BLACK to Reality

by Russell Blake

  Stan tapped Black’s arm. “Get down. Duck.”

  Black slumped so he wasn’t visible from the dock. They waited, holding their breath, and when they didn’t hear an engine start, Stan peered over the dash.

  “He’s walking to the hotel. Probably to get lunch. This is our chance. You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be. But what exactly are we going to do?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I know how to get us onboard without the other kidnapper getting wise. Or at least, buy us enough time to take him out.”

  “How?”

  Stan watched a crew cleaning one of the nearby yachts, near the security gate, and turned to Black with a wan smile.

  “How are your acting skills?”

  “Are you kidding? For the last three months I’ve been playing a rock star.”

  “Good. We’re going to need an Academy Award performance.”

  Chapter 33

  Bobby absently picked at a scaly area on his beefy forearm. Every few minutes he stared at the aft stateroom door with lupine eyes, the thought of the young woman back there, defenseless, almost irresistible to him. They’d be making the call when Tony got back with sandwiches, and then, if all went well, the real fun would begin.

  He stood and rubbed a calloused hand over his beard. They’d switched off three-hour shifts, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. The woman’s scent had drifted to his position on the couch like a taunt. He didn’t understand why Tony was such a hardass, but he was senior to Bobby and as such, his word was law. They’d worked together on other jobs, mostly hits, and made a good team – Tony the brains, Bobby the brawn. Bobby had no problem with that arrangement and never gave it much thought. He was a good soldier, and his life with the family had treated him more than well, even when he’d been serving a hard nickel in San Quentin. Made guys had it easy in the joint, and he’d served three of his five like it was nothing, earning him the automatic respect of the elders when he got out. He’d never rolled on them, never said a word, and had taken the fall for the truck hijacking in silence. That had resulted in him being promoted to his current rank as a specialist, and he lived well – far better than anyone else he knew.

  A commotion from the dock attracted his attention. He squinted through the blinds at two men, beer bottles in hand, eyeing the transom stairs. Bobby tried to make out what they were saying, but it was no good. He reflexively touched the Beretta in his shoulder holster and pulled on a hoodie to conceal its bulge before moving to the door and swinging it open.

  The younger of the two, wearing a baseball cap, was halfway up the stairs.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bobby snarled.

  “Oh, shit.” The man turned to his companion. “Dude, I think we’ve got the wrong boat.”

  “Damn right you do,” Bobby said and then found himself staring down the barrel of Stan’s pistol, the weapon steady as a rock as he trained it on the mobster’s head.

  “Nice and slow. Back up. Reach for your gun, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do,” Stan said conversationally. Black pulled his Glock from his belt and joined him in drawing a bead on Bobby’s forehead.

  “You have no idea who you’re screwing with. Find somebody else to rob, and I’ll chock this up to a misunderstanding. Guy’s gotta make a living, and all. But you don’t want a piece of this,” Bobby said softly, his gray eyes unwavering as he stared Stan down.

  “Back up and put your hands were I can see them. Last warning before I turn off your lights,” Stan said as he cocked the hammer on the revolver.

  Bobby slowly raised his hands and took two steps back.

  Stan nodded and leaned toward Black. “Get on board. If he so much as moves, I’ll blow his head off.”

  Black ascended the final step and hopped over the railing onto the deck. Bobby studied him like a mongoose eyes a cobra, seemingly unimpressed by Black’s weapon.

  “Back up against the far rail. Now,” Black said.

  Bobby gave him an ugly smirk and obeyed. “You two are dead.”

  Stan got on board and shrugged. “Everyone dies of something. Now, with two fingers, I want you to remove your gun and place it on the deck. I see you inching for the trigger, you get a one-way ticket to hell. Nice and easy. Black, get ready to shoot. He looks like he’s feeling tricky.”

  Black nodded, his eyes never leaving Bobby’s. “Nothing I’d rather do.”

  Bobby, seeming to move in slow motion, placed the weapon on the teak planks.

  “Kick it over,” Stan said.

  The Beretta skidded across the deck. Stan scooped it up and pocketed it, then walked over to Bobby and slammed the butt of his revolver against the side of his head. Bobby went down, crumpling in slow motion, dazed but not out.

  “That’s for making me lose a night’s sleep. Now get up and go inside. Slowly,” Stan said. Bobby held a hand to his bleeding temple but didn’t say anything, instead struggling to his feet. “Try to rush us and you’re dead, so get that out of your pea brain. Now move.”

  Inside the salon, Stan pointed at the couch. “Sit.”

  Bobby collapsed on it, still dizzy from the blow.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bobby said, his voice tight from the pain.

  “Don’t waste my time. We know your partner’s going to be back any minute, so game’s over. Last time – where is she?”

  Bobby refused to answer. Stan nodded, and Black called out.

  “Roxie?”

  From the rear stateroom a small voice answered.

  “Boss?”

  Black nodded and moved to the door, down the stairs on the far side of the salon. He kicked the wooden wedge that had been jammed under the door to keep it from opening and twisted the knob. Roxie burst from the stateroom and hugged him so tight it took his breath away. Black held her close, her hair smelling like ambrosia against his face, and whispered to her, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  Stan, sensing that this would be the moment where Bobby would be likeliest to make his move, stepped back and gripped his pistol with both hands, assuming a modified Weaver stance to signal he was serious about punching the kidnapper’s ticket. Bobby appreciated the professionalism, and his shoulders sagged as his interest in committing suicide appeared to wane.

  Black released Roxie and studied her face. “Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head, tears of relief welling in her eyes. “Not yet. But that one was taking dibs on raping me after they called you.”

  Stan’s face could have been carved out of granite as he moved to Bobby and pistol-whipped him unconscious. He wiped the blood off his gun butt with the man’s hoodie and stepped back. Black caught his cold glare.

  “What now?”

  “Now we wait for the other one.”

  Chapter 34

  Tony was whistling as he made his way back down the gangplank, a brown paper bag containing ham and cheese sandwiches in one hand, a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee in the other. He was getting ready to set the bag down and fiddle with the lock when one of the boat cleaners jogged toward him and opened the door. Tony nodded a curt thanks as the man held out his hand, obviously wanting a tip.

  “Gracias,” Tony said and brushed past him, having no intention of giving the man any money. He pretended not to understand the muttered curse and continued down the concrete dock to where Downtime was bobbing gently. He took careful steps up the stairs, mindful of the hot coffee in his hand, and dropped onto the deck, his balance perfect even after the long night.

  The surprise on his face was genuine when he swung the cabin door wide and found himself confronting two armed men who looked like they knew how to use their weapons. He froze as the older of the pair moved toward him.

  “Put the goodies on the deck by your side. Do it,” Stan said.

  “What is this?”

  “A birthday party. Now shut up and put down the crap, and don’t try to reach for your a
nkle holster. That’s right. I can see it from here.”

  Black tilted his head to get a better look at Tony. “He means it. He gets grumpy when he’s tired.”

  Tony slowly knelt, set the tray and bag on the teak planks, and then stood. “Now what?”

  “Lie face down on the deck while my friend relieves you of temptation,” Stan said.

  Tony grudgingly lay down, the wood decking warm against his face, and Black took his gun. Stan approached the doorway and cleared his throat. “Now come into the boat. We’re going to have a nice little chat, and if I’m feeling generous, you’ll walk away from this alive.”

  Black stood by the transom, well away from Tony, training the kidnapper’s weapon on him, having slipped his own gun back into his belt. Tony rose and stepped into the salon, an ugly expression on his handsome face. Stan motioned to the couch.

  “Sit.”

  Black returned with the bag and coffee and set them on the counter. “Coffee smells great, and we’re both starved. Thanks a million. Roxie? Come on up. Food’s on.” Black glowered at Tony as the aft stateroom door opened and Roxie joined them. “I’m guessing you didn’t feed her or give her anything to drink. Call that a hunch.”

  Roxie shook her head. “Not a thing. Pricks.”

  Tony’s face registered surprise. “Wait. You know her. You’re…you’re Black.”

  “Every day, Einstein. Now you can start by telling me why you kidnapped my friend.”

  “Screw you.”

  Stan moved into the kitchen and opened drawers, all the time watching Tony. In the bottom he found something promising – a short, aluminum baseball bat used to stun large fish.

  “Not very accommodating, are you. Maybe after I break a kneecap, you’ll reconsider,” Stan said.

  “Who are you?” Tony snarled.

  Stan looked pensive. “I’m Roxie’s friend, and I’m really annoyed you put me to this much trouble. Let’s make this easy. I’m not going to warn you again. If you don’t answer my questions, your left kneecap goes. After you come to, I’ll go to work on the right. Eventually you’ll talk. Roxie, sweetheart, you want to get some sun?”

  “I heard them talking about beer,” she said as she swung the refrigerator open. “Ah. Here we go. I’ll close the door after me so nobody can hear the screams. That work for you?” she asked, grabbing her purse from the counter.

  “Perfect.”

  The door slamming behind her sounded like a rifle shot. Stan held the bat up and considered it. “Keep your gun on him,” he said to Black.

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Your pal’s going to need hospitalization for his head. It would be a pity if you couldn’t walk by the time this is over. Who’s going to help him? So here’s question number one. Why kidnap Roxie?”

  An internal struggle played across Tony’s face. “To keep him from playing tonight,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Stan shook his head. “See, we were making progress, and now we’re back to you bullshitting me. If I ask you a question, I want an answer, not another question. Get it? Why do you want him not to play?”

  “So the other band wins.”

  Stan exchanged a glance with Black. “Why is that important to you? I can tell you’re pro. Mobbed up, am I right? I can smell it on you.”

  Tony didn’t say anything.

  “Why does the mob want to stop my buddy from playing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Without warning, Stan swung the bat and shattered the glass front of the microwave. “Remember what I said about not answering my questions?”

  “Look, you can beat me senseless, but I still won’t know.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Santa.”

  “Very funny. You want the left or the right one gone first?”

  “I mean it. They don’t tell me that shit. They said snatch the bitch, keep her on ice, call numbnuts there and get him to Mexico. That’s it.”

  Black shook his head. “I don’t believe him. Who is it? Alex? Rooster? Come on. Talk.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. All I know is what they tell me.”

  Black glanced at his watch and then at Stan. “I need to get out of here. It’s going to take a while to get back to L.A. Take out a kneecap and let’s see if he sticks to his story.”

  Stan tossed Black a bundle of nylon rope. “Tie him up like his friend.”

  Black obliged, and within five minutes the mobster was trussed, immobile. Stan considered Black’s handiwork and paused in front of Tony. “I’m going to leave you two to your fate. Notice that I’m not going to beat you to a pulp for exercise, even though I’m tempted. That’s because I’m a kind-hearted soul. But if I ever see either of you again, I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  Black nodded. “He’s not kidding.”

  “You’re dead. You know that, right?” Tony spat.

  “See? That shows you’re unclear on the principle. And here I was thinking I wouldn’t open the sea cocks and sink this tub with you on board. That’s the thanks I get.” Stan moved to the hatch.

  “No,” Black said. “Come on. Let’s go. The stink of this guy is making me sick.”

  “Grab his cell phone,” Stan said and went into the aft stateroom for a moment before reappearing. “That wasn’t hard. Hope you guys can swim. It’ll take a good hour to sink. What’s that you goombahs say? Sleeping with the fishes?”

  Tony glared at him in silence.

  As they walked up the dock, Roxie in the lead as the sun shimmered on the surface of the water, Black turned to Stan. “That wasn’t a bad idea about sinking it, you know. But you didn’t do it, did you?”

  “I’d vote for sinking,” Roxie interjected.

  “That’s not a surprise,” Black affirmed.

  Stan grinned. “I had a better idea. I stashed their guns under the pillows in the bedroom. We’ll call the cops, they’ll find them with their guns, and their problems will have just begun. I’ve heard you never want to see the inside of a Mexican jail. Want to bet that’s no exaggeration?”

  “You’re an evil man, my friend,” Black said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Chapter 35

  Rooster locked his condo door and took the stairs down to the underground garage, a spring in his step. The day was shaping up to be a good one. He hadn’t gotten any more angry calls once he’d delivered the bad news about Black’s escape after the night club attack – Rooster had tried the best he could, but it hadn’t worked out, so the problem would have to be solved by someone else. That wasn’t his line of work, anyway, and it had been stupid to involve him overtly.

  His BMW started with a purr, and he eyed the glowing dash dials with satisfaction before putting it in reverse and backing out of the stall. His only luxury other than his guitar collection, the sedan was all he really had to show for a forty-plus-year career and millions of records sold. The studio was a mountain of debt, with no prospects now that technology had rendered it obsolete. Most acts these days could record an album’s worth of material for a fraction of what it used to cost, and big facilities like his had been one of the first casualties.

  Traffic to the studio was light. He took his time – he had all afternoon before he had to be at the show for the finals. Maybe a long lunch to celebrate the end of the season. He could expense it to the program and nobody would blink, he knew. One of the perks.

  He parked in the alley behind the studio and locked the car with a press of the key fob. Nobody would mess with his car. He was considered royalty in the neighborhood, above being screwed with by the predators. It didn’t hurt that he had strong ties to the gang that ran these blocks, having helped several of the members cut rap tracks at a reduced rate. One hand washed the other. It was the way it had always been.

  Two Caucasian men stepped from behind the dumpster near the mouth of the alley. Rooster immediately knew he was in trouble. They di
dn’t say anything, just closed in on him fast. He tried to turn and run, but age and slick pavement conspired against him, and they reached him before he could make it far. The sharp spikes of pain from long blades plunging into him again and again were like white-hot needles, and when one of the men stabbed into the base of his neck and severed his spinal cord, it was almost a relief.

  Rooster lay still, blood pooling around him, and the shorter of the two attackers removed his wallet and watch before turning and joining his partner at the alley mouth. By the time Rooster was discovered and identified it would be night, and the show would have gone on without him, the world continuing to revolve sans the bluesman, his musical legacy the only reminder of a life that had ended brutally on a strip of dank asphalt, an apparent victim of a mugging gone horribly wrong.

  Chapter 36

  Stan sighed in frustration as he sat in an endless line of cars snaking a solid mile from the border crossing. They’d only advanced a hundred yards in the last forty-five minutes. Legions of enterprising locals hawked Tweety Birds and bottles of questionable water to the captive audience in the chain of vehicles.

  Black nervously checked the time. “At this rate I’m never going to make it. It’s already two. The show starts at six. No way do we get through this in an hour.”

  “Sorry, buddy. Wish I had a helicopter. You’re probably right, though. This seems more like a two-hour wait, minimum. Too bad we didn’t take the turnoff to the Otay Mesa crossing. That might have been lighter.”

  “How far do you think we are from the border?” Roxie asked.