BLACK Is Back (19 page)

“Nice meeting you, Jerry,” Black said, and moved to the bar to get another drink. After Genesis, the fight, and his conflicted flare of protectiveness for Roxie, he could use one, he reasoned. He ordered a Jack and Coke, and then guilt over Genesis assailed him with the force of a hammer to the head. What had come over him? He was with Sylvia. He liked Sylvia. A lot. They were good together. Why was he allowing Genesis to jeopardize that? And what was her angle? Why him? He’d been around the block enough to be honest with himself – he had a certain charm, but it wasn’t ‘tear my clothes off and take me now’ level charisma, more a ‘maybe if I was drunk enough’ or ‘what the hell, I’ve done worse’ caliber game.

No, there was something else at play than his irresistible good looks and Adonis-like physique, not to mention his snappy fashion sensibility. Genesis wanted something from him. And she was pulling out all the stops to get as close to him as possible.

Roxie tittered a fake laugh at something Jerry said, and he felt a momentary flicker of anger, which he tamped down. The drink came just in time. He swigged half of it in a gulp, and then decided to see how things had settled backstage. According to his embarrassingly expensive watch, they had ten minutes to go before B-Side would take the stage. With Genesis busy running interference, his virtue would be safe, at least for a while, so he braved the security team again and found his way to B-Side’s dressing room.

When Black entered, B-Side looked up, and the two security men who had arrived with him glared at Black like they were ready to waterboard him. B-Side’s entourage lounged around the room. A fat joint was making the rounds, the cloying smoke thick as fog.

“Yo, Black. What up?” B-Side called out. The rapper seemed to be genuinely pleased to see him. “Thanks for playing referee there. Punks an’ wannabes always getting in my face.”

“Looks like you took one for the team there, huh?” Black said, eyeing the cut on B-Side’s cheek, which had already clotted.

“One of his rings got me. Otherwise it felt like a fly landed on me,” B-Side said, and his homies laughed.

“Yeah, he seems like a lightweight.”

“He ain’t nuthin’,” B-Side agreed, his street accent thick now that he was in full character.

“You going to kill ’em?” Black asked.

“Everybody be dead before I get to the chorus, man.”

“Break a leg. I’m going back out front to enjoy the show.”

“Yo, wait a second.” B-Side stood and walked to the door with Black. “Thanks for the security guys, too. They all right.”

“They’re more than all right. They’re badasses. Every one of them can kill with his bare hands. No lie.”

“I can tell. Full-on ninja juju.”

“Yup. They’ll watch your back. Oh, and some advice – don’t eat anything here. Just to be safe.”

“I know. They already schooled me.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see you around,” Black said, and B-Side nodded to him, looking for a brief instant young and vulnerable, a little boy playing at being a tough. The moment passed, and Black twisted the doorknob, feeling the security guards’ eyes on him as he left.

Roxie was still enjoying Jerry fawning over her like a schoolboy in heat when Black returned, and then the lights dimmed and a deafening beat shook the floor as a spotlight began sweeping the stage, where a tall Rastafarian manned a DJ booth next to a drum kit and several amplifiers. The crowd cheered good-naturedly, and B-Side’s band took the stage – accomplished sidemen dressed in inner-city chic, in keeping with B-Side’s ganged-up image. The backup vocalists joined them, and B-Side emerged from backstage, brandishing a wireless mike like a weapon as the band synched up to the beat. Then it was show time. A guitar wailed like it was singing the blues on the Mississippi delta over a pulsing bass riff, the drums thumping like artillery fire as B-Side stripped off his shirt, revealing slabs of stomach muscle and a body-builder’s upper torso covered in tattoos. The fans went nuts as he launched into his hit, “Slap Dat Bitch Down,” and Black watched for a few minutes before returning to the bar for a freshener.

Rap wasn’t his thing, and to his ear it was just B-Side shouting over a marginally tight band.

He watched Roxie, hips grinding to the rhythm, and suddenly he felt tired. It had been a long twenty-four hours, and he was definitely earning his money on this one, no question. B-Side finished his first number and transitioned into his second, which promised his enemies that he would cut their asses like a night prowler.

When the performance had drawn to a close, it felt like he’d been bludgeoned with a tire iron from the over-amped kick drum, and he couldn’t get Roxie free of her new admirer fast enough. There was no need to stick around after the show – security would spirit B-Side away through the rear entrance to his waiting limo, so he could avoid the throng of fans who were swarming at the backstage checkpoint in vain.

As he and Roxie traversed the emptying room, Black caught a glimpse of Genesis’ shiny silver armor as she schmoozed two journalists, and his remorse fought with a pull of desire that was as troubling to him as his mixed feelings about Roxie, who seemed to grow more attractive with each drink.

Probably some kind of early male menopause, he thought, and then they were out of the club, heading for the parking lot with a stream of other attendees as the club feverishly prepared for the night’s show, with doors opening in two hours – a never-ending cycle that had been going on as long as Black had been in Hollywood and would continue long after he’d gone to his ultimate reward.

“So you score an audition?” Black asked, his ears still ringing from the volume in the club.

“Maybe. I think he’s more interested in playing Fifty Shades with me. But you never know.”

“So cynical for one so young.”

“Tell me he didn’t have letch oozing out of every pore.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“No, Roxie, you certainly weren’t.” He turned his head and regarded her. “Are we clear on how you’re going to handle Todd?”

She rolled her eyes and frowned.

“After Jerry? Piece of cake.”

Chapter 25

The gallery was a modest one, with multiple rooms featuring various artists’ work. A tall woman with an unfortunate facelift greeted Black and Roxie at the door and welcomed them inside, pointing out the wine and cheese bar set up on a white-tableclothed podium near the entrance: several bottles of indifferent Chilean red wine sitting next to a half-empty bottle of California chardonnay and two trays of Swiss cheese on wheat crackers. Forty or fifty people mingled while sipping their chosen poison from clear plastic wine glasses. Black was only halfway to the drink table when he was intercepted by a short, paunchy man with an obviously dyed goatee and a haircut that defied gravity.

“Welcome, welcome. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before, have I? I’m Walter Mellon. The owner,” he explained, extending a limp hand with all the enthusiasm of a fast food employee offering extra ketchup.

“Jim Black, and this is–”

“Roxie. I’m his daughter,” she announced with a beaming smile.

“Oh. Very nice. It’s not often that we get two generations of aficionados,” Walter said.

“Well, we do try to do as much as possible together. Time goes by so quickly, and you never know how long you have,” Roxie explained.

“Yes, there is none of us sure of when our time has arrived. It’s one of the things I love about art. It’s timeless, and makes a wonderful legacy to pass down through the ages,” Walter tried, honing his pitch as he took in Roxie’s tats.

“We just came from a rap concert!” Roxie said excitedly, a look on her face like she’d been lobotomized on the ride over.

“Really,” Walter said, growing cooler by the second.

“The family that raps together, stays together,” Black intoned, his voice dead serious.

“How wonderful. Well, take your time, enjoy the wine, and let me know if you have any questions.”

“Are any of the artists here tonight?” Roxie asked.

“Oh, my, yes. We’re lucky enough to have Mona Herrick with us. She’s in the second room, where her landscapes are displayed. A brilliant talent. Really making a stir. I have no doubt her work will be fought over by collectors in years to come. And Todd…Porter is in the last room. You’ll see his sculpture throughout the gallery. He works mainly in ceramic – a very unusual take on post-modern sensibility, very urban but cultivated at the same time. We’re fortunate to have some of his most important pieces on display.”

Black nodded along, wondering what the little man was talking about, and he felt his eyes glazing over.

“What makes a piece important?” Roxie asked, and Black could have kicked her. They were in. No need to belabor the introductions and bore themselves to death.

“Good question. They’re pieces with a certain weight, a particular gravitas and impact, you know?”

“So the heavier ones are more important?” Roxie asked, her voice completely free of mockery. Black knew that tone too well, and wondered how he could cut it off at the pass.

“Mmm, not so much. That’s more of a catch-all phrase. I meant pieces that create a sort of visceral response, that trigger an emotional note, preferably with a sense of irony or whimsy. That’s really what Todd specializes in. He’s quite gifted. You’ll see.”

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Roxie said, and then left them for the wine.

“What a remarkable young lady,” Walter said, trying to compliment him. Black supposed owning a gallery selling high-priced art was all about sucking up. He made a mental note to cross that off his list of potential careers.

“Yes, she is. We’re all hoping that third time’s a charm on rehab. She’s had a difficult time of it.”

“Yes, well, remember to ask for me if you have any questions,” Walter said, eager to move on to a better class of prospect.

“Will do, Walter.”

Black joined Roxie at the podium, where she was pouring herself a brimming glass of white wine. He splashed a dollop into a glass, tasted it, and then filled the glass with red.

“How is it?” Roxie asked.

“Kind of like battery acid with some vanilla extract mixed in.”

“Just the way I like it.”

“Nice crack about you being my daughter, by the way.”

“Well, Black, you are old enough to be my dad.”

“Ouch. Not really, unless I started when I was sixteen or so.”

“Papa. Paaapaa…”

He shushed her, looking around in case they were attracting attention. “Could we save the Comedy Central routine for later?”

“Sure thing, Pops. Where to now?”

“I think we spend some time appreciating the aahht and then you make your move.”

“Great. Let’s start in the next room. All this stuff looks like something my grandmother would have on her wall.”

They meandered through the gallery, considering the merit of the various artists’ work – which as far as Black could tell was nonexistent – and marveled at the prices the gallery was trying to command. When they arrived at the final room, there were only a few people in it, and Black announced to Roxie that he was going to get some more wine and find a bathroom. He departed, leaving her alone with Todd and a fossil of a woman who looked like she’d been embalmed. Roxie positioned herself in front of one of Todd’s sculptures, which seemed to her to be a poor attempt at aboriginal art, and waited for the artist to make his way to her.

“Do you like it?” he said, and she turned to face him. Todd was lean, fit, and handsome in a preppy sort of way, with sun-bronzed skin and a quick smile. She took a moment before answering.

“I don’t know. I was hoping to find something more along the lines of dogs at a poker table or something.”

His grin flashed a glimpse of white teeth. “I think they keep those in the other room. Next to the Thomas Kinkades.”

“Is he the one that paints the whales?”

“I see you’re a connoisseur.”

“My dad dragged me here. Some togetherness BS. I want to kill myself.”

“A nice gesture, though.”

“Whatever. I think he feels bad because all I ever want to do is get high and party all night. He’s trying to give me culture.”

“How’s that working?”

“I’m beginning to think I might have a career as a stripper living in a trailer down by the sewage plant.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

She drained her almost full glass. “Wanna bet? Crap. I’m bored out of my mind.”

“Art’s not for everyone.”

“Art’s not for me. I’d do just about anything for a hit of X or a couple of rails to make this more interesting, but Pops has been on me like a parole officer all night. It sucks. I’m going to go get drunk,” Roxie announced, dangling the bait.

“Wow. A girl on a mission.”

“Hey, I like to enjoy myself. What can I say? What’s your name, anyway?”

“Todd. I’m the sculptor. This is my work.”

“Oh. Crap. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay. Not everyone’s going to like the same things.”

“Not hardly. I’m Roxie, by the way.”

The conversation drew to a halt, and Roxie fidgeted. “Well, good luck with your stuff,” she said hesitantly.

“Thanks.” He gave her a once over. “Not to be overly personal, but how old are you, Roxie?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Twenty-one,” she lied.

“You aren’t a cop, are you?”

She laughed. “Do I look like one?”

“No, but you can never be too sure.”

“I’m not a cop. Why?”

“I was just thinking that I might know somebody who could help you with your…problem.”

“What, have my dad knocked out so I can go party?”

“No, maybe get you something to make the time go by faster.”

“Ah. How much?”

“A hundred fifty for a G.”

“That’s too rich for my blood. I only have a hundred and twenty on me.”

“A hundred fifty’s a great price for this.”

“That’s what they all say. If you want the hundred twenty, you need to hurry up. My dad’s gonna be back any second.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a little wad of money. Glancing around to ensure they were unobserved, she leaned into him and slid it into his pocket. “This stuff better be super fly awesome, because that cleans me out for the week.”