BLACK Is Back (13 page)

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Black nodded. “Ancient history. I wrote some music a long time ago and kind of got screwed. But you know what? You get over it and move forward. You don’t kill. Although, at the time, there were some pretty low shots taken to do me out of my cut. So anything’s possible.” Black finished his glass of wine and ate the last bite of his halibut. “Who told you that one?”

“I think it was Reggie. I don’t know. That seems so long ago now…”

“Reggie? Who’s Reggie? If this cast gets any bigger, I’ll need a spreadsheet to keep everyone straight.”

“You haven’t met Reggie? He’s a relative of B-Side’s. An uncle. Of Blunt’s, too. Quite a character. He does some A&R work for Miles now and then. He’s a musician.”

“Great. Another musician.”

“That goes with the turf. I guess it runs in that family.”

“What’s his association to B-Side?”

“Professionally? Nothing that I know of. He was close to Blunt, part of his inner circle, and I know Sam doesn’t get along with him, but honestly, beyond that, there isn’t a lot to tell. I heard that Blunt used to rely on him for a lot. I think at one point he was handling some of the money for him. Oh, that’s another one I heard – that Blunt was killed by Reggie so he could steal his money. Of course, the only problem in that theory is that it was all accounted for after his death, but why let niggling details like that quash a good conspiracy?”

“How does Reggie feel about Sam?”

“Doesn’t like him either. That’s a constant in this business. Most of the players hate each other, because there’s so much competition and the money’s so big. That and the egos. I mean, you have kids that were slinging rock on the street or just got out of the joint, and a year later they’re driving Lambos while their records scream up the chart. It’s disorienting, and everyone’s either posturing or trying to defend their slice of pie.”

“No different from a lot of other show biz fields. But back to this Reggie – you wouldn’t know where I could find him, would you?”

She glanced at the time, then finished her own wine before setting the glass back down on the table and leaning back in her chair. Her eyes glittered in the sunlight streaming through the window, and he could see faint blond highlights in her hair, probably from being outside most of the prior day. On the street, a Maybach drew to the curb and a stately elderly couple emerged from the rear doors, he in a suit, she in a dress that would have been at home on a member of the British royal family.

Genesis’ blouse struggled to contain her breasts as she stretched, catlike, and then her brow furrowed as she thought about the question.

“At this hour? Probably down at Knott’s Berry Farm.”

Chapter 18

It took Black an hour to make it to Buena Park, which was about three quarters full, judging from the amusement complex’s parking lot. Genesis had told him Reggie was the lead singer and rhythm guitar player in a band that did six sets a day at Calico Square, and he usually took the day shift of three sets, leaving the evenings to his replacement so he could scout for talent in the L.A. clubs.

Black parked, paid his admission, and wandered through the grounds. The screams of roller-coaster riders competed with those of delighted children yelling at each other as they ran along the paths. An information kiosk pointed him in the direction of the square, where a band wearing matching orange silk shirts and Angel Flight slacks was performing Motown covers. Black settled in for the set, which was surprisingly good, if hackneyed. The tall, lanky singer’s voice was amazingly rich and nuanced, the performance spirited and flawless, and when the set ended Black applauded enthusiastically, one of perhaps thirty spectators who had remained to clap.

When the musicians were packing up their instruments in preparation for the evening shift to appear for the five o’clock performance, Black approached the singer and congratulated him on a great show. He was in his late forties or early fifties, with the look of the tired veteran who’d spent his life onstage and seen it all. They got to talking; Black had recognized the red Gretsch guitar as a rarity, and he shared his history with the man – having worked with legendary producers, written songs that had dominated the charts through the first half of the nineties, played on the album that everyone knew and many loved.

“That was you? Shit, man, you’re a star!” the singer exclaimed.

“Long time ago, huh? What’s your name, anyway?”

“Reggie. Reggie Johnston. Pleased to meet you. What’s yours?” Reggie asked, extending his hand.

“Jim Black. But everyone just calls me Black.”

“Never did I think I’d see the day when I’d meet a legend like you, my man.”

“Hardly a legend. I just got lucky.”

“Well, what are you doing now? You still playing? Or you got a recording studio or a production company?”

“Nah, I got out of the business. I have a security company now. Can’t complain. Keeps me busy. Man, it’s warm out here. Is there anywhere to get a decent drink around this place?”

“There’s a few joints a couple blocks away.”

“What are you doing now? I’m stuck here for another couple of hours, waiting around for my sister to get done with the kids. But I’d rather sneak out for a while and wet my whistle. She’s supposed to call me when she’s done, so no harm. She knows I hate these kinds of places. What do you say, can I buy you a drink? We can trade war stories. I’ve got a million of ’em.”

Reggie considered the offer. “I don’t know, man. I got things I should be doing…”

“Yeah, you and me both. But I’m sentenced to Knott’s for today. Come on. Just one. How can a bluesman turn down a free drink?”

Reggie grinned, his teeth pearly white. “All right, man, you talked me into it. Just one, though.”

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t be a double, did I?”

Reggie laughed. “Man after my own heart.”

“Well, I’m not getting any younger, Reggie. Lead the way.”

“You parked in the lot?”

“Yup. You?”

“Same. What are you driving?”

“’73 white Eldorado convertible.”

“Red leather interior, or chocolate?”

“Man knows his car. Red, of course,” Black said.

“Sweet. That’s a classic now. Bet it cost a bunch.”

“Like women, Reggie. Nothing good in life’s free.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Okay, Black, follow me.”

The bar they wound up in was a blue-collar hangout, where workers got an early start on their drinking or killing time before heading home to a thankless family. They took a seat in a booth at the rear of the place, and Black ordered his usual – a shot of Jack and a beer chaser. Reggie thought about it and got a Jack and Coke, and Black made a big show of telling the server to make it a double, and that the tab was on him.

When the drinks came, Reggie drained half of his in two swallows and smacked his lips approvingly. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

Black downed half his shot and took a pull on his Budweiser. “Yeah. I was about ten seconds away from going postal on those screaming brats.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t see how you do it. How long have you been at this gig?”

“Off and on for almost six years. With some breaks here and there.”

“Wow. No wonder you guys are so tight.”

“Yeah. Paid rehearsal. I can do the sets in my sleep now. I think I have, a few times, if you know what I’m saying.”

“And I thought playing in Top 40 bands was rough duty.”

“Nothing like this. But it pays okay, and I’m doing what I like. That’s the main thing. Keeping in shape, entertaining people, you know? That gets harder and harder to pull off as you get older.”

“Tell me about it. It’s my birthday today, and I feel every year like it’s a lead weight.”

“Oh yeah? Happy birthday. You got anything special planned besides Knott’s?”

“Dinner with my girlfriend at some new organic Ethiopian restaurant in San Pedro that’s supposed to be great. So just a relaxing night, maybe a bottle of wine, a little rolling around later…”

“That doesn’t sound bad to me. Man learns to appreciate the good things in life as he matures,” Reggie said, and held his glass aloft in salute. Black toasted with a clink of his beer bottle, and Reggie slurped the second half of his drink. Black signaled to the server for another round, and then launched into one of his music stories, about working in the studio with famous session players and a legendary producer. By the time he was done, Reggie had downed two more drinks and was feeling no pain, laughing uproariously at Black’s jokes, slapping his thigh and cackling.

Black took his time, and then directed the conversation toward modern musical trends, winding up at rap, and finally, B-Side and his latest run of bad luck. He did it subtly, easing to the accidents, and wondered aloud at some of the stories he’d heard about Blunt and B-Side, and ultimately, why anyone would want to kill him. Reggie confessed that he was related to both of them, and Black pretended disbelief at the environment they were operating in.

“Dude, I don’t know. It just seems like a different world. When I was playing, nobody was trying to kill anyone. Now, it seems like every other day there’s a shooting or a murder attempt. What the hell’s going on with that?” Black asked rhetorically.

“I got my own theories.”

Black sat back and finished his beer, then signaled to the bartender to replenish their drinks. “Yeah? You’ve been around this block enough times. What do you think is the deal?”

Reggie’s eyes narrowed; he looked around and leaned forward. “It’s no secret I’m B-Side’s uncle. Hell, I’m the one that suggested to Blunt that he put B-Side on stage. So I’m not in any way anti-B-Side, you know, even though he and Blunt had a big falling out before Blunt bought the farm. Kid’s got some flash, and he’s a crowd pleaser. But after Blunt died, he went down a bad road. Blunt’s manager, Sam Rothstein, puffed him up, told him he’d be the next Tupac or 50 Cent, and B-Side bought it. Only thing is, his first album…the four biggest songs on that album are almost exact rip-offs of Blunt songs – I know, because I heard the demos. I mean, the lyrics are almost identical, and so are the beats. So I think B-Side can’t write for shit, and he ‘borrowed’ Blunt’s beats, figuring he’s not going to need them, being dead and all. Or maybe Sam did. Either or both are in a position to know what Blunt was working on.”

“Wait. So you think B-Side or Sam had something to do with Blunt’s death?”

“I didn’t say that, did I? What I said was, once Blunt was dead, he wasn’t gonna use his new songs, so maybe B-Side or Sam decided to improve their odds by stealing his material. You know this business. It’s cutthroat. Lot of money hanging in the balance. That does strange things to your head.”

“But then who do you think is trying to kill B-Side?”

Reggie peered tipsily around the room again with a look of cunning in his eyes. “Damned if I know. He’s got a PR honey who’s sketchy – same one used to hang out with Blunt. I knew her back in the day, when I was rolling with Blunt’s crew. Maybe she’s pissed ’cause B-Side took a bite of her and then moved on. Or maybe the rumors about that Moet guy putting out a hit are true. He’s got a shady rep, for sure. Hell, I even heard that some think it’s B-Side behind it all, getting headlines for himself.” Reggie polished off the remainder of his drink and shook his head dismissively. “Look, I never said this, but if it was me, my money would be on the manager – Sam. He’s got a lot riding on B-Side, and my theory is he figured out that B-Side’s career isn’t going to last long since he can’t write. He’s going to be a one-shot wonder. So what would make that one shot go to the moon? If B-Side met with an untimely death. The album would sell for a year, number one, and probably see twenty million sales. I heard through the grapevine that Sam has a big chunk of B-Side, so he’s got millions of reasons to want B-Side dead. You never heard that from me.”

“Really? You think Sam would do that? He didn’t strike me as…I mean, that doesn’t seem all that realistic, does it?”

Reggie regarded him differently, even inebriated. “You know Sam?”

Black tried to backpedal. “Why do you think I know some rap manager?”

“You just said that he didn’t strike you as the kind that would do that.”

Black weighed further duplicity, but didn’t think it would work. He’d blown it. Black decided to level with Reggie, who seemed like a decent guy, albeit with a teensy little drinking problem. Cast not the first stone, and all.

Black took a long pull on his beer, thinking through how to frame what he was about to say. “Reggie, I know both B-Side and Sam. I’m investigating the threats to B-Side. I’m sorry for not coming clean. I just wanted to hear what you honestly thought, that’s all. It was a cheap shot. I’m sorry.” And he was. He felt pretty low.

Reggie shook his head before pushing back from the table and standing, swaying slightly. “You
work
for them? And you’re liquoring me up, giving me the fifth degree? Man, are you for real? Buddying up to me, playing me like that…”

Black was crestfallen, and made a last-ditch effort to salvage the rapport he’d built. “Reggie, I’m sorry. I had to know what you were really thinking. Everyone I talk to seems to be pushing their own agenda and spinning things, so I thought…”

“You thought you’d lie to me to see what you could draw out under false pretenses.”

“It was low. I know that. I feel crummy.” And he did.

“It’s shitty, Black. If that’s even your real name. Was all that about being a musician also a lie?”

“No, that was the truth. I told you I have a security company. I do. It’s also a private detective agency. With one PI. Me.”

“I’m outta here, man. You do what you gotta do, but I’m done here,” Reggie said, obviously disgusted, his outrage fueled by the high-octane liquor.

“I completely understand, Reggie. It was a bad call on my end. I should have just leveled with you.”

“Too late now. Thanks for the cocktails. I’m gone,” Reggie said, then lurched for the entrance.

Black waved the server over and asked for the bill. By the time he paid it and made it outside, Reggie’s car had already peeled out of the lot.