BLACK Is Back (23 page)

“I’m thinking that I’ll finish a dozen of these beers first.”

Genesis saw him and waved. Black chugged his beer and retrieved another from the cooler before walking over with Sylvia.

“Ah, Black. You made it,” Genesis said, and then smiled at Sylvia. “Welcome. Do you know Reggie? He works at the label. B-Side’s uncle.”

Reggie stared stone-faced at Black for an uncomfortable second, and then his face cracked into a showman’s professional grin.

“Why, sure. What was the name, again? White?” Reggie asked.

“Close. Black.” Black paused. “Listen, Reggie. I’m sorry about the other day.”

Reggie dismissed the apology with a shake of his head, and Black could see from his eyes that he was already half in the bag.

“No big thang. Just caught me by surprise, is all.”

“We good?”

“Sure. Never better.”

Black realized that he hadn’t introduced Sylvia yet. “Reggie, this is Sylvia.”

Reggie drank her in with greedy eyes. “You a lucky man, Black.”

“That I am.”

Reggie’s demeanor changed from the court jester to a more serious mood, and Black wondered how much he’d knocked back before they’d arrived.

“Hey, will you excuse me? I need another beer. Everyone okay on theirs?” Reggie asked.

Sylvia and Black nodded, and Reggie wove his way around the standing groups to find something to quench his bottomless thirst.

“So what do you think?” Genesis asked, a hint of playfulness in her voice.

“Nice. Great weather, and everyone seems to be enjoying themselves,” Black said.

“Yeah, they always start out calm. But it can get pretty rowdy by the end of the day.”

“We probably won’t be staying that long. I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Reggie had found someone else to talk to by the ice chests, leaving Genesis and Sylvia faced off like ultimate fighters, the tension between them enough to power a small town. Black tried a few more stabs at conversation but fell flat, and then Genesis excused herself to use the restroom. Sylvia watched her walk away without comment, then turned to Black.

“I don’t like her. There’s something about her…”

“She seems nice enough.”

“Completely phony.”

“She’s in the PR business. That’s how they all are.”

“Then she’s probably very good at her job.”

Black couldn’t disagree, but he didn’t want to continue the discussion, guilty memories flaring up as he remembered her lips on his, the feel of her tight body against his chest, her smell…

The main cook rang an old brass ship’s bell to cut through the clamor of conversation and music and signal that lunch was ready. The sound was galvanizing, and there were few who didn’t immediately head for the food line, anxious to get their portions while the fixings were still piping hot. A stout woman with hands the size of catchers’ mitts handed them Styrofoam platters as they reached the first table, where they were assaulted by a dizzying array of culinary bounty, with a heavy emphasis on pork: heaping trays of ribs slathered with three types of barbeque sauce, another with only a spice rub, cutlets, and for the less adventurous, mounds of barbequed chicken and strip steaks. Potato and macaroni salad abounded, as did rice and beans and a bevy of fried items that had been prepared earlier, and had Black’s cholesterol in the danger zone just thinking about them.

They loaded up and moved to one of several dozen picnic tables and took a seat. Mama Fajah sat down next to them and elbowed Black.

“So, youngblood, you got every ting you wan’ there?”

Black, whose fingers and face were smeared with thick, spicy red sauce from his first rib, nodded, his mouth full and doing a five-alarm boogie at the amount of heat in the rub. He pawed at a napkin and wiped the crusting of rust-colored fire from his lips and blinked, eyes watering.

“Yes. Wow. These are spicy.”

“You don’ know what spicy is till you have dem in tha islands.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I think I need to go to the burn center after this for first aid,” Black said, but nevertheless lifted another rib to his mouth and gnawed the fatty flesh from the bone.

“I like a man who know how to eat. You too skinny, boy. Have that girl of yours fatten you up. She need something to hold onto, you know?”

Sylvia piped in, apparently unaffected by the spice level of the meal. “He eats like a bird. Three times his body weight every day.”

Mama Fajah laughed, a deep, genuine mirth that made the table shake. “Whoo. You got a live one theh, huh, mon? Good for you. Wheh you from, honey?”

“Switzerland.”

“Dat a long way from South Central.”

Sylvia and Mama Fajah chatted as Black consumed a pound of pork, then segued to his chicken, which was milder. Just when he thought he’d suffered the worst, he forked a heaping helping of beans and dirty rice into his mouth and was instantly assaulted by a feeling not unlike swallowing a mouthful of angry fire ants.

“Good Christ,” he exclaimed, drawing an annoyed look from Sylvia, and he pounded half his beer in two gulps. “What the hell is that?”

“Good, ain’t it? Wake you up, dat for sure. Specialty of the Caribbean. Keep a man honest, that do.”

“Probably sterilizes him, too,” Black complained.

Mama Fajah cackled in amusement again and returned to her meal. Black cleaned his plate, not wanting to disrespect the cooks. He was so concerned about his praise that he went back for a second helping, this time selecting a steak in addition to some more ribs, not wanting to appear rude.

As he turned, his plate heavy, he took in the gathering, the relatives all seated at tables or beneath shade trees, and wondered what it must be like to have so many family members. Remorse over his annoyance with his parents surfaced as he saw three generations at one bench, and he made a mental note to call his mother and thank her for organizing the dinner, even if she had been scheming to get Nina back into his life. As Roxie always pointed out, they weren’t getting any younger, and the time he had left with them was slipping by like sand through his fingers. And there was no way of knowing when the end of the ride was.

For any of them.

Especially if the rub on the steak was anywhere nearly as potent as the rice.

Chapter 31

The meal concluded and more than a few post-prandial beers consumed, the afternoon’s lazy pace was disrupted by a beeping box van backing up to the stage. Several large men got out and unloaded a drum kit and some amplifiers, as well as the seemingly obligatory DJ turntable station. Soon afterward a gas generator fired up and the men ran a hundred-foot power cable to the small platform, and in another ten minutes a group of the relatives were on stage doing a better-than-passable rendition of James Brown’s “I Got You,” with Reggie on the mike, doing Brown’s trademark shimmy and stomp like a man possessed.

“He can sing, can’t he?” Sylvia asked, leaning into Black as she clutched his arm.

“Yes, he can. I watched part of his set the day I met him, and the whole band was note for note.”

When the number was finished, the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause, and Mr. Brown was immediately followed by a Temptations number. Three more family members took the stage for the backup vocals, which to Black’s ear were flawless – particularly amazing given there were only two reference monitors and all three were singing into a single mike. Several of the small children began dancing, and the parents and siblings stood in a loose circle around them, clapping and smiling and egging them on.

The Temptations gave way to Otis Redding, and then the Spinners, and by the time a half hour had gone by the park was humming with the musical vibe being created whole cloth before them. After the final song, a BB King number, one of B-Side’s crew manned the turntable and the entertainment switched to rap. A teen got up and began freestyle rapping. He was pushed aside after a few minutes by another contender, and then another and another. Some were terrible, some tolerable, and Black and Sylvia were preparing to leave when the crowd started cheering and B-Side took the stage. He started slow, and then accelerated, but for the life of him Black couldn’t really see why he was one of the hottest artists on the charts. Not bad, but it all sort of sounded the same, and lyrically it was nothing to write home about.

“Come on. I think it’s time to call it a day. I’m stuffed and ready for a nap,” Black said. He took Sylvia’s hand and began walking to the edge of the park, and then B-Side’s distinctive voice was replaced by a familiar one – Reggie was on the mike. Black stopped as he listened and then turned to watch the man work the stage, his rhythm and style in every way superior to anyone else before him, hands down. Black stood, transfixed, and barely registered when Mama Fajah edged next to them.

“So what you tink bout dat?” she asked him, watching him watch Reggie’s mesmerizing performance.

“He’s really good. I mean, rap’s not my thing, but even so…he’s great.”

“Yeah, dat man got more dan his share of da talent in da family.”

“What about Blunt?”

“Blunt was pretty good, but Reggie…poor Reggie was born ten years too late. If he’d been younger when the breaks started comin’, he woulda been big.”

“No kidding.”

“But life like dat sometimes, innit? You has to take ’em as dey come.”

“True dat,” Black said, and Mama Fajah drifted away toward the food tables.

Sylvia looked at her watch. “Honey, I want to go to the bathroom before we leave. Can you wait for me here?”

“Sure. We’re in no huge hurry.”

She marched off to find relief, and Black circled around to B-Side, alone, his crew onstage with Reggie.

“Yo, I never asked. How’s the investigation going?”

“It’s going.”

“You got anyone you thinking looks good for trying to off me?”

“Who doesn’t look good? Moet’s basically a criminal, 2Bad hates your guts, Sam would make out like a bandit if you were dead, some people think there could be a psycho fan who’s trying to get even with you for your feud with Blunt, other people think Blunt’s still alive and coming for you out of revenge for trying to kill him…”

“I didn’t have nothing to do with Blunt’s death, man.”

“You know that, and maybe God does, but nobody else does. The point is that everybody’s a suspect. Even your girl Genesis. You tapping that?”

B-Side smirked. “You know how it is. Playah’s gotta play. But that’s been over for a while.”

“Then we can add her to the suspect list. Maybe she doesn’t like being bumped for this week’s trick. From my perspective, everyone has a reason for wanting you to have an accident. Even your uncle has his theories.”

“Reggie’s a good guy, but he smokes a lot, you know, and drinks a whole lot more than he should. He’s got theories about everything. I don’t even listen to them anymore.”

“Well, his theory on you is that Sam wants you dead because you’re singing Blunt’s songs, and you don’t have any more where that came from, so this is the record that’s got to make all the money – because the second’s going to bomb. What do you say to that?” Black asked.

“I didn’t steal no songs from Blunt. That’s lies.”

“He says he heard some demos from Blunt back in the day that sound almost exactly like your record.”

“He did?” B-Side seemed surprised, but not guilty surprised. Just surprised at the news that Reggie thought he’d stolen Blunt’s material.

“Look, I don’t care. I’m just saying that everyone you have around you is a suspect, which leaves me with nothing much to go on, because if everyone’s guilty and has a motive, that’s the same as nobody. The trick is to weed through all that and figure out which, if any of these theories, is closest to the truth.”

“Damn. Just thinking about it all makes my head hurt.”

“Welcome to the club. This isn’t an easy one by any means. So it’s unlikely I can figure it all out and deliver the perp on a silver platter in time to jet off to Rio for the weekend. It just doesn’t work that way.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t steal Blunt’s songs, and I didn’t kill him.”

“I believe you. Look, I’m not trying to piss you off. You asked how things were going. I told you, and let you know what people are thinking. And I don’t want you getting all paranoid, or angry with your uncle, or Sam, or Genesis, for no reason. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.” Black burped softly, and his mouth filled with a reminder of the afternoon’s feast. “Tell you what. I’ll keep all this to myself, and when I know who’s behind it, I’ll let you know. Until then, don’t ask, don’t tell. Okay?”

“You the boss, man. You hitting the road?”

“Yeah. Thanks for having us, but that spicy rice killed me.”

“Puts hair on your chest, doesn’t it?”

“Or removes it.”

B-Side swaggered off, a pensive look on his face, and Black watched him cross the park, headed back to the stage. Black hoped he hadn’t precipitated anything. Normally, he wouldn’t have shared so openly. But one beer too many and suddenly he was a chatterbox.

Sylvia returned to his side, and after listening to a little more of Reggie tearing it up, they made their slow way back to the car, Sylvia by Black’s side.

On the way back to Sylvia’s place, he called Roxie to see if anything had come up while he’d been gone. Roxie took four rings to answer and, when she did, sounded preoccupied.

“Black Investigations.”

“Roxie. It’s me.”

“How was the pig roast?”

“It wasn’t a pig roast. It was a barbeque.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I believe at a pig roast they dig a hole and put the pig in it with a bunch of hot coals.”

“Poor pig. That’s got to hurt.”

“Generally a dead one, Roxie.”

“Because the only good pig’s a…”

“Did anybody call?”

“Just Todd. He wanted your home address so he could have a birthday cake delivered.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m working on my standup in case the singing gig doesn’t work out.”

“Don’t quit your day job.”

“You’re quite a wit yourself, aren’t you? Drunk again?” Roxie asked.

“I only had a few beers. Maybe four…”