BLACK Is Back

by Russell Blake

  “Yes, you can, or you wouldn’t know I said anything.”

  “Sorry. I’m not making you out.”

  “Roxie…”

  “Check your email.”

  Black did, and began sorting through the mountain of information she’d sent. The first batch of articles covered B-Side’s rise up the charts with his debut album, Pimped Bitch. The critics had been universally positive on the release, making flattering comparisons to Blunt for the album’s lyrical depth and hypnotic beats, and praising his flashy videos and stage show.

  Next were a number of columns on feuds B-Side was involved in, the most heated one between himself and a young rapper named 2Bad, for whom B-Side had no love, having called him a chump, a bitch, fronting, and every other epithet in the rap lexicon. 2Bad apparently had the same lack of respect for B-Side, and the rhetoric had grown increasingly ugly over the past few months, made worse by a different feud between B-Side’s record label, run by Miles Ferris, and 2Bad’s, which was Blunt’s former label, Laughing Dead Productions. The head of the label was a notorious rap impresario named Maurice Quantrel, better known as Moet, who had discovered numerous talents, including Blunt, and was rumored to be entwined with the drug gangs that ruled the poorer areas of South Central.

  Black’s head started to hurt just trying to keep all the rivalries straight, not to mention the monikers. Why the hell didn’t they have normal names, like REO Speedwagon or AC/DC? How could anyone differentiate between a Blunt, a 2Bad, and a B-Side? Especially as an ex-musician, the entire phenomenon escaped him, where the singers didn’t sing and nobody played an instrument…and that was the most popular form of music in the nation?

  He realized as he was thinking it that he sounded like an old fogey, even to himself. Those kids and their damn music! It’s not even music! All they’re doing is screaming over a drum machine! Reality was that rap had been going strong for over twenty-five years, in the mainstream, and showed no sign of stopping. For better or worse, Black was an anachronism, a throwback to an earlier time when music had been entirely different from what someone like Roxie had grown up hearing. Even when Black’s band was breaking big, rappers of all shapes, sizes, and colors had been selling tens of millions of records, and the world had voted with its wallet, regardless of what the musician in Black thought.

  Besides, wasn’t a little bit of the disdain just envy? Sure, there was some truth to that, he acceded to the little voice in his head. Who wouldn’t want to live a lifestyle of being young, dumb, with hot and cold running hotties at your command, making millions for doing nothing but throwing attitude? It wasn’t fair…

  Of course, nothing in life was. And if B-Side had managed to wire the game, more power to him. His was a young man’s world, a world as foreign to Black as one inhabited by two-headed lizard gods. The one redeeming quality he could see to it all was that, for whatever reason, it had intersected with Black’s banal reality and managed to lavish him with some ready cash. Which was always in short supply and heavy demand.

  Black read with interest an article on B-Side’s life story: raised by a struggling single mother in one of the worst areas of New Orleans; relocation to L.A.; a troubled adolescence marked by dropping out of school in ninth grade and turning to dealing drugs, arrests, incarceration; and then salvation when Blunt had been discovered and B-Side had joined him on the climb to stardom. It read like an invented bio, but Black knew from his brief meeting that it was probably largely true, if a trifle heavy on the crime-related aspects of the rapper’s life.

  All good, but no clues as to who might have it in for him.

  After an hour of his reading and watching a few B-Side and Blunt videos on YouTube, Roxie materialized in the doorway.

  “Since you don’t care whether we ever find Mugsy, I’m leaving early to put up flyers.”

  “What do you think of B-Side?”

  “Honestly? It’s not my thing. But if it was, I’d probably like him. He’s got something that comes through. Kind of a sexy swagger and attitude, you know? After listening to both Blunt and B-Side, Blunt was more authentic, but B-Side’s more of an entertainer. I don’t know how else to describe it, but the kid’s got some grooving raps.”

  “That was my impression. B-Side’s more Vegas, Blunt was more Compton.”

  “Right. Because you’re down with the hood. You know what it’s like there.”

  “You know what I mean. More OG.”

  “You got that from one of those articles, didn’t you?”

  “I haven’t been living in a cave the last twenty years. I know what time it is.”

  “They haven’t said that since I was in diapers,” Roxie said.

  “Word. Peace out.”

  “My douche alarm just went off. Excuse me. I need to try to rescue the cat.”

  “I’m actually surprised the tubby bastard hasn’t shown back up to bum a meal.”

  “Boy, I go all mushy inside when you sweet talk like that. No wonder the ladies melt when you speak.”

  “I’m worried too, Roxie.”

  “Uh huh. I’m out of here,” she said, and then spun and made for the entrance. He could tell she was annoyed that he hadn’t dropped everything to do her bidding on the Mugsy flyer distribution, but damn it, he was trying to run a company, keep the light bill paid, and so on. He heard the front door open and called out to her.

  “I’ll take some flyers, too.”

  But she was already gone.

  Chapter 8

  Sam Rothstein’s building was all marble and granite and cool, expensive chic, with well-groomed uniformed security guards in the lobby along with fashionably aloof counter staff who reminded Black of an expensive hotel’s. He gave his name to a haughty Asian woman who eyed him distrustfully before phoning upstairs and getting clearance for him to enter the inner sanctum. He was issued a visitor badge and advised to wear it at all times.

  The elevator was sleek, silent, and new, and when he arrived at the twentieth floor he stepped out into a marble and glass foyer. Sam’s offices were directly in front. Black opened the door to find himself facing a fashion model receptionist with a million-dollar pout. He removed his hat and approached the woman, who looked ready to call security until he announced himself and told her that B-Side had arranged for a meeting with Sam. She tapped her headset to life and murmured into it while Black took in the stunning view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and then directed him to a black leather and chrome sofa to await Sam’s assistant.

  The rap business was better than Black had thought, obviously, although Sam no doubt represented more acts than just B-Side. He was considering how difficult it would be to hang out a shingle and rake in some of that easy money when a young man in a navy blue Canali suit approached with a flight attendant’s practiced phony politeness.

  “Mr. Black? Would you follow me, please? Mr. Rothstein will see you now.”

  Black dutifully accompanied him to an expansive corner office, and after a courtesy knock on the doorjamb, the assistant motioned for Black to enter. From behind a polished hardwood desk the size of Ireland, Sam studied Black with eyes that had all the warmth of a lamprey, and after taking his measure, gestured to one of the chairs.

  “Black, huh? You can call me Sam. B-Side called, said Bobby sent you. I spoke to Bobby, and he gave you the nod. So what have we got to talk about?”

  “I came by to get a check. My retainer. Ten grand against two-fifty per hour. Plus expenses.”

  “Wow. Do I get a BJ for that?” Sam raised his hands like he was being robbed. “Kidding. But isn’t that a little high? You’re a PI, not a neurosurgeon.”

  “That’s my rate. B-Side said no problem. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no, I’m just checking. But before I start cutting the loot free, let me lay down the ground rules. You work for me. The money comes from me. B-Side’s to be kept out of this to the extent possible. And you can’t talk to the press about anything you see while you’re part of the team. That’s not neg
otiable.”

  “My practice is to not talk to the press, period. Ever.”

  Sam offered a wan smile. “Then we’re going to get along just fine. Last thing I need is to try to manage another potential leak. The kid’s the hottest thing in the country right now, and everybody wants a piece of him. I have to be careful who I let into the inner circle, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I understand.”

  “So what’s your plan, Mr. Two-hundred-and-change Black?”

  “You pay me, I figure out who’s trying to kill your client.”

  “Sounds simple.”

  “It usually is. To do that, I have to research everyone connected to him, and anyone he might have pissed off who could hold a grudge big enough to drive him or her to murder.”

  “That makes sense. But I’ll tell you what. I can give you a good place to start.”

  Black raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. The number one rat who wants to eat B-Side’s cheese is a first-class thug named Maurice Quantrel. Goes by the nickname Moet. Runs Laughing Dead – competitor to B-Side’s label. He’s still pissed that B-Side didn’t sign with him. He thought it would be a given, since Blunt had been on Laughing Dead. But I have to choose what’s best for my artists’ careers, and Miles made us a better offer. Moet hasn’t forgiven B-Side – or me. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he’s behind this. He’s a bully and an animal.”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “You hear that he’s rumored to have negotiated record deals with some of his artists with a loaded gun on the desk? In plain sight? That’s just one of his little stunts. He’s a gangster, all right, which is what he likes to play up; but unlike many in this business, he’s the real thing. Gang-affiliated, rumors of his seed money coming from drugs, the Feds nosing around for years over suspicions of laundering and racketeering…a real piece of work.”

  “I gather he’s not on your Christmas list.”

  “Good guess. After Blunt got killed, I was relieved to be done with his label. And when B-Side opted to go with a more reputable company, it was the best thing that ever happened to both of us. There’s no love lost between me and Moet. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past him to have had a hand in Blunt’s murder.”

  Black leaned forward. “Maybe I’m missing something. Why would he want to kill his number one act?”

  “Blunt wasn’t happy with the results he was seeing. He was convinced that Moet was faking the sales data, skimming cash. He’d started agitating for an audit. You don’t question Moet’s integrity the way he did. When I heard the news that he’d been gunned down, it didn’t surprise me.”

  “But didn’t Moet lose a fortune when Blunt died?”

  “What, are you kidding me? The record wound up selling three times as many copies after he died. Which wouldn’t have happened if Blunt had been alive. More importantly, it’s going to continue selling for years as the mystique around Blunt’s life and death grows. It’s free money for Moet. No tours to support, no artist to deal with. Just an endless stream of money.”

  “But he still has to pay the estate royalties, right?”

  “Sure. Blunt’s mama gets them. But she’s not exactly a numbers person, so Moet can pretty much do whatever he wants.”

  “Not if you’re still in the mix.”

  “I’m not. Blunt’s mom and I parted ways. It’s not my concern anymore. I’m on to bigger and better things. Don’t get me wrong, I still get my check every quarter, but I’m not going to make waves now. My future’s with B-Side, not haggling with Moet and hoping I don’t wake up with a Glock in my mouth.”

  “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

  “You don’t know the man. You’re an investigator. Do some investigating. You’ll see.”

  “Tell me about Blunt and B-Side. Did they part on good terms?”

  “Not really. In fact, that was a big deal. B-Side quit the crew to pursue his own career, but it hurt Blunt’s feelings – he believed he’d done B-Side nothing but right, and basically launched him, given him the opportunity to make it. Then instead of being grateful, he left, and they began bad-mouthing each other. It’s pretty typical in this business, but even for that kind of feud, it got heated. Then, Blunt got killed in Jamaica and the rest is history.”

  Black sat forward. “How long were you with Blunt, Sam?”

  Sam stared out the window and then returned his gaze to Black. “Boy, probably…two years? Maybe a little longer? But a great run, even if it was short.”

  “And how would you compare the two – B-Side and Blunt? They’re cousins, right?”

  “Correct. I’d say that B-Side’s more of an entertainer. More rounded. Better sense of showmanship. Blunt was old school, just walk up to the mike and start rapping. B-Side’s got more of the whole package. Sizzle. He’s going to go a long way. I don’t see how anything can stop him. He’s that good.”

  “I know the album’s selling well.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. It’s crossed the four million mark just in the U.S. That’s insane for the amount of time it’s been out. And it’s just getting started. It could see ten million before it’s over. It’s a great record. Iconic.”

  “I’ve heard some tracks. They’re impressive. And I’m not exactly the target audience.”

  “You’d be surprised. The audience for rap is way more diverse than most people think. It cuts across racial and economic lines. It’s big in the suburbs, big in white America, big in the inner cities. So the audience is really anyone you see on the street. The cab driver, the attorney, the waitress, the truck driver. It’s a whole new world, Black, and there are no color lines when it comes to music.”

  “So your theory is that Moet wants B-Side dead for retribution?”

  “For going against him. To teach anyone with big ideas a lesson. You don’t buck Moet. Not and live to tell about it.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Now, I’m going to need B-Side’s itinerary for the week emailed to me, as well as that check so I can hit the road. I’ve got a lot to do, and whoever’s trying to kill your star isn’t napping. The sooner I get started, the better his odds.”

  “No problem. I told my assistant to cut it. Who do you want it made out to?”

  “Black Investigations.”

  Sam activated his intercom and issued terse instructions, then stood and stretched. “It’ll be waiting for you on the way out. You got a contract or something I need to sign?”

  Black rose. “I’ll email it tomorrow. Can I get your contact information?”

  Sam produced an expensive linen business card with tasteful small print on it, identifying Sam as the President of R-cubed Management. Black programmed the number into his phone, pocketed it, and fished out one of his cheaper cards to hand to Sam.

  “I told B-Side the basic terms. I work alone. No oversight. I report when I have something to tell you, not to set everyone’s minds at ease. And I need full access. Nothing’s off-limits.”

  “You come highly recommended, so I’ll agree. Do whatever you have to do, but put a stop to this before anything else happens. B-Side’s got a tour that’s critical to his career, and he’s working on a new album. I don’t need him distracted, or afraid to eat or drink anything. Oh, and here’s Genesis’ info – she’s B-Side’s PR person, but she also acts as his gofer. Anything he wants, she’s in charge of getting – cars, houses, entertainment. Call her for whatever you need on the day-to-day.” Sam handed him another card, which he pocketed.

  “We met at the hospital.” Black nodded. “I’ll get to work. Let’s hope that this is an easy one.”

  “You get many of those?”

  “Not so far. But you never know. There’s always a first time.”

  Chapter 9

  When Black arrived at the Salty Dog, Stan was already there, his half-empty bottle of Anchor Steam beer sweating on the table. Black signaled the bartender for one more and then sat across from Stan in one of the battered
wooden chairs, scarred by generations of drinkers celebrating petty victories or commiserating over life’s hardships. An old country and western song played on the ancient jukebox – a Garth Brooks favorite, Friends in Low Places – and Black appreciated the irony of the choice in what could only be described as an armpit of a bar.

  “Hey, big man. I was wondering whether you were going to show,” Stan said.

  “And miss a free beer? In what lifetime?”

  “Oh, is the bar giving away free beers? Damn. I’ll take a dozen.”

  “I thought you were buying,” Black said as the bartender arrived with his selection.

  “Sure. I’ll buy the beer and you pay me for my information. Sounds like a deal to me.”

  “Perhaps I got my wires crossed.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “We do what we can.”

  “Imperfect clay, and all.” They took pulls on their beers and then Stan sat back. “Why the sudden interest in rappers? You thinking about restarting your musical career? I hate to break it to you, but a paunchy middle-aged white guy ain’t such a hot commodity.”

  “And the world’s the poorer for it.”

  They toasted solemnly and Stan waved for two more beers. Black gulped another big swallow, hoping to catch up with Stan before the next ones arrived.

  Black leaned on the table. “Nah, I got a new client. Rap kid. Big deal on the charts right now. Thinks he’s being stalked by a killer, but claims he has no idea why, or who.”

  “Until you discover that he’s been a member of the Bloods since he was a toddler.”

  “It occurred to me that he might not have been completely forthcoming about his gang affiliations. Call that a hunch.”

  “Who knew that people lie? I mean, I do, all the time, but who knew anyone else did? It’s always a disappointment for me. Confronting the ugly side of human nature.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to be exposed to that sort of thing. I hope it hasn’t scarred you.”

  Stan gave him a dark look. “That, and having to listen to a woman who cooked her baby in the oven and fed it to its father for dinner today insist that she hadn’t really meant to hurt it. That’s a true story. It’s been a hellish day. She got baked on crack, kid was screaming because she hadn’t fed it – busy with her pipe, after all – and suddenly she got a great idea for a main course.”