BLACK Is Back (30 page)

“I don’t know. I hear the kids saying it. I think it means you look like a pimp.”

“I’ve got a wide brimmed hat and an alpaca coat in my closet.”

“And red disco pants. Can’t forget those.”

“With white platform shoes.”

“Nah. Two-tone.”

“Maybe a walking stick. With a rhinestone-encrusted hound dog handle.”

“Nice touch.”

“Thanks.”

Black reached up to smooth his hair and drew a sharp intake of breath when his fingers brushed the lump where Reggie had clobbered him with the gun. Then again, Reggie had gotten the worst part of that bargain. The morgue’d had to use a spatula to peel him off the pavement. Ten stories wasn’t kind no matter how you landed.

“We should do lunch next week. As a show of appreciation for looking into the scumbag.”

“Sure thing. Guy’s gotta eat.”

“I’ll have my girl call you.”

“Have her call my girl.”

“Maybe they can go to lunch.”

“And get all catty. Pillow fight. Wearing bikinis.”

“And mud.”

Black eyed him skeptically. “What the hell’s wrong with you, anyway, throwing mud into that visual?”

“Sorry. Too many years mudslinging. A guy develops a taste for it.”

“So you think your daughter will be okay?”

“Sure. She’s young. Gorgeous. Smart. The world’s filled with possibility.”

“I have a client who’s a rapper, if she’s looking for company. He’s a good guy. Don’t let the gold teeth fool you.”

“Great. I’ll bear that in mind. But remember, I want a small ceremony. Nothing fancy.”

“Those are always best.”

Black rose slowly, looking around the lavishly appointed office. “I’m going to hit it. You want the full report, or was this it?” he asked, holding up the file with his abridged summary in it.

“This was it. All’s well that ends well. Another one bites the dust.”

“Don’t forget to have your girl call mine.”

“You betcha.”

Black made his way to the door, an imported teak slab that cost enough to pay his rent for a few months. Or feed Mugsy for a week. Bobby cleared his throat and leveled a frank gaze at Black.

“If you had anything to do with that dirtbag going walkies, thanks a million, buddy.”

Black’s poker face could have beaten Amarillo Slim. “Sometimes you just get lucky. I’m looking forward to that lunch. Probably won’t eat all week in anticipation. Make it somewhere really expensive. I’m thinking a porterhouse that comes with its own car, you know?”

“Absolutely.”

Black checked the time. “
Adios
, amigo.”

“
Gesundheit
.”

Bobby’s latest scorching-hot receptionist regarded him coolly as he emerged from the rear offices and cocked an eyebrow as he approached.

“Could you validate my parking?” he asked, holding out a beige stub.

“That’s the best parking ticket ever,” she said, deadpan.

They exchanged a knowing glance, and she smiled as she affixed several colored stamps to it.

“You wouldn’t happen to know a woman named Roxie, would you?” he asked, and enjoyed the puzzled incomprehension on her face. She was good, but not in the same league. Then again, she looked like she was way higher maintenance. Black took the stub from her and wondered fleetingly whether Bobby was banging her, and then shrugged to himself as he waited for the elevator. Knowing Bobby, it was a given. He hadn’t changed in the twenty-plus years Black had known him. Predictable as a clock.

Stan called as he was getting into his car. “We on for lunch?”

“Absolutely. Chez Carl?”

“Ten minutes about right?”

“You talking dirty to me?”

“You’ll know when I do.”

Stan had been up most of the night, Black knew, coordinating with the Orange County homicide detectives as they pieced together Reggie’s role in the rap murders. Black’s statement, and B-Side’s, had effectively closed the case for him, which was always a good day in any investigator’s book.

Black took the parking spot next to Stan’s sedan. His whole body felt like someone had peeled a scab off a sore, and he hobbled into the fast food restaurant, his legs still uncertain about whether surviving the prior night had been a good trade-off. Stan waved to him from their usual table, two identically appointed trays before him.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you, sunshine,” Stan greeted, his voice as excited as a mortician’s.

“Thanks. They serving Lab or Huskie today?”

“I think it’s mule. Or gecko. ASPCA hasn’t been delivering lately.”

“Oooh. My favorite. Tell me it’s pony – hooves and all…”

Stan’s bloodshot, basset hound eyes took in Black’s injuries with a glance. “You look like hell.”

“It’s either the booze and hookers, or the gym time. Main thing’s that I feel pretty.”

Stan took a huge bite out of his dripping double burger, his eyes as warm as sunlit icebergs, which was typical of Stan’s demeanor without a few shots of Jack in him to soften life’s blows. Black joined him in masticating the putative pony, and the only sound at the table was something akin to a wood chipper a bear had fallen into. Eventually they were done with their fine dining, and Black leaned back in the plastic booth and tentatively probed his aching stomach.

“I ever tell you I really hate heights?” he asked.

“Only every time you talk about flying to see your parents.”

“Thank God that never happens.”

Stan scowled. “Would it be bad form to ask for some pony sauce to go?”

“I think they delight in that.”

“Had to be tough ten stories up, though, huh?”

“All part of my campaign to fight crime.”

“By hanging out at amusement parks.”

“With rap stars.”

“Good plan.”

“I didn’t say it was perfect.”

Stan ran a tired hand over the creases in his face. “One thing, though. Why the voodoo?”

“I think he was trying to scare the living bejesus out of B-Side.” Black tried a smile but gave it up before it was more than a wince. “Reggie was an angry man. And apparently he liked his chemical fortification. That might have twisted his reasoning somewhat.”

“So that really happens?”

Black nodded, then reconsidered the wisdom of that move when a lance of pain shot from his neck down his spine.

“In the end I don’t even think it was about the money. It was about being marginalized. Having to sing Motown to morons four times a day when his no-talent nephew was driving a car worth more than his house, performing his stolen songs – songs that were that good, but which would have never gone anywhere because he was born too early.”

“Ouch. Talk about the universe rejecting you.”

“It was probably personal and probably all made sense between the second and third pipe-full. Difference is most people sleep it off, and somehow Reggie decided that he had to up the ante.”

“Singing Motown will do that to you.”

“It’s true. I think Daimler listened to it a lot.”

“I think that’s a German car company.”

“I was thinking more serial killer than convertible.”

“I got that.”

“That’s why I like eating pony with you. I feel like you speak my unspoken language.”

Stan nodded. “Certainly not the spoken one, because that makes no sense at all to me.”

“Don’t be hateful.”

Stan burped explosively, ignoring the glacial stare from a woman at the table across from them. “Sorry. Pony does that to me.”

Chapter 41

The valet offered Black a ticket with a nod of familiarity, which Black duly took before turning to enter La Belle Fenêtre. He knew logically that the restaurant was the same, but somehow this time it seemed tarnished, tawdry from the passage of barely a week. Genesis waited for Black inside, already at the table, a glass of champagne half full near her bread plate, a full one near Black’s place setting. Three days had passed since Reggie’s untimely demise, and Black was nearly back to normal, the only evidence of his misadventure a small healing scar on his head and a feeling of falling to his death at odd moments.

“There you are,” she said, and for a moment Black actually believed she was happy to see him. Part of her craft, he supposed, that ability to cause a quickening in anything male within a half mile – dead or alive.

“Yup. You look fabulous, as always.”

“I’m blushing.”

“No, you aren’t.”

She picked up the menu and pretended to study it, and Black took a quick look before deciding on the filet. They ordered, and Genesis got down to business.

“Moet hasn’t heard from you.”

“Probably because I haven’t called.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“Everyone tells me I’m an idiot if I don’t jump on his offer.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Probably?”

“It’s a good offer, Black. More so because it’s still on the table, even though he’s out of the woods on the murders.”

“I know. I did the math.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them, canned classical music floating in the background, the hushed conversation of important people around them lingering like expensive perfume.

“So what’s happening with B-Side?” Black asked, not really that interested, although he did feel sorry for the raping the rapper was about to be subjected to.

“Moet’s going to sue. Attorneys are filing tomorrow. He’ll win, you know.”

“Shame about B-Side’s career. And the rest of his life.”

“He saved you. That’s what the papers said.”

“The press lies.”

“But he did, didn’t he?”

“Yup. But the way he sees it, I saved him, so we’re even. Sort of.”

“Is that why you haven’t called Moet?” she asked.

“Part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

She gave him a curious look.

Black cleared his throat. “I came out of the music business. I got screwed over really badly. It took me twenty years to cope with that. Some would argue I still haven’t. Whatever. The point is I’m not sure I want to immerse myself in an industry I still have powerful emotions about. No matter how big the payday.” Black took a sip of champagne. “This is crap.”

Genesis offered a small pout, a moue, an expression that would have broken his heart a week ago.

Black smiled. “It’s not. I just always wanted to say something like that in a really expensive restaurant.”

“Well, you just did.”

“But in the other part of my fantasy, I throw the rest in the waiter’s face and storm out.”

“I see.”

And she did.

“So your boss is going to ruin the kid’s life.”

“He’s not a kid. He’s a multi-millionaire.”

“I suppose that’s life in the big leagues.”

“That’s life if you steal other people’s songs and make a fortune doing it.”

“You know, I believe him. I don’t think he knew. He really thought it was Sam writing the tunes.”

“Then he’s about to discover the price of being naïve and stupid.”

Their meals arrived and Black picked at his steak, his appetite gone for reasons he would have had a hard time explaining. Genesis ate her fish with Nipponese efficiency, slicing off bites with surgical precision.

“Miles must be crapping his pants,” Black said.

“Oh, you bet he is. He backed the wrong pony.”

As Black smiled at his private joke, a puzzled expression flashed across her face.

“But he’ll pay, and next month there will be a new act, with a new shtick, and he’ll continue to make bank,” Black said.

“Same as ever, huh?”

“Which is why I’m not calling Moet. The business stinks.”

“All business stinks, Black.”

“Probably. But I get to decide which cesspool I’m swimming in.” He folded his napkin and stood. “I think I’m done. Thanks for the invite. You can deliver the message. No offense, but no thanks.”

She nodded, unfazed by his ending the lunch early.

“It was never personal, Black. I want you to know that. Just business.”

His eyes held hers for a nanosecond, and then he turned and left the restaurant, not trusting himself to speak.

Chapter 42

The Eldorado started with a throaty rumble. Black strapped himself in and lowered the top, the sunshine warm on his face, cleansing his spirit even as it threatened to mutate his epidermal cells. He put the tranny into drive and pulled away, leaving five dollars in the valet’s hand by way of gratitude, and pointed the long hood south, to Pico and his little office suite.

He hadn’t known he wasn’t going to take Moet’s deal until he’d sat down and observed Genesis’ flawless features, which hid a fundamental ugliness he wanted no part of. Another bad financial decision in a long string, he supposed, but for the first time in days he felt decent about himself, the offer from the rap mogul having festered like a malignancy in his psyche since it had been made.

He turned on the stereo and selected a Stevie Ray Vaughn number, one that never failed to pick him up. The wailing overtures of the guitar seemed the perfect accompaniment to his mood, which was surprisingly light considering he’d just tanked twenty grand a month of the easiest work he’d ever get. The money would have ruined him, he decided, and he was glad he hadn’t told Roxie about it – he’d never hear the end of it if she knew.

A Tesla pulled up next to him at the light, the driver a typical thirty-something power broker on his cell phone, likely making a deal or apologizing for having to break one, and Black shook his head almost imperceptibly. Glorified golf carts being driven by masters of the universe. He suddenly felt old.

At his bank, he dutifully held his thumb up to the scanner, waited for the vault door to open, and went to his safe deposit box and unlocked it. He smiled as he put the Rolex box inside, happy to see that the metal drawer was just wide enough to accommodate it. The watch had been a nice gesture, but it wasn’t him, and he felt like an ass-hat every time he saw it on his wrist. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his vintage Hamilton, which merely displayed the time rather than making a social hierarchy statement, and strapped it on, slid the drawer back into place, and locked the compartment.