BLACK Is Back

by Russell Blake

  “Yeah. The two-inch warms it all up. Has more bottom end. Old school, but I like the way it sounds. Have a seat. I hear you want to talk to me,” Moet said.

  “That’s right. I’m investigating the unfortunate events that seem to have become a regular part of B-Side’s life.”

  “Punkass needs to look over his shoulder. Thinks he’s Snoop. He ain’t shit.”

  “Probably not. But he’s got a problem. So he hired me.”

  “You got some balls coming into my studio like this.”

  “I’ve never been very smart.”

  “But you know your way around a studio.”

  “Ancient history. Back in the day. I had a chance to work with some of the greatest producers in town. O’Brien. Lang.”

  Moet’s face changed. “Doing what?”

  “Guitar. Songwriting. A long time ago.”

  “Huh. Well, spit out what you came for. I’m trying to do some patching and get tones for a mix.”

  “Like I said. I’m investigating B-Side’s mishaps. Which include a murder. I thought it would be good to hear your side of the story. I don’t like to just automatically assume everything I hear from his side’s true.”

  Moet appraised him. “Like what?”

  “Like you hold a grudge. Don’t like him. That kind of thing.”

  “I do hold a grudge. But he’s a punk. He’s here today, gone tomorrow. He’s lint on my pants. Nothing more. I certainly wouldn’t get involved in going after him. I’ve got shoes older than him, and better made.”

  “You have any theories?”

  “Ha! You haven’t done much investigating yet, have you? B-Side’s a no-talent showman. He couldn’t write a joint if his life depended on it. He was flash for the stage show when Blunt was on the rise. He can’t hold a candle to Blunt, who had real talent.”

  “I don’t know anything about rap, so I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Damn right you will. Rap’s my business, and business is good. I didn’t get where I am by having a tin ear. I wasn’t all that interested in B-Side. That’s the truth. And I don’t think he writes his own stuff. I know he’s hired songwriters for the new album. Nothing in this town happens without me knowing. Same on the one that’s riding the charts right now. No way he wrote that material.”

  “So what? Ninety percent of pop stars don’t write their own stuff.”

  “If you’re a big swinging dick rapper, you better. Otherwise you lose your street cred, and once that’s gone, you’re history. It’s a different market.”

  “And you don’t think he wrote his?”

  “Nope. And I’d know. I heard his demos. They were shit. Then I hear his album, and I hear tracks that are almost identical to riffs Blunt played for me before he died. Now maybe he shared them and B-Side got inspired. Or maybe B-Side lifted them. I’m just telling you that your boy has a lot to answer for on that. Maybe somebody’s blackmailing him. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I don’t have shit to do with his troubles. That’s the universe raining down on him. Karma. It’s a bitch. And in case you don’t know, he got screwed on his deal. Thinks he’s so smart, and got taken.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s all I’m going to say. You have to dig up your own dirt. But if you’re looking at me, you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

  “Can you tell me about his deal? He’s making millions.”

  “And leaving more on the table. That…and his manager, Sam? He’s a lizard. Took B-Side to the cleaners, is what I heard. Gets his percentage for managing him, and splits his songwriting, too. So your boy is making less than half what he should be. That’s probably why Sam moved him over to Miles and signed him there. He knew I wouldn’t do a deal where he’s a partner with the talent. Not that there’s much talent there. But I won’t do those types of deals, because eventually the artist figures it out, and then it’s lawsuits all around.”

  “So you think Sam may have something to do with this? That he’d have a reason to kill his own act?”

  “I never said that. Although money does strange things to people. I’m just saying that you got other people with more to gain by B-Side eating it than me. I gain nothing. Sam? The record he’s getting those fat checks on would go through the roof. Look at what happened with Blunt. He’s right up there with Biggie and Michael. Worth way more dead than alive. Yo, Black, right? You watch movies?”

  “A few.”

  “Remember that oldie with Redford and the little guy? What’s his name? About the two reporters?”

  “Hoffman. Dustin Hoffman.”

  “Right. All The President’s Men. Remember what they were told by the Deep Throat guy?”

  “Yup.”

  “Follow the money. Good advice.” Moet glanced at his watch. “Now this meeting’s over. I got a label to run.”

  “You sit in on all your acts for final mix?”

  “Only the ones I’m producing. 2Bad’s my latest, greatest. He’s going to be way bigger than either Blunt or punkass. You can take that to the bank.”

  Black nodded. “Thanks for the time.”

  “You’re welcome.” Moet stood and walked to the door, and only then did Black realize how tall he was. Easily 6’8”. Maybe closer to seven. Moet opened the door and called into the other room. “Yo, boys. Let’s get to it. Time is money.” He turned to Black. “You know the way out.”

  “I do.”

  The security man was waiting as Black left the building, and watched him with an unflinching gaze as he started the Eldorado, mind racing at Moet’s revelation. He made a case that was equally compelling, if not more so, for Sam being the one who was setting B-Side up than Sam had made about Moet. So which one to believe?

  This was already looking like he’d be earning every dime of his windfall two-fifty per hour. Moet radiated menace, but he was also reasonable in the way sociopathic serial killers were. Maybe he had invented a story to throw Black off the scent, but Black’s gut said different.

  Which meant a hopefully simple case had just gotten far more complicated.

  Chapter 12

  Black sat in his office as the morning sun filtered through his cheap vertical blinds, reviewing the itinerary Sam’s assistant had sent him, which was all contingent on B-Side being released from the hospital. He fired off an email to the assistant, and got an almost immediate response – B-Side had been released yesterday, was fine, and would make the video shoot scheduled to take place that afternoon on a boat in Marina Del Rey. Black was just typing a response for more details when his cell phone rang with a blocked number.

  “Black.”

  “Black, this is Sam. B-Side’s manager.”

  “Yes, Sam. Good morning.”

  “B-Side’s fine. He’s shooting today – it’s on the schedule. I want you there.”

  “I was just looking at that. I don’t mind going, but that’s not really what I’m being paid to do…”

  “I’m paying you, and I’m saying you should go, so that sounds to me like two hundred and fifty reasons per hour to hang out, sip champagne with the crew, and make sure B-Side doesn’t get killed. You got something better you can think of?”

  “Put like that, not really.”

  “They’re setting up the shoot now. B-Side won’t show until one. I’ll have my assistant send you the address. They’ll have a badge for you. We’re taking security very seriously – more so than usual, which is typically high due to the psycho fan danger.”

  “All right. I’ll be there. Oh, and I might have to bring a friend. I have a lunch thing that came up I’ll need to combine or I’ll never make it in time.”

  “Fine. Black plus one. Got it.”

  Black finished his vente drip coffee and tossed it into his wastepaper basket, and then opened the blinds and stared out his window at the gray buildings across the boulevard. He didn’t like being ordered around, but for two grand a day, he’d play nice. Maybe even buy a fruit basket or something to reward Bo
bby for the referral.

  Crap.

  Bobby. He’d completely spaced on his request.

  Black got to his feet and went out to discuss Bobby’s problem with Roxie, who was seated at her station, watching a rap video on her monitor. B-Side was grabbing his crotch and gesticulating at the camera, flashing gang signs while a posse of homies sneered in the background. Which would have probably had more impact if everyone from Bieber to Ke$ha didn’t affect the same street-tough attitude in their videos.

  She looked up at him and then her eyes flicked back to the screen. “This is work, boss.”

  “I have no doubt watching ‘Slap Dat Bitch Down’ is part of the job, Roxie. I would never question it.”

  “I like the part where he slaps dat bitch down. It’s unexpected. Sort of contrapuntal, you know?”

  “Contrapuntal,” Black echoed.

  She shut the video off and closed the browser. “What’s up? What exciting bit of sleuthing are you engaged in now?” Roxie was wearing an olive green tank top and camouflage cargo pants today – a different look from her usual all black. One that became her, Black thought, and then reminded himself of their age difference as well as his current monogamous status.

  “I want to check out a sculptor named Todd Porter. He’s L.A.-based.”

  “Are you thinking of starting a collection? Maybe hang some Mapplethorpes around the office to show how edgy you are?”

  “Maple Thorpes? Are those waffles? Like Eggos?” Black asked in puzzlement.

  “Never mind. Do you know anything more than this Todd guy’s name?”

  “That’s it. Oh, and he lives downtown. In a loft.”

  “I’ll run a trace on him and see what pops up. What are we looking for?”

  “Anything and everything.”

  “At least that narrows it down.”

  “Just do it, please. Any hits on Mugsy?”

  “No. It sucks. I’ve almost given up hope.”

  “Maybe he’s stuck behind a dumpster and needs to lose twenty pounds to escape. He should be back in about a month.”

  “I’m glad his disappearance is so funny to you.”

  “I joke about things that are uncomfortable, Roxie. It’s how I deal with stress.”

  “I thought you problem-drank and smoked cigarettes.”

  “Never limit yourself.”

  “So did you quit?” Roxie asked.

  “What?”

  “Smoking.”

  “A few days ago.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Why’s that?” Black asked, curious.

  “Because you don’t smell like a sweaty, poorly dressed ashtray.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It was gross. I almost applied for disability.”

  “I’m glad you soldiered through it.”

  “How far do you want me to go on this Todd Porter thing?”

  “It’s a favor for Bobby. The guy’s dating his daughter. She’s barely out of knee socks and he’s thirty-something.”

  “Maybe she still wears the knee socks for him. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.”

  “Roxie…”

  “Not that I would know about that sort of thing. Although I do have a short red plaid schoolgirl dress. Maybe I’ll wear it tomorrow.”

  Black cleared his throat. “Probably not appropriate for work, Roxie.”

  “Depends on the work.”

  “Good point.”

  “You really have been kind of a downer lately. No stripper shoes, no schoolgirl outfits, hiring someone to kidnap Mugsy…”

  “Lured away with a fried chicken leg. His undoing. Did we get a ransom note? Something like, ‘You owe us a grand for his food’?”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Black became serious. “Inside I’m dying.”

  “Outside too. You look in a mirror lately?”

  “I avoid them.”

  “I can tell. I see your clothes every day, remember?”

  “Still bagging on that, I see.”

  “I thought you just said you were blind.”

  “I said I avoid mirrors.”

  “Whatever.” She began tapping at her keyboard and then swiveled to face him again. “Was there something else?”

  “I do kind of miss the fat bastard.”

  “Could have fooled me. And I thought you weren’t going to call him that anymore.”

  “Because you think he understands what I’m saying. But he’s not here. So no harm.”

  “Why do you hate him?”

  “I don’t. I’ve told you that.”

  “Liar.”

  “Roxie…”

  “Do you want me to trace this Todd idiot, or discuss your emotional issues about cat hatred?” Roxie asked.

  “I don’t have any cat hatred.”

  “So it’s cat envy, then?”

  Black cleared his throat. “Not that I’m not riveted by the ongoing Mugsy drama, but I also need you to locate everything you can on Moet. Go deep. I want to know what he eats, where he sleeps, what he thinks about when he’s on the can.”

  “Might take a few days.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  She turned back to her monitor and then glanced up at him again as if to say, “Well?” He retreated back into his office and called Sylvia.

  “Hi. It’s me,” he said when she answered.

  “Hi. We still on for lunch?” she asked, and Black felt his pulse quicken, as it did each time he heard her accent.

  “Of course. But change of venue. I’ve got a treat for you.”

  “Really? Are we flying to San Francisco? Or New York?”

  “Not quite. I was thinking lunch on the water in Marina Del Rey, and then stopping by a friend’s video shoot. He’s filming a music video on a boat there.”

  “That sounds great! I’ve never seen a video being made before. Come to think of it, I’ve never been to Marina Del Rey, either.”

  “How about I pick you up at eleven and we head out? It will take a little while to get there…”

  “Perfect. I’ll be ready. Should I wear a sailor outfit?”

  “Clothes are optional for you, sweetheart. As always.”

  “I’ll throw together something.”

  “See you then.”

  Chapter 13

  It took forty minutes to make it to Marina Del Rey after he picked up Sylvia, who looked suitably nautical in a pair of white shorts and a blue tank that flattered her curves and made Black wish they had more time before the shoot started. He put the top down and let the wind blow through their hair as they headed to the coast, the day balmy and warm, not a cloud to mar their afternoon, which was idyllic for a day by the sea.

  Once they were seated in one of Black’s favorite restaurants on the water, they ordered drinks and lunch and sat back and relaxed, as the ripples on the harbor’s surface glittered like diamonds in the sun. The meal was superb, and when they were finished eating, Black filled her in on the video shoot. Like Black, she had no idea who B-Side was, but still, being around a shoot was exciting.

  As they were waiting for the car to be brought by the valet, Black remembered Bobby with a twinge of guilt, and decided to enlist Sylvia’s help.

  “Have you ever heard of a sculptor named Todd Porter?”

  She frowned. “Not really. What medium does he work in?”

  “Beats me. All I know is he’s a sculptor. That’s what he does for a living. In L.A.”

  “There aren’t that many who make enough to be full time. But no, doesn’t ring any bells. Do you know what galleries sell his work?”

  “I have no idea. Could you do me a huge favor and maybe ask around? You seem to know every gallery owner in the city.”

  “Hardly. But sure. I’ll contact Sheila and see if she’s heard of him. And she actually does know everyone.” Sheila owned the gallery that had gotten Sylvia her visa and was featuring her art. “Is it important?” she asked, pulling her
cell phone from the back pocket of her shorts.

  “Not super-urgent.” Black went on to tell her about Bobby and his request.

  “Sheila won’t be around, but I’ll call and leave a message. She’ll call me back when she has something,.”

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  She looked him up and down and smiled. “Not from me it isn’t. But you already know that.”

  “For which I’m eternally grateful.”

  The car arrived and he slipped the valet five dollars before pulling off with a roar of V-8 exhaust. Ten minutes later they parked near several expensive motor homes and a large equipment truck and had collected their security badges. LAPD uniforms manned barricades at the lot perimeter to hold back the surge of arriving fans, many more of whom were expected, given how quickly word spread on social media of a celebrity sighting.

  B-Side arrived a few minutes fashionably late, trailed by his entourage and Genesis, who wore a light cotton sundress that looked as expensive as a Ferrari – as did she, her long legs accented by high-heeled sandals, her hair shimmering in the light breeze. A moan of anticipation went up from the crowd, and then female voices screamed in hysterical delight, shouting B-Side’s name. Black smiled at the reaction – he’d gotten a taste of that kind of fame in his youth, and it was still as heady a drug as it had been then.

  “Is that the star?” Sylvia asked.

  Black nodded. “That’s him. In all his glory.”

  “He’s so young.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Black said. She elbowed his ribs.

  The shoot was oriented around a custom-built fifty-four-foot speedboat with a low, predatory-looking hull and a garish paint job. From what Black could gather, the idea was that B-Side and two bikini models would perch on the bow, sipping expensive champagne as the vessel powered along behind the camera boat. A helicopter with a second film crew would capture it from the air. They could watch it from the shore at the remote control console in the equipment area, where the footage would be streamed real time for evaluation by the director, a thirty-something-year-old blond man who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

  Sylvia went in search of a bathroom, and moments after she was gone Genesis sidled up to Black, watching the preparations.