“Man. What a crummy break.”
“Yeah. I know. But you play the hand you’re dealt.” Black finished with the tape and tossed it to Ed. “Is there any way you can get me a shot of Jack and a brew? For medicinal purposes, of course.”
“You bet. Give me two minutes.”
Ed left, and Black dialed Stan’s cell. When he answered, he sounded out of it.
“Hell – hello?”
“Stan. Black. Sorry to call so late.”
Stand groaned. “It’s not late. It’s two in the frigging morning. Have you lost your mind?”
“I presume that’s a rhetorical question. Listen. I don’t have much time. I was attacked outside a club tonight. I think it was Rooster who organized it.” Black told him what had happened.
A long pause greeted Black’s disclosure.
“You called me at two in the morning to tell me that you think your coach perpetrated assault and battery? You do realize I work homicide, right?”
“I think he’s got something to do with Rick’s death. The only thing that makes sense is that he was trying to injure me badly enough that I can’t play on Saturday.”
“Did you file a police report?”
“What good would it do? You know it’ll just be filed and forgotten.”
“They could check traffic cams.”
Black paused. “Damn. I didn’t think about that.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Not enough. Is it too late to file one, you think?” Black asked.
“Where are you?”
“Malibu.”
“So you’re going to drive back to L.A. and file a report that two punks beat you up? You should have done it while you were at the scene. It would have been taken a lot more seriously.”
“But will it do any good if I file one now?”
“I should tell you yes, just so you stay up all night doing it. But the truth is, not a chance.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. What about the traffic cameras?”
“I was kidding. No way will the department devote that kind of manpower to a beating. Unless you’re in the ICU. Is that too much to hope for?” Stan asked.
“Just a broken rib and some bruises.”
“Then you’re hosed.”
“Back to Rooster. I think it was him.”
“Think. As in, you aren’t a hundred percent sure.”
“It was dark, and I just had the shit kicked out of me.”
“I’ll take a hard look at this Rooster character tomorrow, okay? That’s all I can promise. Hate to say it, pal, but right now you don’t have squat.”
Ed returned, a highball glass with two inches of bourbon in one hand and two Heinekens in the other. Black gave him a feeble wave.
“Sorry to call so late. We can talk tomorrow,” Black said.
“Not if my caller ID’s working.”
Black hung up and tossed the phone on his bed before gratefully taking the drinks from Ed. He polished the bourbon in three swallows and winced as it burned going down, and then drained half his beer before holding the bottle up in a toast.
“Thanks, man. That hits the spot,” Black said.
Ed clinked his beer against Black’s. “Damn. The man was thirsty.”
“I get that way.”
Ed yawned, and Mugsy joined him, his mouth open, any feline amusement from watching the show now over as he lost valuable beauty rest. Black shuffled to the bathroom and gulped the remainder of his beer. He set it on the vanity as he studied his reflection in the mirror. The area around his mouth was discoloring, but it wasn’t terrible, and would fade to amber by Saturday, with any luck. Worst case he would come up with a story about tripping and falling for Sarah and the crew. Ed would keep his secret.
As his red eyes looked back at him, he wondered why the band’s coach would be setting him up for failure, and no matter how he turned the problem over, none of the answers made sense.
Chapter 29
Black remained in bed the following day. Ed brought him a cinnamon roll for breakfast and a sandwich for lunch. Christina ducked her head in that afternoon, and Black reassured her that he’d make rehearsal at the usual time.
“Why all the secrecy about being in a fight, Black?” she asked. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Try me.”
He told her about his aborted musical career’s abrupt end, and when he was done, she nodded. “Oh. Yeah, I could see why you wouldn’t want all that dredged up again.”
“The flu seems a lot better.”
“Now it does.”
Black tried a smile, but his lip protested. “Have you heard from Rooster?”
“No. Should I?”
“He’s going to be at rehearsal tonight, isn’t he?”
“Should be. He hasn’t missed one yet. Why?”
“Nothing special. I just want to hear how he thinks the tunes sound.”
She looked at him, her brow furrowed. “You sure you didn’t hit your head? Why would anything be different than it was yesterday?”
“Maybe I’m just feeling clingy and need some reassurance.”
She shook her head. “Get some rest, Black. Don’t worry, I’ll keep quiet about your adventure. You’re sick as a dog if anyone asks.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Just make sure you play like Hendrix and we’re square.”
He winked at her. “That’s my middle name.”
“Hendrix?”
“Square.”
When Black made it to the rehearsal studio at five, Rooster was already there. He looked up as Black entered and gave him his usual shuck and jive smile, then finished making his point to Peter, underscoring it with jabs of his pen. Black walked slowly to the cooler containing a twelve-pack of beer and cracked a can open. Rooster turned to him.
“I hear you’re under the weather.”
“Nothing clean living and the Lord’s love won’t fix.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I tripped and fell off a curb. I’m fine,” Black said, trying to keep it light.
“Oh. Christina told me you had the flu. I was worried about you getting everyone sick,” Rooster said uncertainly.
Christina cleared her throat. “I must have gotten my wires crossed.”
“Just some aches and pains. Nothing life-threatening,” Black assured him, making his way to his amp. Peter watched him move stiffly.
“You going to be okay for Saturday? You look kind of worked,” Peter commented.
“Never better. It’s just old age creeping into my bones.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Nice bruise on your face. That from the curb?”
“No, that was a door knob. I was trying to catch Mugsy and wasn’t watching what I was doing.”
“Seems like we’re going to have to pack you in bubble wrap for the next couple of days,” Rooster said. Black tried to detect any unusual tension in Rooster’s voice, but couldn’t be sure. If Rooster had tried to have him taken down, he was a good actor. Then again, having been in the music business for half a century, he’d have to be.
Rehearsal went well, and Black was pleased to note that even though his right hand hurt like a bitch, it hadn’t interfered with his picking technique. After two hours of drilling the music, they switched to working out how they would move during the performance, leaving nothing to chance as they agreed on who would run where, whose microphone Peter and Black would use when they paired up on a single mic for the second chorus, and when Black would stand back to back with Christina while she leaned against him on the final coda. Rooster seemed his usual self, and by the end of the practice Black was undecided about him. Maybe he’d gotten it wrong, and whoever was in the car was someone unrelated.
After wiping down his guitar and putting it back into the case, Black stood and approached the bluesman.
“What do you think?”
“Magic, is what I think. Bend in the Creek
’s going to have a tough time, that’s for sure.”
Black nodded. “I hope you’re right. By the way, I thought I saw you the other day in town. What kind of car do you drive?”
Rooster glanced at the door – a momentary darting of the eyes that he quickly corrected, but not before Black noticed it.
“BMW. Germans know a thing or two about making a car.”
“I’ve always preferred American. You know. Cadillac. Buick.”
Rooster glanced away again. “It takes all kinds. Give me a Benz or a Beemer any day.”
Christina looked at Black with a flicker of hesitation. “It’s sounding pretty damned good now. If we can deliver like we just did, we should sweep the finals. Just do me a favor and stay away from the booze on Saturday, would you?”
“That seems reasonable.”
“And watch your step around dangerous curbs.”
“Sound words,” Black agreed.
“Door knobs, too,” Peter said dryly.
“I’ll be the boy in the plastic bubble. Living in a Nerf world. I swear.”
Rehearsal broke up, and Rooster didn’t linger. Black made a point of standing outside the rehearsal room and watching him as he walked down the curving drive to where his car was parked at the front gates. Black debated following him on a pretense, but couldn’t think of anything plausible and decided that it didn’t matter. If Rooster was behind the sabotage attempts he was on notice, and if he wasn’t, Black was wasting his time. He gave Ed a high five and finished his beer before walking back to the mansion as he dialed Roxie on his cell.
“Hey, boss. What’s up?”
Black told her about the assault.
“But you’re fine?” she asked.
“So far, so good. When you were digging on Rooster, did you find anything that you thought was unimportant that you left out of what you sent me?”
“Oh, you mean like he’s the head of the 18th Street gang or something?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“That would be a negative, chief. You know everything I do.”
“Crap.” Black thought for a moment and softened his tone. “How are things on your end?”
“I’m looking forward to my last day here. It’s been like three months at the Hanoi Hilton. I kind of want to kill myself, but don’t want to give the old bat the satisfaction.”
“Come Monday, one way or another, consider yourself back at work.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it. What if you win? You’re going to be busy with record deals and tours.”
“Then I’ll need an administrative assistant to manage things. Besides, since all you do is feed Mugsy between rounds of Grand Theft Auto, what’s the difference?”
“Wow. Someone woke up with a hangover this morning.”
“I wish. When are you planning to lower the boom on her?”
“Probably Saturday. I’ve already sweet-talked someone I hate into taking over for me.”
“Short notice.”
“I want to get paid on Friday. You don’t know this woman. She’d totally stiff me if she thought I was leaving. I work for the Gorgon.”
Black cleared his throat and spoke in a booming voice. “Release the Kraken!”
“It really freaks me out when you do that.”
“It’s the little things.”
“Oh, and this is pretty cool. Alex is taking me to Mexico tomorrow night for dinner.”
“How nice. Anyplace in particular?” he asked between clenched teeth.
“Ensenada. Apparently there’s a really nice restaurant on the water just north of town.”
“I thought he was still on tour.”
“He’ll be back for the finals on Saturday, and he’s flying in the day before.”
“Must be nice to have a private jet.”
“Hey, you’ll be in that life pretty soon as long as you don’t cheese the last round.”
“We’re sounding good. I’m not worried.”
“Bend in the Creek was great the last couple of shows.”
“Our scores were better.”
“I’m just saying. Wouldn’t want anyone to get too cocky. Pride goeth and all.”
“Always a delight, Roxie.”
“When can I pick up Mugsy?”
“Win or lose, we’re out of the mansion on Sunday. But that’s okay. Sylvia and I can take him to the office. She’s bringing my car in the morning.”
“Cool. Is she going to the finals?”
“I think so.”
“You haven’t asked?”
Black paused. “I kind of suck, huh?”
“Better get busy. I’d have already dumped you.”
“Good to know.”
“You’re welcome.”
Black’s next call was to Stan, who didn’t have good news. “I questioned your chicken guy today.”
“Rooster.”
“Like I said.”
“What did you think?”
“He was nervous, but most people are when I’m asking them questions. Bottom line is he has an alibi for the night Rick was killed. It checked out, which only rules him out as being there holding the needle.”
“But if he hired somebody…”
“Exactly. Look, buddy, Rick’s case is colder than a Kardashian divorce attorney. We’re not getting anywhere, and I have probably thirty newer ones. Barring a sworn confession, this one ain’t gonna get cleared. If Chicken Boy–”
“Rooster.”
“Whatever. If he killed Rick, he’s going to get away with it. That’s the short version.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Sorry. But based on the beating you took, I’d stay locked in the mansion until the show starts. Along with everyone else in the band. Just to be safe.”
“That occurred to me.”
“I’ll bet it did. Every time you lay eyes on Christina, my future ex-wife.”
“I can introduce you once the show’s finished. I’m sure she’d love to look at your sport jacket collection.”
“Be still my beating heart.”
“Thanks for sweating Rooster.”
“You owe me a date with the hottie. Don’t forget.”
“I may have to drug her.”
“Details.”
Chapter 30
Roxie dabbed on a little more lip gloss and checked the time. The limo Alex was sending to take her across the border would be there any minute. She adjusted the red camisole and inspected herself in the mirror, noting how her black leather pants highlighted her slim hips and long legs, and the top displayed her tattoos in a flattering way, her arm ink accented by two inches of bangle bracelets on each wrist. After a final glance around her apartment, she dropped her cell phone and passport into a small purse and headed for the front door, taking care to turn off the lights as she left.
Downstairs a limo waited at the curb with a black-suited driver standing by its side, his hands folded in front of him as he watched her near. When she reached him, he nodded.
“Good evening.”
“Hi.”
He held open the door, and she climbed in. Once they were on the road, she leaned forward.
“How long will it take to get to the restaurant?”
“Three hours, if traffic permits. I was told your dinner reservation was at ten?”
“Yes. A late one.”
“We’ll be in the carpool lane all the way to the border, so we might make better time.”
“I hope so.”
“There’s a screen and a control by your side if you want to watch movies. Several hundred of them on the disk. The same control works the sound system if you prefer music.”
“Great.”
“I’ll put the privacy window up. The red button on the console is the intercom if you require anything. Will there be anything else?”
“No. You know how to get there?”
“I’m familiar with the restaurant.”
Roxie thought for a second. “What’s
your name?”
“Jacobs.”
She smiled to herself. Alex didn’t do things in half measures. His concert in Arizona would be over by 8:00, and he’d be flying into Tijuana airport. They’d be staying at a beachfront villa down the coast and returning on Saturday for the show – the perfect spontaneous getaway in a romantic, exotic place.
Roxie had never been anywhere in Mexico besides Tijuana four years earlier with two of her bandmates, so she didn’t know what to expect, but Alex had told her that the restaurant and villa were nothing like the border town. She was relieved; her memories of Mexico were of trash-clogged streets and junker cars spewing exhaust into the sky, with clumps of sketchy characters loitering outside the seedy bars, intent on preying upon drunken tourists.
She settled in as the limo rolled onto I-5 south, the freeway a sea of brake lights except for the car pool lane, which was moving at a rapid pace. The giddy sense of privilege, of being ensconced in luxury as she sped to Mexico, increased as she watched the rank and file sitting gridlocked in ugly commuter reality. She played with the remote control buttons, and a screen rose from the console at the front of the compartment. Within minutes she was watching Team America and laughing out loud.
The trip to San Diego seemed to take only moments, and before she knew it, the closing titles were drifting up the screen as the big car powered through Chula Vista, the border only scant miles away. She shut off the television and watched the glowing lights of the southernmost reaches of California glide by, and then they were at the crossing, all ugly glare and flashing warnings and armed border patrol agents.
The toll road to Ensenada was closed due to a landslide that had claimed half a mile of highway, and they wound up on the free road, which added considerable delay. By the time they reached the restaurant it was already 10:00, and Roxie hastily stepped from the car and into the velvet-walled lobby. The host showed her to a table in a private section of the restaurant, where she was alone, unobserved by the general dining public in the main room. A tuxedoed waiter brought her a margarita on the rocks, and she watched the waves crashing below her as she sipped at it, checking the time every few minutes.
BLACK to Reality Page 18
