BLACK to Reality

by Russell Blake

  “I’m not seventeen anymore,” Black protested.

  “Just pretend. They’ll be at your office at twelve o’clock. Wear something pretty.”

  “Did I mention I hate you?”

  “You won’t when you pick up your check tomorrow morning.”

  “It’ll probably bounce.”

  “Have a nice night.”

  When he entered the restaurant and Sylvia saw him, she just about passed out. He’d never seen her mouth actually hang open, so it was a first. He held his arms out to her, and she reluctantly rose from the corner table.

  “Oh…my…God…”

  “I know. I look like Iggy Pop. And not in a good way.”

  She hugged him without enthusiasm. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  “No, I mean really. You look like one of those losers on Sunset hanging outside the clubs at two in the morning.”

  “Those are called musicians. I think that was the general idea.”

  “I…I’m at a loss for words.”

  “I got that. Let’s order, if you think you can keep food down, and we can talk about it.”

  Black noticed Sylvia was being more generous about her wine intake than usual. Dinner was strained, and when he broke the news about going to the house the next day, she just about lost it.

  “So this whole nightmare starts tomorrow? I thought we had a little time…”

  “The thing to remember is that this is a job. I’m undercover.”

  “Yeah, like Serpico. I get it. Only you’re not De Niro.”

  “Pretty sure that was Pacino.”

  “Don’t change the subject. This is a major disruption in our lives, Black. And you didn’t even discuss it with me…”

  “I know. It all happened so fast. I was going to say no, but then, after I played with Rooster today, everything kind of changed.”

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly. “You played with a chicken today? What have you become, Black?”

  Black smiled sadly. “I’m seriously considering starting. No, that’s the manager’s name. Rooster. He’s famous.”

  Sylvia took another large gulp of wine. “What’s going to happen to us, Black? This is just too way out.”

  “Everything will be fine. We’ll see each other once a week, plus at shows, I’ll pay my apartment and office rent and get back on track, and it’ll all be over before we know it.”

  “It’s three months of our life. My life. With you in a rock band instead of behaving like a grownup. I…I don’t know, Black. I need time to absorb all this.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She cleared her throat. “It means I’m not sure I can deal with this. Not seeing you. This new…look. You being in the rock scene. It’s not what I signed up for.”

  He took her hand, which felt like a dead smelt. “Nothing’s going to happen while we’re apart. This is all an act. I’m not planning on becoming a musician again. I’m on a job, which pays well at a time when I’m dead broke. I can appreciate this is all a shock, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t for me too, but we need to make the best of it. I’ll do the time, catch the bad guys, and come home. To you. Nobody but you.”

  Her eyes were welling when she looked at him.

  “That’s what you say now. Last night you didn’t even mention this, and today you’re leaving me for three months. I’m not sure your word means much these days.”

  “I already explained that…”

  “Not good enough, Black.” She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, and his heart sank. She was right.

  “I know. And I’m sorry.”

  “You always are.”

  Chapter 8

  Morning arrived too soon, and after a less-than-warm goodbye from Sylvia, Black returned home to pack. He carried the Gretsch upstairs and set it on the coffee table as he scrounged around for any clothes that didn’t look conservative, and wondered for the hundredth time since getting his makeover how he was going to pull any of this off. He’d thought playing would be the hard part, but each time he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he realized that he was in unfamiliar territory – what was fun at twenty was horrifying at forty-something.

  He selected a few cocktail shirts and a half dozen T-shirts, and ferreted around for his rattiest jeans. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be walking around the house half naked, he packed a hygiene kit and some miscellaneous odds and ends, leaving his Glock locked in the safe – he didn’t want to have to explain to the crew or his housemates why he was strapped.

  Finished, he did a final quick check and remembered to grab his laptop. Once it was stowed in his bag, he hoisted his guitar, shouldered the rucksack and, after a final look around, locked the door, hoping his luck in eluding Gracie would hold.

  It wasn’t his day. Like a mongoose watching a cobra, she was waiting, her door cracked, a quarter glass of amber fluid in her coffee mug.

  “What happened to you? Is it Halloween?” she croaked at him.

  “Very funny. I was trying for a new look. More fun.”

  “You look like a dope fiend. You trying to sneak out?”

  “Nah. In fact, I’ll have your rent in about an hour.”

  “Bullshit. You’re flying the coop.”

  “No, I’m not.” He told her about the show and explained that he wouldn’t be around for a while. “Can you stop in every now and then and make sure nothing’s caught fire?”

  “Sure thing. But I still don’t believe you. I think you’ve gone and joined the circus or something.”

  “That’s nice, Gracie, but I’m telling the truth. I’m going to be on TV. Look the show up starting next Thursday. It’s on one of the cable networks.”

  “You don’t know which one?”

  “I haven’t watched TV since ER went off the air.”

  “Wow.” That shut her up. Gracie had her idiot box on roughly twenty hours a day. “You’re really not lying to me?”

  “All my stuff’s still up in the apartment. And I’ll be back with the rent by eleven at the latest. I swear.”

  “Then leave your guitar with me.”

  No fool, Gracie.

  “I have to take it in to get worked on. Or you know I would.” He didn’t want her breaking anything, which she well might do while he was gone. Better to keep the guitar out of harm’s way.

  “Then leave your bag.”

  Black groaned, but agreed. He placed it on the floor by the entry and winked at her. “Be back soon. Don’t go digging around in it. I’ll know if you did.”

  “Relax, tough guy. I have no interest in your dirty underwear. Especially now that you look like something out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

  “I’ll be back,” he said in his best Schwarzenegger and aimed his finger at her like a gun.

  “Don’t quit your day job.”

  Bobby’s receptionist practically dialed 911 when she saw him, and it was only when he reassured her that a check was waiting for him that she relaxed. Bobby wasn’t in yet, which was just as well, because Black wasn’t sure he wouldn’t assault him on sight.

  The teller at the bank did her best to control her expression when he made it to the window, but he could see the amusement in her eyes as she counted out the hundreds after triple-checking his driver’s license photo. When he returned to Gracie’s, she was planted on the sofa, remote in one hand, another morning cocktail in the other. He placed the money on the arm of the couch, and she counted it with the dexterity of a three-card Monte hustler before tucking it into the pocket of her housecoat. After declining the obligatory offer of a drink, he slipped away, leaving her to the reruns of Gilligan’s Island that were part of her daily ritual.

  He called a cab on his cell and waited for it at the curb – he’d asked Sylvia to move his Cadillac from its position in front of the complex once a week so it wouldn’t get ticketed and towed, to which she’d reluctantly agreed. Ten minutes later a taxi arrived and popped the trunk, and he dep
osited his things before hopping in the back and giving the driver his office address.

  Mugsy stared at him from his spot on the couch as Black shouldered his way through the door. He was lying on his back, all four paws up in the air, looking like a furry basketball with chubby stumps poking out.

  “Good morning, tubby. You have a nice night overeating and crapping everywhere?”

  Mugsy’s tail twitched, but other than that, he could have been dead. Black carried his bag and guitar to his office and placed them safely inside, and then attended to cleaning out the litter box and ensuring the oversized food tray and the water dispenser were full. He cinched the top of the garbage bag with a tie, left it where the cleaning crew couldn’t miss it, and returned to his office, where Mugsy was snoring softly on the lobby sofa, as was his custom.

  Black checked the time. An hour to go. He spent a few minutes on the web checking for nonexistent messages before calling Stan.

  “Yo. Stan. It’s yo homey Black in tha house.”

  “You know how white you sound when you do that?”

  “Not convincing, huh?”

  “Worse than John Wayne as Genghis Khan.”

  “Don’t be a hatah.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “No, wait. You busy?”

  “Got all the time in the world. We mostly just hang out and take naps around here when we’re not watching porn. But don’t tell anyone.” Stan paused. “Why?”

  “I got a gig.” Black explained what he was going to be doing for the next three months.

  “That’s great. What’s next? Standing on the street corner warning that the end is nigh?”

  “Tough job, that. Too much competition, especially in Hollywood.”

  “What are the chances you can pull this off and win?”

  “I have no idea. But the band’s really good. If I come up to speed, we could make it work. Of course, it’ll depend on the other groups. There could be a stunner in the bunch.”

  “Does this mean you’re spending your male menopause doing lines of blow off groupies’ bare midriffs? I want to be you. I knew I should have gone into the PI game.”

  “The part where you’re waking up at midnight having anxiety attacks over how much you can get selling your blood sort of offsets the highs.”

  “So you say. All I know is I’m not being asked to play guitar on TV.”

  “Might be because you can’t play, for starters. Just saying.”

  “Always with the comebacks, smartass. I could always learn.”

  Black smiled to himself. “If you saw me right now, you’d have second thoughts. They made me look like Alice Cooper after a three-day drunk.”

  “That’s the fashion these days.”

  “How would you know?”

  “All right, I’m just making that up. So you’re out of touch for three months?”

  “I’m not going to Afghanistan. Only Malibu. And I’ll have my phone.”

  “Well, be careful. You know how I worry. I’d hate to think of you catching something in the hot tub. I’ve seen those shows. Nonstop orgy. Good for ratings.”

  “Sylvia’s going to love that,” Black muttered.

  “Sylvia who?”

  Black hung up and paced in his office, checking his watch. Turning from the window, he spied his Gretsch. He opened the case, tuned it, and began running scales, hoping to coax his dexterity back. He was in the middle of practicing arpeggios when he heard a knock at the office door.

  “Come in. It’s open,” he called as he packed the guitar away. When he stuck his head out of the doorway, a tall young woman in blue gabardine slacks and a white blouse approached, trailed by a burly man wearing a gray Ozzie tour tank top that did little to cover his hirsute form.

  “Mr. Black?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “My name’s Sarah Miller. I’m the assistant producer with Rock of Ages. I help coordinate things for Simon. And this is Lou.”

  Black stepped from his office, carrying his guitar and his bag. “Nice to meet you, Sarah. Lou.”

  Sarah’s attention drifted away, and her gaze locked on Mugsy, who’d cracked one eye open and was watching her, feet still jutting straight into the air from his bulbous form. “Oh my God. He’s beautiful! What’s his name?”

  “The cat? Mugsy,” Black said, amazed at how the porky feline could charm the pants off anything female without even trying.

  “Mugsy! Look at you, Mr. Mugs! Aren’t you gorgeous! What a handsome boy, aren’t you?” Sarah approached Mugsy, whose tail was now swishing slowly, and rubbed his considerable belly. Black could hear the purring from across the room. Another sucker duped by the tubby tabby. She looked up at Black. “Is he yours?”

  “Sort of. He’s the office cat.”

  She paused. “Is there anyone else to look after him?”

  “Well, I had an assistant, but she…she’s on sabbatical during the filming of the show. But she promised to stop in and take care of him.”

  Sarah’s gaze swept the sparse furnishings. “What do you do here? What kind of business is this?”

  “Security. That sort of thing.”

  “Then he’s going to be all alone?” The volume of Mugsy’s purring increased, now resembling the shifting of tectonic plates. Black should have seen what was coming, but like an out-of-control car skidding toward a gas truck on black ice, he felt powerless to stop the coming calamity.

  “Not all the time. I told you, my assistant–”

  “He’d be perfect for the show! We’ve been trying to figure out how to broaden the ratings, and a handsome fellow like this will draw in a whole other crowd. The cat ladies will go insane – he’s a natural. Look at that face! That mug! Mugsy! Mr. Muggles. Do you want to be on TV with your daddy?”

  “I’m not his–”

  “Look at how happy he is! It’s like he understands.” Mugsy was pawing delightedly at the air with his front paws, probably because he thought he could eat or shred Sarah’s blouse. “I absolutely insist. The human interest of you not wanting to abandon your beloved cat will go a long way to making you sympathetic to viewers. And they’re the ones who have the final vote after the qualification rounds,” Sarah said, her tone ominous. “Anything that makes you more appealing to the audience shouldn’t be underrated.”

  Black sat in the back seat of the gold Suburban, Mugsy and Sarah in the passenger seat next to Lou, as they wended their way down Malibu Canyon. The blue of the Pacific Ocean shimmered in the distance. His misgivings about agreeing to do the show had just trebled with Mugsy, the destroyer of worlds, in the mix, but his protests and warnings had fallen on deaf ears. Sarah was obviously smitten. Black silently cursed the fat bastard and prayed he’d run away once at a strange house, but he suspected that wasn’t going to be the way his luck ran.

  No, Mugsy was now part of the show, and any mayhem he caused would probably boost the ratings. Black thought about how he was going to explain the cat’s involvement to Roxie and decided that he would put that off until later. As the big SUV rolled into the beach town, Black eyed the multimillion dollar mansions on the hills and silently estimated the amount of damage Mugsy could inflict in mere minutes. He dry-swallowed hard.

  Even though it was only one thirty, Black realized that he would have traded all the limited money in his pocket for a strong drink. He fought down the impulse, which was immediately followed by a craving for a cigarette, and wondered how he was going to make it if this was any indication of how his three-month sentence was likely to go.

  Chapter 9

  When the Suburban labored up the long circular drive, Black got his first look at the band house. Calling it opulent was like calling Angelina Jolie cute. Drawing its architectural influence from the villas of Spain’s Costa Brava, it was easily ten thousand square feet, spread across three rambling stories that climbed up the hill behind it.

  “Wow. This is the place?” Black asked, impressed.

  “This is it. Home sweet home, u
ntil you either win the contest or get booted out,” Sarah said. She held Mugsy up so he could see and waved one of his paws at the house. “Say hi to your new home, Mr. Mugsy Man.” She turned and looked at Black over her shoulder. “He’s a stocky one, isn’t he?”

  “Stocky would be Mugsy after six months of anorexia.”

  She returned to Mugsy, who was doing his angel best to appear harmless. “Nonsense. You’re just a big, handsome boy, aren’t you? You like your cat chow, though, huh?”

  “More like his side of beef and dozen doughnuts.”

  Lou chuckled and then stifled it when he caught Sarah’s expression.

  They pulled to a stop in front of the mansion’s double wood-and-glass entry doors, where a camera crew was filming their approach.

  “I thought you said they don’t start filming until Monday,” Black said.

  “Correct. This is just for background. The bands arriving. That sort of thing,” Sarah explained. “They’ve already done a few one-on-one interviews with Christina, your lead singer, who will be doing most of the talking, if last season was any indication. You just need to do a few minutes of canned spiel about who you are, what your background is, that kind of stuff, so the audience can follow along. And then as the season develops, we’ll do more interviews to get your reactions to whatever’s happening.”

  “When do I meet my band?”

  “After you get settled in. Here. Take Mugsy. It’ll be pure gold if you’re carrying him as you arrive.” She twisted in the seat and handed Mugsy to Black. Mugsy looked like he was going to let go of his bladder, so he held the cat away from him. “Okay. Let me get out of the car, and once I’m clear, the crew will shoot you. Wait until Lou gets your stuff out, and then walk up the steps to the front doors. Holly, one of the hosts, will meet you there. I hope you like cold beer.”

  “You must be psychic.”

  Black followed Sarah’s instructions and didn’t have to pretend to be in awe of the mansion as he approached the entry. Marble, granite, exotic woods, columns…the entire place reeked of money. Big money. Mugsy held off on spraying him, so at least he was spared that indignity, and he hugged the beast to his breast like a newborn, playing for the cameras as he mounted the steps. When he reached the threshold, the doors pulled wide, and a gorgeous blonde woman wearing a baseball cap on backward, a black The Cult T-shirt and ripped jeans, all white teeth and tanned skin and augmented curves, greeted him like he was bringing an alimony check.