BLACK Is Back

by Russell Blake

  “Dinner with my girlfriend at some new organic Ethiopian restaurant in San Pedro that’s supposed to be great. So just a relaxing night, maybe a bottle of wine, a little rolling around later…”

  “That doesn’t sound bad to me. Man learns to appreciate the good things in life as he matures,” Reggie said, and held his glass aloft in salute. Black toasted with a clink of his beer bottle, and Reggie slurped the second half of his drink. Black signaled to the server for another round, and then launched into one of his music stories, about working in the studio with famous session players and a legendary producer. By the time he was done, Reggie had downed two more drinks and was feeling no pain, laughing uproariously at Black’s jokes, slapping his thigh and cackling.

  Black took his time, and then directed the conversation toward modern musical trends, winding up at rap, and finally, B-Side and his latest run of bad luck. He did it subtly, easing to the accidents, and wondered aloud at some of the stories he’d heard about Blunt and B-Side, and ultimately, why anyone would want to kill him. Reggie confessed that he was related to both of them, and Black pretended disbelief at the environment they were operating in.

  “Dude, I don’t know. It just seems like a different world. When I was playing, nobody was trying to kill anyone. Now, it seems like every other day there’s a shooting or a murder attempt. What the hell’s going on with that?” Black asked rhetorically.

  “I got my own theories.”

  Black sat back and finished his beer, then signaled to the bartender to replenish their drinks. “Yeah? You’ve been around this block enough times. What do you think is the deal?”

  Reggie’s eyes narrowed; he looked around and leaned forward. “It’s no secret I’m B-Side’s uncle. Hell, I’m the one that suggested to Blunt that he put B-Side on stage. So I’m not in any way anti-B-Side, you know, even though he and Blunt had a big falling out before Blunt bought the farm. Kid’s got some flash, and he’s a crowd pleaser. But after Blunt died, he went down a bad road. Blunt’s manager, Sam Rothstein, puffed him up, told him he’d be the next Tupac or 50 Cent, and B-Side bought it. Only thing is, his first album…the four biggest songs on that album are almost exact rip-offs of Blunt songs – I know, because I heard the demos. I mean, the lyrics are almost identical, and so are the beats. So I think B-Side can’t write for shit, and he ‘borrowed’ Blunt’s beats, figuring he’s not going to need them, being dead and all. Or maybe Sam did. Either or both are in a position to know what Blunt was working on.”

  “Wait. So you think B-Side or Sam had something to do with Blunt’s death?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? What I said was, once Blunt was dead, he wasn’t gonna use his new songs, so maybe B-Side or Sam decided to improve their odds by stealing his material. You know this business. It’s cutthroat. Lot of money hanging in the balance. That does strange things to your head.”

  “But then who do you think is trying to kill B-Side?”

  Reggie peered tipsily around the room again with a look of cunning in his eyes. “Damned if I know. He’s got a PR honey who’s sketchy – same one used to hang out with Blunt. I knew her back in the day, when I was rolling with Blunt’s crew. Maybe she’s pissed ’cause B-Side took a bite of her and then moved on. Or maybe the rumors about that Moet guy putting out a hit are true. He’s got a shady rep, for sure. Hell, I even heard that some think it’s B-Side behind it all, getting headlines for himself.” Reggie polished off the remainder of his drink and shook his head dismissively. “Look, I never said this, but if it was me, my money would be on the manager – Sam. He’s got a lot riding on B-Side, and my theory is he figured out that B-Side’s career isn’t going to last long since he can’t write. He’s going to be a one-shot wonder. So what would make that one shot go to the moon? If B-Side met with an untimely death. The album would sell for a year, number one, and probably see twenty million sales. I heard through the grapevine that Sam has a big chunk of B-Side, so he’s got millions of reasons to want B-Side dead. You never heard that from me.”

  “Really? You think Sam would do that? He didn’t strike me as…I mean, that doesn’t seem all that realistic, does it?”

  Reggie regarded him differently, even inebriated. “You know Sam?”

  Black tried to backpedal. “Why do you think I know some rap manager?”

  “You just said that he didn’t strike you as the kind that would do that.”

  Black weighed further duplicity, but didn’t think it would work. He’d blown it. Black decided to level with Reggie, who seemed like a decent guy, albeit with a teensy little drinking problem. Cast not the first stone, and all.

  Black took a long pull on his beer, thinking through how to frame what he was about to say. “Reggie, I know both B-Side and Sam. I’m investigating the threats to B-Side. I’m sorry for not coming clean. I just wanted to hear what you honestly thought, that’s all. It was a cheap shot. I’m sorry.” And he was. He felt pretty low.

  Reggie shook his head before pushing back from the table and standing, swaying slightly. “You work for them? And you’re liquoring me up, giving me the fifth degree? Man, are you for real? Buddying up to me, playing me like that…”

  Black was crestfallen, and made a last-ditch effort to salvage the rapport he’d built. “Reggie, I’m sorry. I had to know what you were really thinking. Everyone I talk to seems to be pushing their own agenda and spinning things, so I thought…”

  “You thought you’d lie to me to see what you could draw out under false pretenses.”

  “It was low. I know that. I feel crummy.” And he did.

  “It’s shitty, Black. If that’s even your real name. Was all that about being a musician also a lie?”

  “No, that was the truth. I told you I have a security company. I do. It’s also a private detective agency. With one PI. Me.”

  “I’m outta here, man. You do what you gotta do, but I’m done here,” Reggie said, obviously disgusted, his outrage fueled by the high-octane liquor.

  “I completely understand, Reggie. It was a bad call on my end. I should have just leveled with you.”

  “Too late now. Thanks for the cocktails. I’m gone,” Reggie said, then lurched for the entrance.

  Black waved the server over and asked for the bill. By the time he paid it and made it outside, Reggie’s car had already peeled out of the lot.

  Chapter 19

  Black made it to Sylvia’s on time, fighting stop-and-go traffic north all the way from Orange County, which took over two hours. Sylvia greeted him at the door in a slinky gold dress that looked like a million bucks on her, and planted a kiss on his lips.

  “Right on time,” she said when she disengaged.

  “I was advised not to be late. I take those things seriously.”

  “As well you should. You ready to go?”

  “Absolutely. I’m famished.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. I’ve heard nothing but good things about this place. It’s supposed to be all the rage.”

  “In San Pedro?”

  “That’s the new thing. Apparently you open a brilliant restaurant in a bad neighborhood. It increases the cachet value,” Sylvia explained.

  “People are crazy.”

  “Especially in this town. Hang on,” she said, and retreated back into her apartment and reappeared with a gift-wrapped box. “Now I’m ready.

  “Wow. What was that they say about beware Swiss bearing gifts?”

  “Pretty sure that was Greeks.”

  “Oh. That’s not the same thing?”

  She swatted him playfully. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t want them giving our table away.”

  The drive out to San Pedro was relatively quick, the twenty miles mostly freeway. Black pulled up outside the restaurant entrance, an Ethiopian-themed façade manned by two valets in African attire, and waited while one of them walked around the car to verify there were no dents or scrapes before handing Black a ticket and rolling away with a baritone burble of exhaust noise.
>
  Sylvia led him into the restaurant and had a murmured discussion with the smiling host, who nodded like she’d just given him a tip on a horse, and then grabbed two menus and led them deeper into the packed dining room. Jewels and teeth glittered beneath the halogen lighting as the wealthy and the nearly so celebrated their good fortune at dark wood tables. Black was transfixed by Sylvia’s dress as she swished ahead of him. They turned a corner and entered a private dining room.

  Applause met their arrival with a loud “Surprise,” and Black was momentarily stunned by the group of people assembled in front of him: Roxie, his mother and father, and…Nina, his ex-wife. For a tortuous moment the room began to spin, and then oxygen returned to his brain and he forced a smile that would have been familiar to a mortician.

  “Wow! This is a surprise!” he said, his eyes straying to Sylvia’s, who looked a little confused by Nina’s presence.

  “Oh, honey, happy birthday! You look so handsome,” cooed Spring, his mother. His father, Chakra, beamed good vibes at him from behind her as she approached to hug him, wearing some sort of hideous tie-dyed shift. He hugged her back and took in first Chakra, wearing a decades-old Grateful Dead T-shirt and shapeless brown corduroy pants with the obligatory Birkenstock sandals to complete the outfit, then at Roxie, who had exchanged her customary black concert T-shirt for a glittery black sleeveless blouse to highlight her colorful skin art, and finally settled on Nina, who wore her black Prada cocktail dress like her fame – with stylish aplomb, looking every bit the gazillionaire diva she was.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Please, Artemus. Spring,” she corrected, and then pulled away. Nina was next, her expensive perfume perfectly complementing her three-hour-a-day gym-toned body and short, contemporary coif. She whispered into his ear like a guilty lover.

  “Happy forty-third, Black.”

  “I’m…surprised to see you here,” Black stammered, the moment awkward. He hadn’t seen her in years, although he’d spoken to her on the phone, and hadn’t prepared himself emotionally for the dislocation being in the same room with her caused. He glanced at Sylvia, who was edging to one of the two open seats closest to his parents. Black could see she recognized Nina from the magazines or videos. Sylvia looked shell-shocked, and he surmised instantly that she’d had no idea his ex-wife would be at the dinner – no doubt his mother’s doing.

  Roxie followed, her hug less charged than Nina’s, although Black couldn’t help but notice how her pert breasts pushed against his chest like untamed animals. “Happy B-Day, boss,” she said, her tone as deadpan as ever, and then she drew back with a small smirk of…triumph?

  “Sweetheart, you’re over here. The guest of honor. Between Sophie and Nina!” Spring said, smiling.

  “Sylvia, Mom. It’s Sylvia.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Of course it is. Come on, have a seat. We opened the wine before you got here, but there’s plenty more where that came from!” she said.

  Black prayed silently for the floor to open up and swallow him – or better still, all the other guests – but when it didn’t, he followed his mother to the table and sat next to Sylvia, who had a strained half-smile frozen in place. He took her hand under the table, but she pulled it away and stood.

  “Would you excuse me? I need to use the little girl’s room,” she said, and then pushed back from the table and moved away, an expression on her face like she was being chased by wild dogs.

  Nina took her own seat and lavished a brilliant grin upon the gathering, two-carat diamond studs in her ears, her desert tan flawless and evidence of a life of massages and facials and endless pampering that Black knew was her reality. She lifted her wine goblet in a toast, and then leaned into Black and murmured in his ear.

  “Well, this is awkward. Your mom neglected to mention you’re seeing someone.”

  “She does that. Welcome to her fan club. I’ve endured forty-three years of this. And you wonder why I have issues?”

  They laughed together as though sharing a private joke, and Roxie reached across with the wine bottle and poured him a slug. Black reached for the glass and downed half of it gratefully, and Roxie stared at him.

  “You want your own bottle?” she asked.

  “Is that possible?”

  “I hear they can do anything. It’s, like, a restaurant.”

  “Do they have anything stronger than wine?”

  “No. I already asked. Just beer and wine.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Especially with what you’re used to knocking back, huh?”

  Spring clapped her hands together and held her glass high. “A toast. To the birthday boy!”

  Everyone dutifully clinked glasses. Black drained his and then poured himself another, this time being more generous than Roxie.

  Nina elbowed him. “Easy there, big fellah.”

  “Hey, it’s my birthday. I can get blind drunk and pass out before dinner starts, can’t I?”

  “I was thinking I could beat you to it.”

  Black turned toward Roxie. “Why do I sense your hand in this?”

  “Oh, Roxie was so helpful! I couldn’t have pulled this together without her help. She’s a treasure, Black!” Spring proclaimed.

  “Yes, she is,” Black agreed through clenched teeth. Buried treasure if she pulls any more stunts like this.

  Sylvia returned, looking more composed, and Black leapt up to pull her chair out and seat her.

  “Thank you,” she said, her tone even, but definitely frosty. Any thoughts Black had of a nude nocturnal birthday romp evaporated. Thanks, Mom, for that. As usual, an impeccable and thoughtful gift.

  “So, what’s on the menu, besides familial closeness and drinking?” Black asked, a trifle too loud. Nina tittered like he was Ricky Gervais, while Roxie regarded him stonily. Sylvia had her smile affixed, but it never made it to her eyes. Spring was, of course, completely oblivious to how she’d ruined his life in just a few short seconds, and was holding hands with Chakra, who had yet to say two words. Black wondered whether he was stoned, and then decided that it didn’t matter. If anything, he envied him if he was.

  “Well, honey, I took the liberty of ordering. After the shorba, which is a lentil soup, will be the injera, with a variety of wats on it,” Spring explained.

  “What?”

  “It’s a kind of flatbread with different stews on it. The bread’s the injera. The stews are called wats,” Nina said.

  “Mmm. Sounds…exotic,” Black managed. “What are the stews made out of? Monkey brain? Goat sphincter?”

  “That’s the second course,” Roxie said with a smirk, apparently delighting in his discomfort.

  “Maybe we know what happened to Mugsy,” Black fired back, then immediately felt bad when a moment of pain flashed in her eyes.

  “Who’s Mugsy?” Nina asked, oblivious to the dynamic.

  “Just some cat that hangs around the office,” Roxie said, her voice a monotone.

  “So, Sophie, it’s wonderful to finally meet you in person. Black’s kept you hidden away for too long. I understand you’re from Sweden?” Spring said, and Chakra nodded assent, or perhaps stretched a cramp in his neck.

  “It’s Sylvia, Mom. And she’s from Switzerland.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry, Sylvia. I’m terrible with names,” Spring apologized. “But it’s so wonderful to meet you and connect a face with the voice.”

  Black turned to Sylvia. “You’ve been talking?”

  “To coordinate dinner,” Sylvia offered.

  “I thought Roxie handled that?”

  “Oh, she did. She put me in touch with Sylvia. We’ve had such a wonderful time planning tonight,” Spring explained. “She’s absolutely precious, Artemus.”

  Black winced at the use of his detested first name.

  “Yes she is, Artemus,” Roxie echoed, savoring each syllable like a rare delicacy. “We couldn’t have done it without her, Arte-musss.”

  “I really prefer to be calle
d Black,” he said, trying to direct the conversation away from Roxie’s mockery, which he knew would be relentless once she got warmed up.

  “Of course you do, Artemus,” Roxie agreed. “Or do you prefer Art?”

  “Speaking of art, Sylvie has a show at a gallery on Melrose starting next week. It’s very exciting,” Black tried, shifting to neutral ground.

  “Oh, really? You’re an artist?” Nina asked.

  “Yes. That’s why I’m in Los Angeles,” Sylvia said.

  “Wouldn’t New York be more relevant for art?”

  “L.A. is developing quite a reputation for innovative offerings,” Sylvia explained. “New York is more cliquish. If you don’t know the right people, you can’t get noticed. L.A. is less political that way.”

  “How nice. Is it a big gallery? Anyone I would have heard of?” Nina asked, all polite interest.

  “Probably not. It’s more of a boutique shop. Intimate.”

  “Interesting. I have an art buyer for my homes. You must tell me where I can find your work – I’ll see to it that he takes a look at it.”

  “That’s very…generous of you, Nina,” Sylvia said, her expression all friendliness – the kind that immediately precedes an ice pick to the spine.

  “Nina’s going to be going out on a world tour. Another world tour! Isn’t that exciting?” Spring exclaimed, a feverish look of adoration in her eyes.

  “Oh, Spring, really. I hate going out on the road. Those huge coliseums are so impersonal. I much prefer the smaller venues.” Nina smiled at Sylvia. “You know, three to five thousand. You get fifty thousand in an arena and it’s no fun.”

  “You still draw that kind of crowd?” Black asked.

  “I know! It’s a shock every time I see the box office. My fans are very loyal. Thank God.”

  “If you’re looking for a towel girl, or an opening act, I’m available,” Roxie quipped, and everyone took a breather to sip their wine. Black hoped Nina was done, but she continued, seemingly unaware of how Sylvia’s accomplishments had been ground underfoot, about as significant compared to Nina’s as a first grader’s clumsily drawn stick figure self-portrait in crayon contrasted to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.