t see that as very likely, you know?”

“You’d be surprised what people would do over a few tunes,” Black said quietly, his demeanor changed, his voice slightly hushed.