BLACK to Reality

by Russell Blake

  The five youths bumped and ground their way through a rendition of “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” that had Black’s teeth on edge, but the audience response was good, and he couldn’t fault either the vocals or the choreography. Next came their nemesis, Bend in the Creek, with a blistering version of ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” that brought cheers when the last note died. Black and Christina exchanged glances as Simon smiled and nodded from his seat next to the judges.

  “We should have gotten that song. You would have torn the lead up,” she said.

  He nodded. “It was good. But it doesn’t stand a chance against Aerosmith.”

  Their housemates BrandX followed the country-tinged band and seemed shoe-ins to win because of the rowdy youth of the audience, but when they were ready to start, their DJ signaled to the rappers, frantic. Black struggled to hear and could make out hurried back and forth about their samples not triggering.

  “What? They were fine at sound check,” Lavon growled.

  “That was then. Memory says they ain’t here no more,” shot back the DJ, a lanky street tough with two gold front teeth and a baseball cap on sideways.

  A bead of sweat rolled down SnM’s face. He wiped it away with a swipe of his NY Yankees Jersey. “Well, do something, man.”

  “Nuthin’ to be done. The sounds ain’t here.”

  Their coach had a terse discussion with Holly and David. Sarah got on her radio as the crowd began booing. When the word came back, it wasn’t good.

  “I don’t know what to tell you guys. Figure something out. You’ve got five minutes. You’ll have to do it without the samples if you can’t make them work. Just like breaking a guitar string. The show must go on.”

  “That’s bullshit. This is equipment failure. It isn’t our fault.”

  “Not my call. Five minutes.” She turned away from the rappers and held her two-way to her mouth. “Doug, crank the house music,” she ordered the soundman.

  Black and Christina remained where they were, every performer’s worst nightmare unfolding for the rappers – having to wing a show with no preparation. To their credit, they gave it a game try, choosing to tackle their rendition of “Heard it Through The Grapevine” a cappella, but it was no good, and by the time they were done, the booing had sealed their fate.

  Strobe delivered a typically effete performance that got commendable scores, and then it was time for Last Call. Peter and Black exchanged glances after Holly announced them, and Black played the famous riff, putting a unique spin on it by using a wah-wah pedal to coax a new slant from the standard. Christina was in her element, shucking and jiving while playing her black Les Paul and giving the vocals her all, but it was Black’s solo that was the highlight of the song. When it was over, the roar of the crowd sounded like an avalanche, and Christina and Black held their guitars up next to each other, sharing the spotlight. The judges took a minute to gather their thoughts, and then Alex led off with his critique and score – a ten. Nina followed suit with a ten of her own, and BT Slim rounded it out with another ten – the first perfect score of the season.

  Rooster was waiting offstage as the cheering died down. He hugged everyone multiple times, congratulating them on an incredible performance – which it was, and which everyone in the band knew. Black enjoyed his moment of attention, but excused himself when he saw Lavon arguing with his coach. Black sympathized with him – it was a horrible way to end a great run, and over the six weeks they’d been together at the house, he’d grown to like the young rapper, who was wickedly funny in a self-deprecating way.

  “Lousy break, Lavon,” Black said, extending his hand.

  Lavon took it and shook. “Yeah, well, every show got to have a loser, you know?”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Some equipment shit. Nothing’s where it’s supposed to be except the beat. The music, the samples…gone.”

  “How?”

  “Nobody knows. Just one of them things. Can’t let it get you down. It’s cool,” Lavon said in a tone that made it clear it was anything but.

  “Who was watching your stuff after rehearsal?”

  “House security and the sound crew. You was up here. You see anything?”

  Black tried to remember. With all the crew hurrying around to get things set up, nothing sprang to mind. Except…

  “There was a guy. Latino looking. Skinny dude. Goatee, like a vato. I thought I remembered him hanging around and thought it was weird he wasn’t busy,” Black said, his words carefully chosen as he tried to clarify the image that was in his head.

  “Yeah? You see that punkass here?”

  Black watched the road crew breaking down the gear and rolling it off stage for several minutes, scanning the faces, and shook his head. “No, I don’t. Maybe he’s outside loading.”

  “I got to tell our people about this. This ain’t right,” Lavon said, returning to his dejected coach.

  Black moved to the new soundman and thanked him for a great job. The man grinned behind his bushy red beard. “That’s nice of you, man. Nobody ever says anything to me unless it’s to complain they didn’t like their sound.”

  Black described the crew member he’d seen. “Is that anyone you know?”

  The soundman shook his head. “No. But there are a lot of new guys here. On a big production like this, there’ll be dozens of local talent to lug stuff.”

  Lavon was asking the stage manager the same sort of questions, and Black left him to his task, cringing when Lavon pointed at Black and continued talking, obviously agitated. The last thing he wanted to be accused of was instigating another disturbance, and he couldn’t get back to his band’s dressing room fast enough. The incident receded in his mind as celebratory beers were cracked and swigged, and within an hour it was just a hazy blur as another round of cold brews were consumed to keep the desert heat at bay.

  Chapter 21

  Dinner was at one of the restaurants on the lake that jutted on pilings over the water, whose surface was inky black except for where the spring moon glinted off the small waves stirred by the eastern wind. Everyone was in a festive mood, the performance’s perfect score validation of the many hours they’d invested practicing. Heaping platters of pork ribs and barbecued chicken, along with an ocean of beer and Jack Daniel’s, seemed a fitting reward.

  By the time they finished eating, Black’s head was beginning to spin, and against his better judgment he asked Peter for a cigarette. After all, he was a guitar hero, and a lousy smoke or two wasn’t going to put him into an early grave. Peter slid his pack across the table, and Black removed one, along with the matches stuck in the cellophane wrapping. He stood somewhat unsteadily as Rooster held another shot of Jack in the air and toasted. Black waved the drink off – Ed could knock back enough for them both without any help from Black.

  The waitress waggled a cautionary finger at him as he looked around for someplace to smoke and pointed at the deck over the water. He nodded his thanks and slid the door open, taking in the dry air like it was his last breath, and fumbled to light his cigarette, his fingers clumsy from the booze. He cursed under his breath as the match fizzled out and was striking a second one when a voice spoke from behind him.

  “Hey, pal, you need help with that?”

  Black was turning around when two pairs of powerful hands gripped him under his arms and hurled him over the wooden railing into the water fifteen feet below. Black struck the surface with his back, and the impact knocked the wind out of him. The assault had been so sudden he hadn’t had time to register what was happening – one moment he was on the deck, the next doing an ungainly swan dive.

  Water rushed into his nose and mouth as he went under. Tiny pinpoints of light danced behind his eyes, and then instinct took over and he kicked to the surface, his lungs burning for air. His head broke the surface, and he sputtered out a coughing blast as he struggled to breathe. He was finally able to draw air as he treaded water, his boots pulling at him, and he glared up at the rest
aurant lights above him. The same voice that had asked whether he wanted a light echoed off the water.

  “You like asking questions, huh, tough guy? Sticking your nose where it don’t belong? This is your only warning. Knock it off, or next time we’ll start off with breaking all your fingers. How does that sound?”

  Black was mustering a response in his alcohol-addled brain when he heard the footsteps departing on the plank deck. He listened intently, but didn’t hear anything else. The smoking area was empty.

  He peered into the gloom at the side of the restaurant and resigned himself to having to swim to shore – no small feat when drunk and wearing skinny jeans and cowboy boots. As he paddled around the pilings, another, darker thought occurred to him: what if his attackers were waiting for him in the dark?

  The idea stayed with him as he stroked for the bank, huffing like he’d run a marathon, water in his eyes and nose, a vague odor of petroleum in his hair. Off in the distance a line of boats was lit up like a parade float. Music boomed across the lake, accompanied by female squeals and male whoops that reverberated like sirens.

  When he finally reached the water’s edge, there were no goons lying in wait. Black pulled himself onto a flat area of the gravel beach and lay staring at the moon peeking through the clouds, wondering how he’d gotten himself attacked in the middle of a restaurant. Even for him, that was a record – in a night of them, he thought grimly. Obviously whoever had tossed him in had followed him and waited for their opportunity. His probing about the mystery roadie had triggered a response he hadn’t expected, and the only lucky thing about it had been that they’d only thrown him in the water and not tailed him to the hotel and worked him over with pipes.

  The voice had sounded East Coast. Not Latino at all. No, more like New Jersey or New York – he wasn’t great with accents, but it wasn’t L.A., that was for sure. As his heart rate returned to normal, he wondered just what he’d tripped onto. It was one thing to try to nudge bands out of the running, and another to assault someone overtly.

  He retrieved his wallet and shook a stream from it, tilting his head to clear the water from his ears. From here on out he’d have to be much more stealthy about his behavior and play the part of the oblivious guitar player better.

  Black pulled his boots off and dumped them out before removing his socks and wringing them. He was cold from the nocturnal bath, but stayed where he was for ten minutes before standing and moving back to the restaurant. Inside, the party was in full roar, and nobody had noticed his absence. Peter saw him first, followed almost immediately by Ed, who put his beer down and shook his head.

  “Dude. What happened to you?”

  Black tried a smirk. “I thought it would be a good idea to sit on the rail and have a smoke. Turns out that’s not the best thing to do after you’ve had a few. And the worst part is, I didn’t even get to smoke my cigarette.”

  “You fell in?” Christina asked in disbelief.

  “I prefer to think I slipped.”

  The table exploded with laughter as Peter stood. “I didn’t know you’d need a chaperone to have a smoke. Come on. I’ll make sure you don’t go over again.”

  “Thanks,” Black said, eyes roving over the tables, searching for anyone who visually matched the voice on the terrace. He wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that he didn’t see anyone suspicious, but from now on he’d have to carefully monitor his alcohol intake and stay alert. One swim per case was more than enough, and he suspected that the next time he wouldn’t be so lucky.

  Chapter 22

  The following day the bus home left early, and by the time it pulled into Malibu, Black was ready to get off. Sarah had announced that the bands would be consolidated in the one mansion since only four remained, and that the new arrivals would arrive that evening.

  The afternoon went by quickly by the pool, and Lavon and SnM took their last dips before being officially booted on TV at seven. They were bitter about how they’d lost but were putting a brave face on it, shrugging it off as just another pothole on the road to stardom. The roadie had never surfaced, and after spending hours with the sampler, the DJ had concluded that wiping the memory had to have been premeditated – and the user interface wasn’t intuitive.

  “They had to know what they were doing, which means they knew what gear we was using and studied up on it,” Lavon said.

  “Have you spoken with Sarah?”

  “Yeah, yesterday after the show. But she just gave me that honky bitch look and ignored me. Said what was done was done, and if we didn’t have anything solid, there wasn’t anything to investigate.”

  “You could go to the papers.”

  “Yeah, we thinking about that. Only how do we prove it? Don’t wanna get our ass sued.”

  “You can probably tell them what happened and make it clear enough so even an idiot could figure it out.”

  “Our manager said it would look like sour grapes. Best to just move on. Besides, we talkin’ to a label that liked what they saw. So it may be no biggie in the end. Although I’ll miss the free booze and that big boy,” he said, pointing at Mugsy.

  At six o’clock the other bands showed up, and everyone did a meet and greet for the cameras. Sarah escorted the new arrivals to their rooms. Terrence, the lead singer of Strobe, stopped when he saw Mugsy.

  “There’s going to be a problem. I’m horribly allergic to cats. Have been all my life,” he announced. “Sarah, you’re going to need to have the housekeepers clean the whole house if I’m going to stay here.”

  Sarah made a call and nodded. “They can be here tomorrow. Will you be okay for one night?”

  Terrence sneezed. “I’d prefer a hotel, just in case.” He turned to Black. “You need to keep him in your room from now on. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “Not at all. I know it can’t be helped.”

  Terrence rubbed his nose and pursed his lips in displeasure. “I have to get out of here.”

  Sarah nodded. “Okay, Terrence. I’ll ask one of the cars to take you back to the other house for the night. Just go outside until we do the ceremony, and they’ll take you immediately after. Will that work?”

  “I suppose it’ll have to, won’t it?” he said and moved to the pool deck. Sarah turned to Black. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Man’s got a medical condition. What can you do?”

  “Thanks for being understanding.”

  “As long as Mugsy’s getting regular meals and is allowed to sleep twenty-three hours a day, he’ll be fine.” Black scooped Mugsy up and hauled him upstairs, followed by Ed. They changed into their more formal rock clothes for the ceremony, to be held on the beach by tiki torchlight, followed by a group dinner. Black’s cell phone rang just as he was getting ready to join everyone downstairs. It was Stan.

  “I took over your boy Rick’s case,” he said.

  Black considered Stan’s words. “Then it’s a homicide?”

  “I’m treating it as one. There’s just too much that looks odd on it for my liking.”

  “Such as?”

  “No other track marks, for starters. And conflicting reports from a neighbor who says she thought she heard something, like a scuffle outside his door.”

  “Damn. Well, I’ve got something else for you, too.” Black told Stan about being thrown into the lake and warned off.

  “You think it’s related?”

  “That’s my bet. I’d take a hard look at Rick’s bank records and see whether he got a big slug of money after he blew the competition, or went on a buying spree. The story never hit the press other than the party line that made him look like a screw-up, so my guess is he was paid off to stay quiet.”

  “Or threatened,” Stan said.

  “Right. Or both. Carrot and stick. He’d already broken up with Christina and been thrown out of the band, so maybe a slug of cash looked pretty good.”

  “I’ll have someone go through his accounts. Good idea.”

  “You
might also want to look hard at who benefitted. Obviously Alex. His band. His manager. Peter and Rooster…and Christina and Sarah, too. The motive could be as simple as either one of the women getting back at him. I’d turn over rocks and see what you find.”

  “Whoa. That’s way outside of the scope of the investigation. I don’t have time. I still need to establish whether it’s actually a homicide or not. It’s not clear.” Stan paused. “That sounds like a job for Black Investigations.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Sorry. Tough love.”

  “My problem is that I’m stuck at this house six days a week, and Roxie’s not available to do research right now.”

  “So there’s nobody to do your work for you. I get it. A shame.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  Stan grunted. “Hey, one word of advice. If there is a connection between Rick and the mugs who tossed you into the drink, I’d be careful. This is the big leagues.”

  “That occurred to me.”

  “Then you’re not just a pretty face wearing a wig.”

  “I wish it was a wig.”

  The ceremony went by quickly, and dinner was livened up by a dozen Playboy bunnies whom the producers had lined up for visual appeal. Now that it was down to four bands, the only female was Christina, and the ratings clearly indicated that skin brought in the viewers. Black wondered how Simon was going to contrive to have a stream of swimsuit models at the house, and decided that being a TV producer was only one step below being a Greek god. The bunnies were fun, if professional, and Black took care not to overdo it on beer, Stan’s warning still fresh in his ear.

  When they made it back to the mansion, Christina invited Black to have a nightcap with her in the hot tub, sans cameras. He debated saying no and then realized that there wasn’t any reason not to join her. He trotted to his room and changed into swimming trunks. The noise of a card game drifted up the stairs from the great room, where Ed and Peter were preparing to fleece the new arrivals out of some money. As he listened to the banter, he wondered at Christina’s change since their chat. She’d been positively warm of late, and suddenly their age difference didn’t seem like that wide a gap.