BLACK Is Back

by Russell Blake

  “What do you want to see him about?”

  “That’s confidential. Attorney-client privilege,” Black said, his voice serious even as he made it up on the spot. “So what’s it going to be?”

  The elevator slid open with a hiss and she turned to face him, hands on her hips, trying to decide. He shrugged and pressed the lobby button.

  She stepped out. “Fine. Let me call Bobby and see what this is all about.” Black followed her, his authority now established. He trailed her down the long corridor, admiring her fluid stride, to where three sumo-sized men stood with arms folded across their chests, dressed head to toe in black, about as subtle as charging rhinos.

  “Mr. Black. Could you have a seat? This won’t take more than a moment.” She walked past the men, down the hall, and made a quick call on her cell before returning to him, her body language more relaxed. “All right. Everything’s cleared up. Sorry if I came off overly protective.”

  “Not a problem, Miss Obrador. We all have our jobs to do.”

  “Yes, we do. And it’s Genesis.”

  “Biblical, huh?”

  “No, actually. My mom’s favorite singer at the time I was born was Phil Collins. I’m lucky I’m not named Phyllis. Or Collie.”

  “Genesis is a beautiful name.”

  “Thanks. Do you want to go inside and meet our leader?”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  Genesis escorted him to the door under the baleful gaze of the three muscle men, twisted the handle, and pushed it open for him. Black entered and immediately smelled the sweet tang of marijuana. Four young men sat lounging on the two chairs and the couch. All eyes swiveled to the new arrival. B-Side glared at Black, interrupted in the middle of a joke.

  “You must be B-Side. I’m Black. Bobby sent me,” Black announced.

  The entourage burst out laughing, and the closest one to Black fixed him with a malevolent stare. “You about as black as Jay Leno, homie. Whatchou talking about, you black? You got a death wish, coming up here dressed like dat an saying you black?”

  Black gave him a humorless smile. “Black’s my name. Jim Black.” He stepped forward to B-Side and handed him a business card. “Like I said, Bobby asked me to drop by.”

  B-Side glanced at Black’s information and tossed it aside. “What you thinkin’ you gonna do my homies ain’t? You got mad kung fu skills, gonna keep my ass safe?”

  “Well, for starters I make my living as a private investigator, and I’ve been alive about twice as long as you and your buddies, and I’m not lit up on weed all day long, so between the experience and being straight, I’d say I’m your best shot. But hey – if you think everything’s cool and you’re all good, that’s fine. I’ve done Bobby the favor he asked, and I can find the exit, no harm done. Your call.” Black paused. “I’d just stay away from eating or drinking anything for the rest of your life. Or have one of these guys taste everything, and if they’re not dead within an hour, it’s probably fine. You fellas wouldn’t have a problem with that, would you?”

  The largest of the four made to get up, and for a moment Black thought he might have a real problem on his hands. Then B-Side started laughing and the tension in the room abated. “Yo, you a real hard-on, ain’t you, coming up in here dressed like the Exorcist or something.” His attention shifted to his friends. “Everybody, I needs some time to consultate with my man Black here. Gimme a little privacy, okay?”

  The youths grumbled and postured, but dutifully left – B-Side paid the tab, so he got what he wanted. When the door closed, he raised the back of his bed a bit more and studied Black with clear eyes. Black looked around the room, snagged a chair, removed his hat, and sat down facing the rapper.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, so I understand what I’m up against here?” Black said.

  B-Side nodded, and stared at a faraway point on the ceiling before picking up a plastic cup and sipping some water through the straw.

  “Somebody’s trying to kill me.” Now there was little trace of the homeboy accent. “It started after my album came out, when I was doing local shows here and around California. One of them, at the Hollywood Bowl, somebody rigged a mike so it almost fried me. Maybe you read about that. A roadie died.”

  “How could someone have done that? Aren’t all microphones cordless now?”

  “I’m old school. I like the ones with cords. It’s a long story. But after that, I switched to cordless.”

  “Probably a good move. What did the cops say?”

  “No suspects. But that’s not surprising. At one of these big shows, there’ll be hundreds of people backstage – road crew, bands, stage hands, record people, employees, security…and everyone doing what they’re focused on, not paying attention to much else. So nobody saw anything, and the cops are about as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane. But after, I found some strange stuff, you know? Left in my dressing room. Voodoo stuff.”

  “Voodoo,” Black repeated.

  “Don’t look at me like that. There’s plenty of people believe that crap. Back in New Orleans, and in the islands, that’s like for real, you know?”

  “Fine. People believe all kinds of things. Doesn’t make ’em true. But what did you find? Give me an example.”

  “A chicken foot. And yesterday, someone had a package delivered backstage for me – a voodoo doll.”

  “Did you give it to the police?”

  “Of course. But by that time, the package had been handled by about fifty people, and my boys were tossing the doll around in the dressing room before I got there. I thought it was a rival trying to freak me out, mess with my head before the big show, you know? And I don’t play that. Didn’t really think about it, and then the girl…”

  “Tell me about the poisoning.”

  “They say it was the candy. The filibo. They think the poison is from the manchineel tree. Both of which are from the Caribbean.”

  “Is there a lot of that in New Orleans?”

  “New Orleans is its own place and time, but yeah, the same culture runs through the people. Many are from the islands. There are plenty of voodoo priests and witches there, any of them could prepare something like what they found in the filibo.”

  “Obvious question. Who do you think is doing this? Any theories?”

  “If I knew that, I’d just pop a cap in their ass.”

  “Right. But no suspicions? Somebody you don’t get along with? An enemy? Maybe another rapper? Or a gang? You gang-related, B-Side?”

  “Nah. I left that life when I hooked up with Blunt. Left it way back. And even when I was on the street, I wasn’t in a crew. More of a freelancer, you know? A little bit of this, a little bit of that…”

  “What about other rappers?”

  “They all trash-talking about me. I trash-talk about them. That’s part of the game. If you don’t have fifty punks trying to dis you, you ain’t selling records, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “How about in your personal life. Any angry exes? Boyfriends want to even the score for you and their old lady?”

  “No, man. That’s not how I roll, you know? Besides. I been on the road and in the studio for the last year and a half, first with Blunt, and then with my own thing. I got my baby and her momma, but she and I aren’t together. Still, I send plenty of money and she gets everything she needs. Moved her to a security building in a good part of town with one of my first big checks. So we’re all good.”

  Black didn’t say anything for a few moments, and then he pushed back and stood. “So you have no idea who’s trying to kill you.”

  “That’s what I need you for, right?”

  “Right. I’m two hundred fifty an hour. To start I need a ten grand retainer. I work alone, I don’t answer to anyone, and I don’t report on my progress until I’ve solved the case. Oh, and that’s plus expenses.”

  B-Side waved the numbers away. “Yeah, whatever. You got to talk to my manager, Sam, about that. He deals with all the money stuff. I�
�ll call him and tell him you’re coming over. Can you see him today? You still got a few hours before Miller time…”

  “Sure. Where’s he located?”

  B-Side named the address of a building on the edge of Beverly Hills.

  “Call him and tell him I’ll be by before five to pick up a check.”

  “Sure thing, big man.” B-Side’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the deal with the outfit, the hat and all?”

  Black looked down at his suit. “You ever listen to ZZ Top?”

  “Who?”

  “Probably before your time. They had a song. Sharp Dressed Man. You should listen to it. Who knows, maybe you can sample some of the riff and make it one of your hits.”

  B-Side’s expression was blank. Black didn’t think there was much more to be gleaned from the rapper, so he moved to the exit. “Okay. I’ll hook up with Sam and get back to you. Anything else you think I need to know while you’re convalescing?”

  “No. Just figure out what’s going on. This someone trying to kill me thing’s getting real old. Cramping my style, you know?”

  “Yeah. I can imagine. I’m on it,” Black said, then pulled the door open and stepped into the hall, where the thugs were loitering, the tallest trying to chat up Genesis – with no luck, Black could see in an instant. He walked past them and heard her heels clicking behind him, hurrying to catch up.

  “Black. Wait up,” she called, and he slowed, waiting for her. When she was alongside him, she touched his arm. “Did you get everything you need?”

  “Yeah. Your boy there’s a charmer. Someone’s trying to punch his ticket, and he’s got about as much idea of who as I do. Not a lot to work with.”

  She smiled. “He’s not the most communicative. I’m surprised he even talked to you.”

  “I think he’s scared. That came through loud and clear.”

  “I hear that’s what happens when you watch a young girl almost die, and realize it could have been you.”

  “Probably. I don’t have a lot of experience with that.”

  “So are you working with us now?” she asked, probing.

  “I’m afraid that’s between me and B-Side. Although I did give him some song tips. No charge.”

  “Funny. I made you for a PI of some sort. Not a budding producer.”

  “In this town, I hear you can be whatever you want.”

  “Or whatever people will believe.”

  “Same thing.” He waited for the elevator, Genesis beside him. Her copper-colored skin exuded an intoxicating aroma of vanilla and some sort of spice. Cinnamon, he decided. The elevator arrived and he stepped in.

  “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, right?” she asked, standing by the door while he punched the lobby button.

  “Could be. It’s a small place. And I’m a big rap fan.”

  Her brow scrunched up in a frown. “You don’t strike me as the type.”

  “I’m not just a pretty face.” The doors closed, and Black wondered why Genesis suddenly was so interested in him. Maybe it was his suit. It happened.

  After all, the poor girl was only human.

  Chapter 7

  Black fumbled for change at the Cedars parking attendant booth, aghast at the amount he owed for his Cadillac to occupy a small space on its seemingly limitless asphalt for a scant few minutes. He made a mental note to bill B-Side, whose laissez-faire attitude about money was his most redeeming feature. Black had instinctively upped his hourly rate by fifty dollars, and B-Side hadn’t blinked, which was a big win for the Black Investigations empire – an enterprise that could use all the help it could get.

  He had the top down and his Ray-Ban Wayfarers on as he motored back to the office through the city’s pervasive perfume of exhaust and human density, and thought about his interaction with the rapper. Black was taking it on faith that B-Side was leveling with him. Based on what slim amount he knew, there was no reason to lie. And B-Side did seem genuinely worried, even with his crew of street toughs surrounding him.

  Black tapped his phone to life and called Stan Colt, his LAPD contact and longtime friend, who was always good for help on anything the police were handling. And if the roadie’s electrocution had been a murder, as B-Side had indicated, it may well have landed in Stan’s lap, given that he was one of the department’s top homicide inspectors.

  Stan answered his cell phone in his usual gruff fashion, sounding harried. “Colt.”

  “Hey, buddy. Long time no talk. How’s the death and dismemberment biz?” Black asked.

  “Plenty of job security. Never a dull moment. Where you been hiding?”

  “Nowhere special. Just earning a living. Seems like that’s a full-time job these days.”

  “I hear you. Listen, I’m kind of in the middle of something here…”

  “No problem. I was just calling to catch up. Oh, and to ask about a case your department might be working. A roadie. Electrocution. Maybe six months ago.”

  “Why would we be handling an electrocution?”

  “The rapper said it was a homicide. Happened at the Hollywood Bowl.”

  “I didn’t catch that one, but I can look it up and ask around. What do you need to know?”

  “Just anything you have on it. The rapper thinks whoever did it tried to kill him again last night. At Staples Center. This time with poison,” Black said.

  “Seriously? Who is this guy?”

  “Goes by the name of – wait for it – B-Side, and it seemed like he was on the level. Plus, it was in the paper, so it must be true.”

  “That and Wikipedia.”

  “Of course.”

  “All right, I’ll put out feelers and see what comes back. You want to hook up for a cocktail tonight?” Stan asked.

  “Have to be a quickie. I have a dinner date.”

  “Ah, that’s right. I keep forgetting you’re a married man now. How’s that going?”

  “Hardly married, but since you asked, it’s going really well. Sylvia’s awesome. It’s a good fit.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call you if I get anything today, and we can grab a beer at the Salty Dog. If not, let’s plan on tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Luck was on Black’s side when he reached his block, and a parking space opened up only a few yards from his building’s entrance. He killed the engine and closed the top, and then took the stairs two at a time, eager to share his good tidings with Roxie: not only had he landed a new client, but at twenty-five percent more than his going rate. When he entered the office, she was sitting Indian style on her chair, listening to something on her headphones as she texted on her phone. Black waved at her from the door. She continued what she was doing for a few seconds before shedding the headphones and placing her cell on the table next to a large pile of flyers.

  “Hey there. Guess who just snagged a high-profile rap client at two-fifty an hour?” Black asked, beaming at her.

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “Not really. Can’t you just for once play along?”

  She nodded glumly and plastered a patently fake smile on her face. “Hey, boss, what super awesome studly PI with incredible fashion sense was able to trick a rapper out of way more than he’s worth?”

  “Do you have to make it sound ugly?”

  “Did I get any part of that wrong? Except for everything before the trick the rapper part, that is?”

  “Can we start over? I was just excited, is all.”

  “Are you sexually harassing me again?”

  “Depends on what you mean by sexually, harassing, and again.”

  “Is that some kind of veiled come-on?”

  “Roxie. This is big. Really big.”

  “Now I’m getting worried. First you start with the ‘I’m excited,’ and then you’re telling me how big ‘this’ is. I should sue.”

  “Two-fifty an hour.”

  “And now soliciting prostitution. What would your girlfriend say? Or do you pay her, too? Come
to think of it, how do you define girlfriend?”

  “Roxie. B-Side is going to pay us two-fifty an hour to take his case.”

  Roxie sat back, apparently relieved. “Awesome. Where’s the check? I’ll go deposit it.”

  “I haven’t actually gotten it yet.”

  “So when you say you ‘snagged’ the client, what you mean is that you didn’t get any money. Is that about right?”

  “I will. I see his manager today at five.”

  “Cool. Then I won’t have to start looking for another job this week. That’s a load off my mind.”

  Black spied the flyers and picked one up. On it a fuzzy photo of Mugsy glowered back at him, with the banner headline, “Lost Cat” across the top, Mugsy’s description under the photo, and then a host of tear-away tabs with the office number across the bottom. “Wow. You really did a nice job on these. I can’t imagine how much of your day went into them.”

  “I need you to put them up all over the neighborhood. I was thinking you could start this evening.”

  “You want me to put these up? Not you?”

  “I’ve got a gig tonight. Sound check’s at six.”

  “I see. Did it ever occur to you that I might have something planned this evening?”

  “Come on. You can fit in a few hours. The most important thing is to hit all the places around here.”

  “I’m sensing a ‘no’ here. Yes, that’s definitely what I’m picking up. No. No, no, no.”

  “So you’ll choose your own selfish desires over Mugsy? No wonder he hates you,” Roxie muttered.

  “I thought you said he didn’t.”

  “I just said that so you wouldn’t be so embittered about having to pay for his food and kitty litter.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Then again, I could be lying to get back at you for refusing to help.”

  Black went into his office and removed his hat and jacket, then called out to Roxie. “Pull up everything you have on B-Side and send it over.”

  “I can’t hear you. I’m listening to B-Side.”