“I’m gonna miss the little guy,” Ed said.
“He seems to like you. That’s rare.”
Ed nodded. “You talk to Christina?”
“Yeah. She’s not thrilled, but hey. It is what it is.”
“I don’t get it, man. Don’t you want to go on the road, at least for a while?”
“Twenty years ago I would have killed to. Ten ago I would have probably given everything I had to do it. Now? I don’t know. This was more than enough for me. Although I think you guys are going to be mega, and you totally deserve it.”
“You got us there.”
“Nah. You can have your pick of the litter now. Serious guitar players who can take you to the next level. They’ll be lining up around the block.”
Ed grinned at Mugsy. “You’re probably right. Still, it kind of sucks. We had something, you know?”
Black nodded. “That we did.” He moved to the cat carrier and opened the door. “Want to put him in this thing?”
“Sure.” Ed hoisted Mugsy and carried him to the crate. Mugsy didn’t struggle, which amazed Black.
“You’ve really got a way with him. You should be a vet. Or a lion tamer,” Black said.
“For now I’ll stick to drumming.”
Peter and Christina were sitting on the couch when Black and Ed came downstairs. They rose when they saw Black, and Peter extended his hand. Black shook it wordlessly and then faced Christina, who was filling out her official salmon Mugsy tank top admirably.
“There you are. You got a minute, Black?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go out by the pool. Might as well enjoy the last of it before we leave.”
Black set his bag and guitar down by the wall. “Lead the way.”
They settled in on the lounge chairs in the warm sun. The mild breeze carried with it the smell of the sand and sea from the nearby beach. Christina sighed contentedly and closed her eyes.
“You sure you won’t reconsider?” she asked softly.
“It wasn’t meant to be. My part’s over. Time to find fresh meat that can go the distance.”
“You were pretty fresh last night.”
“Maybe so, but I couldn’t do that two hundred nights a year, and that’s what it’ll take. Year after year. It’s exciting, but it’s also a grind, and I don’t have it in me. I’m old enough to know that.”
“Have you thought about what we discussed?” Christina and Peter had floated the idea of Black doing some songwriting with them.
“Yeah. That actually sounds great. I like playing with you guys, so that could work. And it’ll force me to keep on the guitar, which is never a bad thing. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until now, so that was an unexpected bonus to all this.”
She turned her face toward him. “I guess our unfinished business is going to stay unfinished, though, huh? With your girlfriend back in the mix?”
“Some things were never meant to be. I’m sorry, Christina.”
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the cushion.
“So am I.”
Chapter 41
The exotic car dealership “Little” Sal Capelloni used as his business office was empty except for six bodyguards posing as help and one genuine salesman, who was sitting, bored, reading a magazine at his desk, the glittering Ferraris and Lamborghinis on the floor attracting no buyers at ten o’clock on a Monday morning.
The front door chimed as Stan pushed through and walked casually to the rear office. Two of the bodyguards moved to block his way. He stopped and held up his badge.
“I need to speak to your boss.”
The heavier-set of the pair fixed Stan with an impassive stare. “What for?”
“What for is that a homicide detective wants to talk to him and doesn’t have to tell you squat.”
The office door behind them opened, and Sal’s head popped out. “Boys. No problem. What can I help you with, Detective…?”
“Colt. Stan Colt. I think this would be better in private.”
Sal nodded. “Suit yourself. You packing?”
“Of course.”
“Leave the heat with one of them.”
“Not a chance. You want to have this conversation here or down at the station?”
Sal sighed. “Fine. Come in. Have a seat.”
Stan entered the office and closed the door behind him. Sal sat behind his desk and waited for Stan to make the first move. Sal’s face resembled nothing to Stan so much as a ham with two olives for eyes. He pulled up a chair and lowered himself into it.
“I had a run-in with some fellas down Mexico way on Saturday. In Ensenada,” Stan began, watching Sal’s expression for any hint of reaction.
“Yeah? What’s that got to do with me?”
“They were goombahs.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Two made guys, far as I can tell, kidnapped a young woman who’s a friend of mine.”
Sal’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds like that was a bad idea.”
“One of the worst in history.”
Sal nodded. “We agree on that.”
“Let me tell you a story. You don’t have to comment.”
“I love stories.” Sal hesitated. “For the record, you wearing a wire?”
“No.”
“Just asking. No offense.”
“None taken. This story’s about a reality TV show an extremely close buddy of mine was on. A music show. The producer was rigging it so he could control who won. But something happened this season. My friend wouldn’t play ball. I’m thinking that producer reached out to his friends – maybe they’re business associates, maybe he owes them money – I don’t know, and I really don’t care. My guess is they decided to help him out. At first it’s just strong-arm stuff, but my buddy doesn’t buckle, and it escalates into the kidnapping of his lady friend.” Stan paused, waiting for Sal to say something. He might as well have been talking to the wall. “That’s where I get involved. I’ve got a couple of homicide cases on my desk that look to be connected. Then I get a call from my buddy, and he needs help rescuing his friend. So I help. The two guys wind up taking a fall in Mexico on gun charges. One of them’s pretty badly beaten up.”
“Is this going to be a movie, or TV? Or are you pitching me?”
“I’m here to tell you that my buddy means a lot to me, and if there’s any more trouble for him, I’ll take it personally. As in my entire department and all my colleagues will make it their life’s mission to come down hard. A nice, calm status quo will go to hell, and it’ll be the full-court press to go after everything I know about – and I know a lot. I’m talking feds, IRS, you name it. Big-time trouble.”
“Sounds like a threat.”
“I don’t threaten. I warn. But I’m also a reasonable guy. I have no need to go to war if nothing happens to my friend or those around him. I’m still going to work the homicides to the best of my abilities, but I have no real interest in a Mexican kidnapping. But I could get real interested if I hear even a peep of trouble from my buddy. At that point I’d get interested like it happened to my brother, you know?”
“If I had any idea what you were talking about, I’d advise whoever was foolish enough to get involved in this to wash his hands and let bygones be bygones. Too bad I don’t know anyone like that.”
Stan stood.
Sal cleared his throat. “What happened to the producer?”
“Dunno. He disappeared. There are warrants out for him in connection to my cases, but so far he hasn’t surfaced.”
“Sounds like a smart guy. If he was involved in anything, that is.”
“I have a long memory. If he reappears, I’ll take him down.”
“As I would expect.” Sal cracked a pained smile. “I don’t suppose you want to buy a Maserati for yourself? Or maybe for your wife? Mistress?”
“Not today.”
“That’s a shame. The car business ain’t what it used to be. Recession and a
ll.”
“Things are tough all over.”
“That’s what I hear.”
Stan moved to the door and opened it. The two guards were hulking immediately outside, looking dangerous. Stan ignored them, his message delivered, and walked across the showroom floor, leaving Sal’s door open.
When Stan left the building, Sal sighed as he picked up the phone.
Chapter 42
A mild surf lapped at the mocha-colored beach south of Jaco, Costa Rica, on the Pacific side. The sun glinted off the surface of the azure sea as puffs of clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Across the shore road several small homes perched precariously on the bluff, tin roofs reflecting bright blue, washboard façades weathered by the ocean breeze.
Simon stirred from his position on the sand and turned to his young companion, her dark skin glowing with taut vitality, her pert breasts jutting skyward in defiance of gravity, her ebony hair spread out against her towel like an inky halo. Simon took in the afterthought of a bikini bottom that barely concealed her charms and smiled wolfishly, savoring the faint scent of coconut oil rising to meet him from her dozing form.
“Maria, go up and get us some cold cervezas from the house, si?”
The woman cracked one eye open. “Amor, I was sleeping.”
“I’m thirsty.”
She moaned deep in her throat and sat up. Simon had met her in the capital, San Jose, where she was earning her keep as a paid escort to visiting gentlemen in search of a walk on the wild side. Simon had waved sufficient money around to coax her into spending two weeks with him on the coast, where he was renting a bungalow.
“You want a snack, too?” she asked, her voice professionally interested in his needs.
“No, just the beer. Bring the cooler. It’s next to the refrigerator. Put some ice in, too.”
Maria stood and secured her bikini top. After a glance down the deserted beach, she padded up the sand, animating the tattoo of a scorpion on her shoulder as she moved.
A minute later a shadow fell across Simon’s face, and he opened his eyes. A man wearing khaki slacks and a tangerine resort shirt stood blocking the sun, the silenced barrel of the small-caliber pistol pointed at Simon’s head.
“Simon, I presume,” he said, his voice flat.
“What…no. Wait. This is a mistake.”
“Sure it is.”
“I had to leave town and let the heat blow over. They were right behind me. But I was planning to send you money…”
Even to Simon’s ear, his words sounded hollow.
“I’ll bet.”
Three seagulls flapped into the sky down the strand, the muffled pops from the gun startling them aloft. The gunman studied Simon’s corpse in silence before sliding his weapon into the waist of his trousers and pulling his shirt over it. He turned to face the jungle across the road and trudged back to where his car was parked behind a grove of trees, out of sight from the few hillside dwellings, the license plate obscured with mud.
When Maria returned from the house, her scream echoed off the water like the shrill cry of a wounded animal. In the near distance a lone pelican skimmed six feet above the surf line, riding an updraft off the water, its form distorted by the heat waves rising off the beach, its endless quest for sustenance untroubled by the human drama playing out on the sprawling stretch of baking tropical sand.
Chapter 43
Black trudged up the stairs to his office, the hall’s musty smell strangely reassuring. When he came to the door, he could still see the faint outline of the cheap lettering that had adorned it before the move, and noted that Mugsy’s cat door was still working. He pushed it open and came face to face with Roxie, who was unpacking a box of office supplies.
“Good morning, Roxie.”
“Morning, boss.”
“How does it feel to be back in the old digs?”
“Like having to wear the same underwear again the third day in a row.”
“It was for the best. I never want to have to worry about making a huge rent payment again.”
“It wasn’t luck that nobody had leased this pit. Who in their right mind would want it?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“That’s like saying VD isn’t that bad.”
He looked around. “Where’s the Mugster?”
“Hiding under my desk.”
Black glanced at the base and nodded. “How are sales going?”
“Mugsy Inc. is still going strong. Although now he’s off the air, it’ll probably slow.”
“Still. It’s got to be throwing a ton of cash.”
“After taxes, we’re seeing a few grand a day.”
“A day! Hell, I’m going home. Why work?”
“Exactly. Probably cuts into your drinking time.”
“Damn right it does.” He smiled. “Anyone call?”
“Stan said he’d be by. And a couple of new clients Bobby referred.”
Black’s face registered surprise. “Really? You aren’t bullshitting me?”
“It’s totally true. I put the numbers on your desk.”
“That’s awesome. Between the Mugsy money and the twenty-five grand from the show, we’re fat again. I’m going to go buy a new computer.”
“You don’t know how to work your old one.”
“Exactly. Did Stan say what he wanted?”
“Probably to talk about the case. I told him I pieced together what I think Simon was doing. He had a disguised interest in a songwriting company that his management company controls. It wasn’t obvious: that management company, from the outside, appears clean, but if you look at the ownership, you find a shell company in Delaware that his production company owns. It’s convoluted, but once you know what to look for…”
Black nodded slowly. “So Bend in the Creek was effectively signed to him. He wanted them to win so he could pocket most of the songwriting money.”
“And I’ll bet the management company has the rights to the merchandising.”
“What about last year? Alex? Do the same companies own the rights to his stuff?”
“No. I’m way ahead of you. But Alex is still getting taken to the cleaners. A different company owns his rights. A bunch of guys with Italian last names are the shareholders.”
“Ah. So it starts fitting together. There’s the mob connection.”
“Yeah. My guess is he did those guys a favor last season, and this year decided to pocket the real money himself.”
“But he had to be making bank off the show.”
“You’d think. But his car’s leased, he’s got a second mortgage on his house, and not a lot in his personal account.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” Black said.
“That’s probably best.”
Black moved toward his office door. “At least it doesn’t smell like a sewage treatment plant in here from Mugsy yet.”
“How can you bag on a cat that’s paying the rent?”
“I know. Talk about turnaround.”
“Maybe we should call it Mugsy Investigations. He’s got the name recognition now.”
“It would mean new business cards. And you’d have to remember to answer the phone correctly.”
“Oh. Right.”
Black turned to Roxie. “How’d it turn out with Alex?”
“Okay. I mean, he’s still walking on eggshells because of the kidnapping thing, but all in all…he’s back in Denver today for a show.”
“It’s going to be tough to maintain a long-distance romance.”
“Where there’s a will.”
“That’s the spirit. How did telling the old lady you weren’t going to be working for her anymore go?”
“She called me an ungrateful whore and demanded her wrist phone back.”
“So it went well.”
“As expected.” She studied him. “When are you getting those extensions removed?”
“This afternoon. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just with th
at suit and the hair…it’s even douchier than usual.”
“Is that even a word?”
“Douchiesque. Douchier. Whatever. If the douche fits.”
“I missed your compliments.”
Black entered his office, hung his jacket on the door, and moved to his desk. He glanced at the two message slips. “Roxie, there’s no name on one of the messages.”
“Crap.”
“Do you remember who it was?”
“No. Just call and find out.”
Black sighed and looked through the grimy window at the street below. On a whim, he pulled up YouTube, searched for Rock of Ages, and found the final show. Wavering for a moment at his decision to leave the band, he clicked on the clip and watched his swan song with a racing heart.
By the end of it, his resolve was back.
For once he’d done the right thing.
Maybe not for everyone.
But absolutely for him.
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The Geronimo Breach
Excerpt from The Geronimo Breach
Chapter 1
Bullets peppered the dirt around Al and his partner. They instinctively returned fire, the barrels of their automatic rifles pulsing hot from burst after burst of armor-piercing slugs. Thick smoke belched from a crippled station wagon lying on its side by the mouth of the rural alley where they’d taken cover. The glow of burning fuel intermingled with the unmistakable stench of seared flesh, creating a nauseating haze. A slug ricocheted off the peeling wall, gouging a chunk of brick from the dilapidated surface.
A flickering of illumination from ancient streetlights succumbed to the gloom of late evening, casting otherworldly shadows over the rustic thoroughfare – now transformed into a killing zone.
BLACK to Reality Page 23
