BLACK Is Back

by Russell Blake

  “Kind of slim. Unless you want me to start committing felonies. Again. So you can do a favor for a buddy.”

  “No, I’m not going to ask you to do that.”

  “Right answer.”

  “Will you continue rooting around?”

  “That’s what I was born for. Rooting. Like a swine after truffles.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s a figure of speech.”

  “So’s ‘when hell freezes over’ or ‘not if you were the last man on earth.’” Roxie smiled sweetly.

  “I’m just asking you to do your job.”

  “10-4, good buddy.”

  Black eyed her. “Been watching the Seventies channel again, I see.”

  “What happened to Mr. I Don’t Judge?”

  “I’m going back into my office, now.”

  “All right.”

  “Right now.”

  “You’re still there.”

  “I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

  “I was reading about signs of early-onset Alzheimer’s. They have a self-quiz you can do. I sent it to you.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “You mean you don’t remember seeing it,” Roxie corrected.

  “Ah. Another birthday funny. You’re on a roll.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  “You didn’t send it to me.”

  “Roxie. You didn’t send it to me, Roxie. You remember who I am, right?” she asked, poorly feigning concern.

  “Very amusing.”

  “What?”

  “Your little Alzheimer’s bit,” Black said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This conversation’s over, isn’t it?”

  “Good guess.”

  Chapter 17

  La Belle Fenêtre was packed for lunch, as were the parking spots along the curb for the entire block, so Black pulled back around and entrusted his car to the valet, who took the keys from him with disdain in exchange for a yellow stub. Genesis pulled up behind him in a red Porsche Boxter, and when she got out the sun seemed to dim several shades in contrast to her radiant beauty. She favored the valet with a beaming smile as she took her parking ticket, and then approached Black and kissed him on the cheek. Her fragrance filled the air with a seductive mist of hot Puerto Rican temptress – apparently a scent that Black had a liking for, he noted with a twinge of guilt.

  “Happy birthday. That’s a great jacket. Very stylish,” she said, apparently as free with her compliments as her charms. “Armani?”

  “Thanks. And no, it’s Goodwill. I think they took it off a dead guy.”

  Genesis smiled again, apparently unsure whether he was kidding, but decided not to push it. She entwined her arm in his and led him inside, where the maître d’ waited with a stern countenance.

  “Nice to see you back, mademoiselle,” he greeted, his face cracking with the hint of a smile.

  “You too, George. I have a reservation.”

  “Of course. One of our best tables.”

  “Perfect.”

  The manager took the menus from him, escorted them to a table by one of the large windows, and stood at ramrod attention as Black pulled out a chair for Genesis and seated her before taking his own. A waiter materialized like a genie and took their drink orders – a bottle of Petit Verdot, at Genesis’ urging. Upon his return with the wine, they ordered, and after some light-hearted banter about the craziness of the music business and the foibles of the various artists, lunch arrived.

  “The birthday boy, huh? What kind of wild party do you have planned to celebrate?”

  “You know. Booze, hookers, coke. The usual.”

  Genesis’ eyes widened in mock surprise. “Why, Black. Still waters do run deep.”

  “Actually, the truth is I’m doing dinner at a new place in San Pedro. Taste of Africa. You heard of it?”

  “I read something about it in the Times a few weeks ago. Vegetarian or something?”

  “I don’t have any idea. Sylvia just said it was supposed to be great. And organic. Whatever that means.”

  “Ah, Sylvia. She seems nice. Simple.”

  Genesis’ cell rang. She answered it, her gaze on Black as she listened and silently mouthed the word Sam.

  “Both of us? I’m not sure. I think he’s got a dinner planned already. What? Yes. He’s right here.” She listened some more. “No, it won’t be close. He’ll be in San Pedro at Taste of Africa. Can we do it tomorrow?”

  She hung up after another twenty seconds and apologized. “Sorry. That was Sam. Wanted to have a meeting this evening at his office when he gets back into town. I’ve got plans, and you do, too, so it can wait.”

  “Why a meeting?”

  “That’s how he operates. I think he likes wasting people’s time so he can feel important. He’s kind of famous for the early morning and late evening meeting. Apparently his business hours are too important for his underlings, and he expects them to rearrange their lives when he snaps his fingers.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re a fan.”

  “Hey, I work for B-Side. Sam goes with the deal. So I can make nice. It doesn’t mean I have to marry the man.”

  “There are a lot of egotistical jerks in this business.”

  “Tell me about it. Goes with the territory.” She took a bite of her poached salmon and closed her eyes, practically purring her approval. Black tried his halibut and pronounced it delicious. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Genesis took a sip of wine and looked at Black curiously. “So are you going to tell me how your meeting with Moet went?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know. I took a ride into the barrio, hung with his crew, smoked a little endo, and represented.”

  “Seriously.”

  He gave her a sanitized version of his discussion, omitting Moet’s accusations about Sam, but telling her about the B-Side story to gauge her reaction.

  Genesis frowned. “You know, Moet’s a player. I mean for real, Black. He’s got a good feel for every nuance of this business, and frankly, even though B-Side’s one of my clients, I’ve heard those kinds of rumors before. I just didn’t think much about them. I mean, that’s the kind of BS that gets tossed around a lot: so-and-so doesn’t write their own raps, he’s an imposter, and so on.”

  “In just about every other type of popular music, nobody would care. A song’s a song. Most of the bigger acts have teams of songwriters working for them.”

  “Moet explained how that’s different, right?”

  “He tried. And I get it. Doesn’t matter whether I agree or not. The consumer’s always right. Even when they aren’t.”

  “Because in rap, it’s the lyrics that establish credibility. It’s like discovering that Ginsberg didn’t write his own material. It’s like a violation of the relationship between the listener and the rapper.”

  “Was Ginsberg a white rapper? Like what’s his name – Skittles?”

  “I think you mean Eminem. No, I meant Ginsberg the poet and author. ‘Howl’?” She watched Black’s eyes for any trace of recognition or mockery and saw nothing. “Anyway, that’s not important. Moet’s right that it would be a huge blow to B-Side’s career if it turned out to be true.”

  “You mentioned you’d heard some rumors.”

  “Yeah. It was, like, B-Side didn’t write his own stuff, blah blah blah. That he and Sam had stolen some of Blunt’s material for B-Side’s first album. Which was theoretically possible, I suppose, since Sam was Blunt’s manager and B-Side was close to him. I tuned out when it was suggested that they might even have had a hand in Blunt’s death.”

  “What?”

  “I know. Like anyone would kill over songs. But you have to understand. Blunt’s like some kind of a martyr to many, a fallen hero. And there are all kinds of crazy conspiracy theories circling around about him. That Moet had him killed to put album sales through the roof. That Moet had him killed because he was going to breach his contract and leave his label. That he
was killed by one of the many other rappers he’d trash talked. Blunt had at least thirty feuds going when he died, with some pretty hardcore dudes. I also heard the theory that Sam had him killed because he was thinking of parting ways. Or that Blunt was dealing on the side, investing his money in big-weight coke transactions, and something went sour. And of course, the old favorite, that his gang affiliations from his past came back to haunt him. You think you’ve heard everything? Think again.”

  “Wow. That’s more than who killed JFK.”

  “In a lot of ways, it’s more relevant to his fans. The gang and street life is characterized by a reality you can’t ever understand. A level of brutality and stupidity that’s incredible. Some dead white president fifty years ago? Whatever. But one of their own, taken from the Earth in his prime? That hurts. It’s like a personal affront.” She sipped her wine. “Blunt won the lottery. He got out, made it on his own steam, and seemed poised to rule the world. So of course there’s going to be speculation over who did what and why. For many, it’s the most immediate thing that’s happened this year. And it’s still as vivid in his fans’ minds as if it was yesterday. It’s insane. One theory I heard about B-Side was that it’s some stalker fan who’s trying to kill him in revenge for B-Side taking out Blunt. Crazy.”

  “The sad part is that any of those explanations sound better than what we have now as a working theory. And you’re right. They’re crazy,” Black said. “But back up. Run the one about B-Side and Sam by me again.”

  “Which? Oh. Yeah. In that one, Sam and B-Side, or just B-Side, or just Sam, had Blunt killed in Jamaica because they wanted his material for B-Side. Which ignores that B-Side’s album didn’t release until months after Blunt died. I mean, I suppose it’s theoretically possible in some distorted logic way that they stole some of Blunt’s work for B-Side’s debut, but I can’t see that as very likely, you know?”

  “You’d be surprised what people would do over a few tunes,” Black said quietly, his demeanor changed, his voice slightly hushed.

  “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

  Black nodded. “Ancient history. I wrote some music a long time ago and kind of got screwed. But you know what? You get over it and move forward. You don’t kill. Although, at the time, there were some pretty low shots taken to do me out of my cut. So anything’s possible.” Black finished his glass of wine and ate the last bite of his halibut. “Who told you that one?”

  “I think it was Reggie. I don’t know. That seems so long ago now…”

  “Reggie? Who’s Reggie? If this cast gets any bigger, I’ll need a spreadsheet to keep everyone straight.”

  “You haven’t met Reggie? He’s a relative of B-Side’s. An uncle. Of Blunt’s, too. Quite a character. He does some A&R work for Miles now and then. He’s a musician.”

  “Great. Another musician.”

  “That goes with the turf. I guess it runs in that family.”

  “What’s his association to B-Side?”

  “Professionally? Nothing that I know of. He was close to Blunt, part of his inner circle, and I know Sam doesn’t get along with him, but honestly, beyond that, there isn’t a lot to tell. I heard that Blunt used to rely on him for a lot. I think at one point he was handling some of the money for him. Oh, that’s another one I heard – that Blunt was killed by Reggie so he could steal his money. Of course, the only problem in that theory is that it was all accounted for after his death, but why let niggling details like that quash a good conspiracy?”

  “How does Reggie feel about Sam?”

  “Doesn’t like him either. That’s a constant in this business. Most of the players hate each other, because there’s so much competition and the money’s so big. That and the egos. I mean, you have kids that were slinging rock on the street or just got out of the joint, and a year later they’re driving Lambos while their records scream up the chart. It’s disorienting, and everyone’s either posturing or trying to defend their slice of pie.”

  “No different from a lot of other show biz fields. But back to this Reggie – you wouldn’t know where I could find him, would you?”

  She glanced at the time, then finished her own wine before setting the glass back down on the table and leaning back in her chair. Her eyes glittered in the sunlight streaming through the window, and he could see faint blond highlights in her hair, probably from being outside most of the prior day. On the street, a Maybach drew to the curb and a stately elderly couple emerged from the rear doors, he in a suit, she in a dress that would have been at home on a member of the British royal family.

  Genesis’ blouse struggled to contain her breasts as she stretched, catlike, and then her brow furrowed as she thought about the question.

  “At this hour? Probably down at Knott’s Berry Farm.”

  Chapter 18

  It took Black an hour to make it to Buena Park, which was about three quarters full, judging from the amusement complex’s parking lot. Genesis had told him Reggie was the lead singer and rhythm guitar player in a band that did six sets a day at Calico Square, and he usually took the day shift of three sets, leaving the evenings to his replacement so he could scout for talent in the L.A. clubs.

  Black parked, paid his admission, and wandered through the grounds. The screams of roller-coaster riders competed with those of delighted children yelling at each other as they ran along the paths. An information kiosk pointed him in the direction of the square, where a band wearing matching orange silk shirts and Angel Flight slacks was performing Motown covers. Black settled in for the set, which was surprisingly good, if hackneyed. The tall, lanky singer’s voice was amazingly rich and nuanced, the performance spirited and flawless, and when the set ended Black applauded enthusiastically, one of perhaps thirty spectators who had remained to clap.

  When the musicians were packing up their instruments in preparation for the evening shift to appear for the five o’clock performance, Black approached the singer and congratulated him on a great show. He was in his late forties or early fifties, with the look of the tired veteran who’d spent his life onstage and seen it all. They got to talking; Black had recognized the red Gretsch guitar as a rarity, and he shared his history with the man – having worked with legendary producers, written songs that had dominated the charts through the first half of the nineties, played on the album that everyone knew and many loved.

  “That was you? Shit, man, you’re a star!” the singer exclaimed.

  “Long time ago, huh? What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Reggie. Reggie Johnston. Pleased to meet you. What’s yours?” Reggie asked, extending his hand.

  “Jim Black. But everyone just calls me Black.”

  “Never did I think I’d see the day when I’d meet a legend like you, my man.”

  “Hardly a legend. I just got lucky.”

  “Well, what are you doing now? You still playing? Or you got a recording studio or a production company?”

  “Nah, I got out of the business. I have a security company now. Can’t complain. Keeps me busy. Man, it’s warm out here. Is there anywhere to get a decent drink around this place?”

  “There’s a few joints a couple blocks away.”

  “What are you doing now? I’m stuck here for another couple of hours, waiting around for my sister to get done with the kids. But I’d rather sneak out for a while and wet my whistle. She’s supposed to call me when she’s done, so no harm. She knows I hate these kinds of places. What do you say, can I buy you a drink? We can trade war stories. I’ve got a million of ’em.”

  Reggie considered the offer. “I don’t know, man. I got things I should be doing…”

  “Yeah, you and me both. But I’m sentenced to Knott’s for today. Come on. Just one. How can a bluesman turn down a free drink?”

  Reggie grinned, his teeth pearly white. “All right, man, you talked me into it. Just one, though.”

  “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be a double, did I?”

  Reggie laughed. “Man after my
own heart.”

  “Well, I’m not getting any younger, Reggie. Lead the way.”

  “You parked in the lot?”

  “Yup. You?”

  “Same. What are you driving?”

  “’73 white Eldorado convertible.”

  “Red leather interior, or chocolate?”

  “Man knows his car. Red, of course,” Black said.

  “Sweet. That’s a classic now. Bet it cost a bunch.”

  “Like women, Reggie. Nothing good in life’s free.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Okay, Black, follow me.”

  The bar they wound up in was a blue-collar hangout, where workers got an early start on their drinking or killing time before heading home to a thankless family. They took a seat in a booth at the rear of the place, and Black ordered his usual – a shot of Jack and a beer chaser. Reggie thought about it and got a Jack and Coke, and Black made a big show of telling the server to make it a double, and that the tab was on him.

  When the drinks came, Reggie drained half of his in two swallows and smacked his lips approvingly. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

  Black downed half his shot and took a pull on his Budweiser. “Yeah. I was about ten seconds away from going postal on those screaming brats.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I don’t see how you do it. How long have you been at this gig?”

  “Off and on for almost six years. With some breaks here and there.”

  “Wow. No wonder you guys are so tight.”

  “Yeah. Paid rehearsal. I can do the sets in my sleep now. I think I have, a few times, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “And I thought playing in Top 40 bands was rough duty.”

  “Nothing like this. But it pays okay, and I’m doing what I like. That’s the main thing. Keeping in shape, entertaining people, you know? That gets harder and harder to pull off as you get older.”

  “Tell me about it. It’s my birthday today, and I feel every year like it’s a lead weight.”

  “Oh yeah? Happy birthday. You got anything special planned besides Knott’s?”