BLACK Is Back (14 page)

Chapter 19

Black made it to Sylvia’s on time, fighting stop-and-go traffic north all the way from Orange County, which took over two hours. Sylvia greeted him at the door in a slinky gold dress that looked like a million bucks on her, and planted a kiss on his lips.

“Right on time,” she said when she disengaged.

“I was advised not to be late. I take those things seriously.”

“As well you should. You ready to go?”

“Absolutely. I’m famished.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. I’ve heard nothing but good things about this place. It’s supposed to be all the rage.”

“In San Pedro?”

“That’s the new thing. Apparently you open a brilliant restaurant in a bad neighborhood. It increases the cachet value,” Sylvia explained.

“People are crazy.”

“Especially in this town. Hang on,” she said, and retreated back into her apartment and reappeared with a gift-wrapped box. “Now I’m ready.

“Wow. What was that they say about beware Swiss bearing gifts?”

“Pretty sure that was Greeks.”

“Oh. That’s not the same thing?”

She swatted him playfully. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t want them giving our table away.”

The drive out to San Pedro was relatively quick, the twenty miles mostly freeway. Black pulled up outside the restaurant entrance, an Ethiopian-themed façade manned by two valets in African attire, and waited while one of them walked around the car to verify there were no dents or scrapes before handing Black a ticket and rolling away with a baritone burble of exhaust noise.

Sylvia led him into the restaurant and had a murmured discussion with the smiling host, who nodded like she’d just given him a tip on a horse, and then grabbed two menus and led them deeper into the packed dining room. Jewels and teeth glittered beneath the halogen lighting as the wealthy and the nearly so celebrated their good fortune at dark wood tables. Black was transfixed by Sylvia’s dress as she swished ahead of him. They turned a corner and entered a private dining room.

Applause met their arrival with a loud “Surprise,” and Black was momentarily stunned by the group of people assembled in front of him: Roxie, his mother and father, and…Nina, his ex-wife. For a tortuous moment the room began to spin, and then oxygen returned to his brain and he forced a smile that would have been familiar to a mortician.

“Wow! This
is
a surprise!” he said, his eyes straying to Sylvia’s, who looked a little confused by Nina’s presence.

“Oh, honey, happy birthday! You look so handsome,” cooed Spring, his mother. His father, Chakra, beamed good vibes at him from behind her as she approached to hug him, wearing some sort of hideous tie-dyed shift. He hugged her back and took in first Chakra, wearing a decades-old Grateful Dead T-shirt and shapeless brown corduroy pants with the obligatory Birkenstock sandals to complete the outfit, then at Roxie, who had exchanged her customary black concert T-shirt for a glittery black sleeveless blouse to highlight her colorful skin art, and finally settled on Nina, who wore her black Prada cocktail dress like her fame – with stylish aplomb, looking every bit the gazillionaire diva she was.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Please, Artemus.
Spring
,” she corrected, and then pulled away. Nina was next, her expensive perfume perfectly complementing her three-hour-a-day gym-toned body and short, contemporary coif. She whispered into his ear like a guilty lover.

“Happy forty-third, Black.”

“I’m…surprised to see you here,” Black stammered, the moment awkward. He hadn’t seen her in years, although he’d spoken to her on the phone, and hadn’t prepared himself emotionally for the dislocation being in the same room with her caused. He glanced at Sylvia, who was edging to one of the two open seats closest to his parents. Black could see she recognized Nina from the magazines or videos. Sylvia looked shell-shocked, and he surmised instantly that she’d had no idea his ex-wife would be at the dinner – no doubt his mother’s doing.

Roxie followed, her hug less charged than Nina’s, although Black couldn’t help but notice how her pert breasts pushed against his chest like untamed animals. “Happy B-Day, boss,” she said, her tone as deadpan as ever, and then she drew back with a small smirk of…triumph?

“Sweetheart, you’re over here. The guest of honor. Between Sophie and Nina!” Spring said, smiling.

“Sylvia, Mom. It’s Sylvia.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Of course it is. Come on, have a seat. We opened the wine before you got here, but there’s plenty more where that came from!” she said.

Black prayed silently for the floor to open up and swallow him – or better still, all the other guests – but when it didn’t, he followed his mother to the table and sat next to Sylvia, who had a strained half-smile frozen in place. He took her hand under the table, but she pulled it away and stood.

“Would you excuse me? I need to use the little girl’s room,” she said, and then pushed back from the table and moved away, an expression on her face like she was being chased by wild dogs.

Nina took her own seat and lavished a brilliant grin upon the gathering, two-carat diamond studs in her ears, her desert tan flawless and evidence of a life of massages and facials and endless pampering that Black knew was her reality. She lifted her wine goblet in a toast, and then leaned into Black and murmured in his ear.

“Well, this is awkward. Your mom neglected to mention you’re seeing someone.”

“She does that. Welcome to her fan club. I’ve endured forty-three years of this. And you wonder why I have issues?”

They laughed together as though sharing a private joke, and Roxie reached across with the wine bottle and poured him a slug. Black reached for the glass and downed half of it gratefully, and Roxie stared at him.

“You want your own bottle?” she asked.

“Is that possible?”

“I hear they can do anything. It’s, like, a restaurant.”

“Do they have anything stronger than wine?”

“No. I already asked. Just beer and wine.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Especially with what you’re used to knocking back, huh?”

Spring clapped her hands together and held her glass high. “A toast. To the birthday boy!”

Everyone dutifully clinked glasses. Black drained his and then poured himself another, this time being more generous than Roxie.

Nina elbowed him. “Easy there, big fellah.”

“Hey, it’s my birthday. I can get blind drunk and pass out before dinner starts, can’t I?”

“I was thinking I could beat you to it.”

Black turned toward Roxie. “Why do I sense your hand in this?”

“Oh, Roxie was so helpful! I couldn’t have pulled this together without her help. She’s a treasure, Black!” Spring proclaimed.

“Yes, she is,” Black agreed through clenched teeth.
Buried treasure if she pulls any more stunts like this
.

Sylvia returned, looking more composed, and Black leapt up to pull her chair out and seat her.

“Thank you,” she said, her tone even, but definitely frosty. Any thoughts Black had of a nude nocturnal birthday romp evaporated.
Thanks, Mom, for that. As usual, an impeccable and thoughtful gift.

“So, what’s on the menu, besides familial closeness and drinking?” Black asked, a trifle too loud. Nina tittered like he was Ricky Gervais, while Roxie regarded him stonily. Sylvia had her smile affixed, but it never made it to her eyes. Spring was, of course, completely oblivious to how she’d ruined his life in just a few short seconds, and was holding hands with Chakra, who had yet to say two words. Black wondered whether he was stoned, and then decided that it didn’t matter. If anything, he envied him if he was.

“Well, honey, I took the liberty of ordering. After the
shorba
, which is a lentil soup, will be the
injera
, with a variety of
wats
on it,” Spring explained.

“What?”

“It’s a kind of flatbread with different stews on it. The bread’s the
injera
. The stews are called
wats
,” Nina said.

“Mmm. Sounds…exotic,” Black managed. “What are the stews made out of? Monkey brain? Goat sphincter?”

“That’s the second course,” Roxie said with a smirk, apparently delighting in his discomfort.

“Maybe we know what happened to Mugsy,” Black fired back, then immediately felt bad when a moment of pain flashed in her eyes.

“Who’s Mugsy?” Nina asked, oblivious to the dynamic.

“Just some cat that hangs around the office,” Roxie said, her voice a monotone.

“So, Sophie, it’s wonderful to finally meet you in person. Black’s kept you hidden away for too long. I understand you’re from Sweden?” Spring said, and Chakra nodded assent, or perhaps stretched a cramp in his neck.

“It’s Sylvia, Mom. And she’s from Switzerland.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry, Sylvia. I’m terrible with names,” Spring apologized. “But it’s so wonderful to meet you and connect a face with the voice.”

Black turned to Sylvia. “You’ve been talking?”

“To coordinate dinner,” Sylvia offered.

“I thought Roxie handled that?”

“Oh, she did. She put me in touch with Sylvia. We’ve had such a wonderful time planning tonight,” Spring explained. “She’s absolutely precious, Artemus.”

Black winced at the use of his detested first name.

“Yes she is,
Artemus
,” Roxie echoed, savoring each syllable like a rare delicacy. “We couldn’t have done it without her,
Arte-musss
.”

“I really prefer to be called Black,” he said, trying to direct the conversation away from Roxie’s mockery, which he knew would be relentless once she got warmed up.

“Of course you do,
Artemus
,” Roxie agreed. “Or do you prefer Art?”

“Speaking of art, Sylvie has a show at a gallery on Melrose starting next week. It’s very exciting,” Black tried, shifting to neutral ground.

“Oh, really? You’re an artist?” Nina asked.

“Yes. That’s why I’m in Los Angeles,” Sylvia said.

“Wouldn’t New York be more relevant for art?”

“L.A. is developing quite a reputation for innovative offerings,” Sylvia explained. “New York is more cliquish. If you don’t know the right people, you can’t get noticed. L.A. is less political that way.”

“How nice. Is it a big gallery? Anyone I would have heard of?” Nina asked, all polite interest.

“Probably not. It’s more of a boutique shop. Intimate.”

“Interesting. I have an art buyer for my homes. You must tell me where I can find your work – I’ll see to it that he takes a look at it.”

“That’s very…generous of you, Nina,” Sylvia said, her expression all friendliness – the kind that immediately precedes an ice pick to the spine.

“Nina’s going to be going out on a world tour. Another world tour! Isn’t that exciting?” Spring exclaimed, a feverish look of adoration in her eyes.

“Oh, Spring, really. I hate going out on the road. Those huge coliseums are so impersonal. I much prefer the smaller venues.” Nina smiled at Sylvia. “You know, three to five thousand. You get fifty thousand in an arena and it’s no fun.”

“You still draw that kind of crowd?” Black asked.

“I know! It’s a shock every time I see the box office. My fans are very loyal. Thank God.”

“If you’re looking for a towel girl, or an opening act, I’m available,” Roxie quipped, and everyone took a breather to sip their wine. Black hoped Nina was done, but she continued, seemingly unaware of how Sylvia’s accomplishments had been ground underfoot, about as significant compared to Nina’s as a first grader’s clumsily drawn stick figure self-portrait in crayon contrasted to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

“And how did you two meet?” Nina asked, studying Sylvia like a laboratory rat in a cage.

“It was just one of those chance encounters,” Black quickly inserted, hoping to defuse the rapidly escalating tension.

“Hmm. I’m sure it was. You never struck me as the art type, Artemus,” Nina said, getting into the spirit of Black-bashing, tiring of picking at Sylvia. “Although men do change as they get older, don’t they?”

“Like fine wine,” Black said.

“Or vinegar,” Roxie contributed.

Black emptied his second glass of wine and Sylvia poured him a miserly third portion, gracing him with a warning look. He thanked her and reconciled himself to several hours in the seventh circle of hell, prodded by the triple demon threat of Nina, Roxie, and Spring. Sylvia didn’t show much interest in coming to his defense, and he wondered how she could possibly blame him for Nina showing up. If anyone was to blame, it was his mother. He made a mental note to remind Sylvia of that on the drive home.

The soup arrived, and Black stared at the bowl of coagulating brown slurry and felt his gag reflex trigger. Roxie caught it, and eagerly jumped in with a helpful observation.

“Looks like puppy diarrhea, doesn’t it?” she said,
sotto voce
.

That did it for Black, and he pushed the bowl away. “You know, I’ve never been a big lentil fan.”

Spring frowned disapprovingly. “Honey, it’s good, really. You should try some. You might like it.”

“It’s my birthday. I’ll stick with wine until the main course gets here.” He looked around the table. “This is probably a stupid question, but when do they bring the utensils?”

“Ethiopians don’t use them. They eat with their fingers,” Nina said.

“I’m guessing there’s not a lot of hand washing going on, either. Am I right?” Black asked nobody in particular.

“Oh, come on. Be a good sport. Try something new every once in a while, son,” Chakra chimed in, surprising Black.

“I’ll start tomorrow. I don’t suppose I can get a porterhouse, medium rare, could I?”

Sylvia shifted next to him. “It’s an organic, vegetarian restaurant.”

“Oh. Good.”

The meal progressed, and several large platters of
injera
with lumps of
wat
strewn about on top arrived. To Black’s nose they smelled like someone’s garbage after a long day in the sun, and looked like pig vomit. Everyone tore off chunks of the
injera
and sampled the different
wats
, and Sylvia shamed him into trying several, each spicier than the last – which after an afternoon of Jack Daniels and beer wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered. By the end of dinner he felt like he’d eaten molten lead, and his stomach protested with ominous gurgling, each mini-spasm bringing with it a new twinge of discomfort.