“Me too.” He paused. “I’m sorry about the hat.”
“So am I. You looked good in it. But don’t worry, I’ll get another one.”
“No. A good hat’s not cheap.”
“True, but I’m hoping I can parlay an intact one into some sort of sexual favors from my favorite private detective.”
“I think I already owe you for the first hat.”
“Now we’re talking.”
Chapter 21
Black trudged into the franchise coffee shop, still half asleep, having gotten only five hours before the alarm jarred him awake. He’d called Stan the night before to arrange a meeting there so that he could bounce the San Pedro events off him and see what he thought.
Stan was waiting by the front door, a cup of coffee in his big hand. “Good morning, sunshine. Wakey wakeys,” he said, upon seeing Black’s puffy face.
“Not so loud. Do you have to scream everything?”
“You have a big night?”
“It was my birthday.”
“Oh, damn. I forgot. Happy sixtieth, bud.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“De nada, compadre. Did you get anything good?” Stan asked.
“A hat, a razor, and a new watch. And of course, three hours at the San Pedro police station filling out a crime report for the drive-by that almost killed me and Sylvia.”
Stan’s expression barely changed. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”
“Do I seem like I’m kidding?”
“Go ahead and get some java and tell me all about it. I’ll go muscle one of these idiots out of a table.”
“Easier said than done.”
“You forget, I carry a gun.”
“Problem is, half of them probably do, too.”
“Only one way to find out.”
Stan went in search of a free table while Black stood in line. When it was his turn, he decided to try something different from his usual, and then recognized the barista behind the counter – a particularly unctuous fellow he’d had to put in his place more than a few times. The young man recognized Black as well, and they faced off, staring each other down like Old West gunfighters at high noon. Black waited for the truculent slacker to make the first move, while the clerk waited for Black to open with whatever gambit he’d selected with which to torment him. Black continued to study the menu, waiting him out, confident that as the line built behind him his adversary would be forced into action. He didn’t have long to wait.
“May I help you?”
Black appeared to consider the question, investing the appropriate consideration of such an open-ended query. “I certainly hope so.”
“What would you like? Your usual drip coffee today?” he asked, stressing the word drip with a slight roll of the eyes.
“No, I’m going to live a little. Every day’s a chance for reinvention, right?”
“If you say so.”
“I’m thinking a grande cappuccino. But non-fat. And only a little foam. But some extra cinnamon sprinkled on the foam.”
“A grande non-fat slim-foam cap. You can add as much cinnamon as you like at the station off to the side. Will that be all?” The question was hurled like a slap to Black’s face.
“I prefer if the barista adds the cinnamon. I don’t like doing it myself.”
The young man’s eyes flicked to the side – a possible sign of submission, but Black was taking no chances. He waited for the comeback with the wariness of a Wimbledon player anticipating the serve.
“Of course you don’t. Fine. I’ll let my colleague know.”
“And I’d like a little extra chocolate syrup in it.”
“Cappuccino doesn’t come with chocolate syrup, so any we put in would be extra. Are you saying you want some chocolate syrup?”
“I thought it came with it.”
“No, sir. We have a number of selections that do. They’re in that section of the menu,” the barista said, pointing off to the left of the sign suspended from the ceiling behind him.
“Oh. Hmm. That does complicate matters, doesn’t it?”
“The list of ingredients is next to the drink name, just so you know.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, I don’t see anything I like. Isn’t there any way to get a squirt of chocolate syrup in it?”
“Certainly, sir. But there’s a charge for that.”
“Oh.”
“The price of the ingredients is built into the beverage price. That’s why they’re different from selection to selection.”
“Very clever.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Black hesitated, savoring the moment. “You know, I think I’ll just go for drip coffee. But a vente. Why not?”
“Vente drip. Which would you like? Ecuadorian Fiesta or Ethiopian Roast?”
“Wow. Both sound delicious. Which is better?”
“They’re both very popular with a certain segment, sir.”
“And which segment is that, young man?” Black asked, rising to his full height.
“The segment that enjoys our drip coffee, sir.”
“I see. Well, my experience with Ethiopia hasn’t been particularly good. So let’s go with Ecuadorian.”
“Room for cream?”
“I prefer unflavored soy milk, warm, but not scalding.”
“Ah, yes.” It was obvious that the barista remembered his last trouncing. Black hadn’t been into that location for weeks, preferring one closer to his apartment, but his adversary definitely remembered. “Will there be anything else?”
“Could you repeat the order back to me so I know you got it right?”
“Vente drip, warm soy milk. Is that all, sir?”
“You didn’t say anything about Ecuador.”
“That’s the default choice, so they’ll select it automatically,” the server said. Behind Black, the line now stretched to the door. Black wouldn’t have to do anything more – the annoyed patrons would hold the inept counter staff responsible for their wait.
“Where do I pay?”
“Over by the register, as always, sir.”
“I get confused sometimes, is all. It’s part of an inner ear problem. Vertigo. I get disoriented.”
“Yes. Well. You pay over there.”
“It’s crippling. Sometimes I just freeze up. The dizziness is overwhelming. You have no idea.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t, sir,” the young man agreed, and then looked over Black’s shoulder to the next customer.
“Have you started taking checks yet?” Black asked.
“You should ask the cashier.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m trying to serve the next person in line. Cashier’s over to your left.”
“What if I don’t have enough money? You’d have made the coffee, and then I’d discover I’m short, and then you’d have wasted that time and energy.”
“I’ll take that chance, sir.”
The quip was still a little too snarky for Black’s taste. “I like your outfit. This seems like a fun place to work. Do you have an employment application?” Black asked.
“I’m afraid not, sir. You’d need to speak to the manager.” Now the punk was worried. He could see that Black would continue until he surrendered, and was weighing the merit of prolonging the ordeal with him versus the grumbling of those behind Black.
“Is he here?” Black asked.
“Yes.”
Black paused, allowing the tension to build. “Never mind. I think you’ve kept everyone waiting long enough.” Black had been tempted to stretch the encounter out for another two minutes just to make the man’s life more miserable, but reconsidered when he saw the capitulation in the barista’s eyes. No point in having the whole place angry at him. He’d put the smartass in his place again, and was pretty sure that he’d think twice about his attitude the next time he saw Black.
Relishing his small victory, Black moved to the register and paid for his coffee – an exorbitant amount considering t
he donut shop down the block offered a cup for half the price, but it lacked the seating area; plus the coffee at this place grew on you, even if some of the staff did have the charm of DMV clerks.
Stan was reading the paper when Black arrived at his table, a small circular wooden affair with two overstuffed leather easy chairs.
“What took so long?”
“I think the counter help needs training. He seemed pretty confused over an order for a lousy cup of drip.”
“Did you try speaking Italian? I think the sizes are in Latin.”
“Haven’t gotten to the MP3s yet.”
Stan put the paper down, took a sip of his brew, and eyed Black. “What’s this about a drive-by? And what the hell were you doing in San Pedro at night?”
“That’s the new thing. Expensive restaurants in marginal neighborhoods.”
“Idiotic.”
“You won’t find me disagreeing.”
“So what about the drive-by?”
“Oh. That. We step out of the restaurant after dinner, we’re waiting for the valet to get the car, and then this Vato-mobile comes barreling down the street and opens up on us. Sounded like a light submachine gun or a machine pistol. Maybe a Mac-10. Not large caliber.”
“Sort of a chatter?”
“You know the sound.”
“Around the precinct they call that the East L.A. lullaby.”
“Nice.”
“And you weren’t hit? Sylvia’s fine?”
“Yeah.”
“That says amateur. If you can’t hit anyone with a full auto weapon, you need a different hobby.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Then again, some of the rounds missed by inches, so it might just be that I reacted quickly,” Black said.
“Did you see the shooter?”
“No, just muzzle flashes from the car.”
Stan nodded. “So other than commiserate, what do you want me to do about it?”
“I wanted your take. My gut says it might have been something more than just random opportunistic fun. Which is what the cops out there thought.”
“Oh, yeah? Why do you think it was personal?”
“I don’t know. It just feels weird, is all.”
Stan appeared to consider Black’s idea. “Problem with that theory is there’s no way to know.”
“That’s the problem, all right. I was hoping you’d have some suggestions.”
“I do. Avoid San Pedro at night.” Stan finished his cup and glanced around. “Anything else?”
“That’s it?”
“Sorry, buddy, but what you described sounds like some punks spraying rich folks with lead for coming into their hood. That’s not unknown. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time – which is why most people avoid dangerous locales, especially after dark. But since it’s hip to expose yourself to the world’s predators, I don’t see why anyone’s surprised when they take the bait. Frankly, you know better.”
“Is this that tough love I keep hearing about?”
“Could be. Nice watch, by the way. You going to be in one of your rap buddy’s videos?”
“Seems like that’s also a dangerous place to be. Just saying.”
“You do lead an interesting life, though.”
“That I do.” Black checked the time. It was a damned nice watch. “Hey, that reminds me. Did you ever hear anything about that Jamaica thing? The Blunt shooting?”
“Yeah. No body was recovered. Apparently if you blow up a whole gas station’s underground fuel tank you don’t wind up with much.”
“I’ll be crossing that off my bucket list then. Any chance that Blunt might not have been in the car? Or that it was some kind of a staged thing?”
“Staged? Have you been smoking loco weed with your homies?”
“Just asking. There are rumors that Blunt’s not actually dead.”
Stan stood. “Yeah, he’s living in Area 51 with Elvis, John Lennon, and Jim Morrison.”
“Jim Morrison’s dead?”
“See you around, bud. I have to get to work. Not everyone has a watch that’s worth more than most cars to fall back on if they lose their gig.”
“Really? You think it’s that expensive?”
“Easily forty grand. I wouldn’t wear it a lot. Somebody might cut your arm off for that kind of loot.”
“I’d cut my arm off for that.” Black rose, and walked with Stan to the entrance. “Thanks for coming by.”
“No problem. Although I prefer whiskey in my coffee. In case you want to hook up again.”
Black had a thought. “Any progress on the boat explosion?”
“Dead end. You know as much as I do. We questioned everyone, went over what’s left of the boat with a fine-toothed comb, and nothing. It’s like the invisible man.”
“Did forensics get a definitive on it being deliberate?”
“No, and frankly, without that, it’s hard to commit any more resources to a serious investigation. It could have been a genuine accident. A short. A spark. No way of knowing. There’s no black box on a speedboat.”
“My client says it’s voodoo.”
“Your client needs a healthy dose of shut-the-f-up. Where do these guys come up with this crap?”
“No. Seriously. He says there were voodoo signs before each incident.”
Stan frowned. “Signs? Like what?”
“A feather on the boat.”
Stan drew back. “No. A feather? Damn. Why didn’t somebody say so?” He regarded Black skeptically. “You do realize you sound crazy, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“At least you’re being paid well to deal with this crap. I’m still drawing the same salary as ever. I want to be you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Chapter 22
Sam called while Black was fastening his seat belt, and asked him to come by his building within half an hour. Black was about to tell him that he was busy, but then decided that two-fifty an hour made him Sam’s bitch, at least for now.
Once in the office, he was kept waiting for ten minutes, and he was just about to say something to the arctic receptionist when Genesis entered in skin-tight jeans and a glittery top that could have been painted on.
“So how was your birthday?” she said as he stood, and then unexpectedly moved to him and kissed him on the cheek in the European way, taking care to linger long enough to make him think about what he was missing by being standoffish.
“Good. Just another night in paradise.”
“How was the restaurant?”
“If you like eating with your hands… I prefer McDees, honestly. At least there’s supposed to be cow in some of their products, and you can kind of tell which ones.”
She laughed. “That’s really popular now.”
“I don’t know. It didn’t really agree with me. And the dessert was a big letdown.”
“What did you have?”
“Mac-10 cake with a gutter slime garnish.”
He told her about the drive-by shooting, watching her eyes. She looked shocked. Then again, he sucked at reading women, as his ex could vouch for.
“Oh, my God. That’s…but you weren’t hurt?”
“No, Sylvia and I both escaped without a scratch.”
“Mmm. Sylvia. That’s a relief,” she said in a tone that indicated that it was anything but. “Did they catch them?”
“Not that I know of. You can guess how that goes. The cops have their hands full, too many shootings to deal with in anything but an assembly-line manner, so they focus on the obvious ones where a perp’s caught holding the gun. Same old story. If nobody’s killed, it gets back-burnered.”
The receptionist interrupted them by clearing her throat, and they were shown to Sam’s office, where he was standing on a small putting green with a golf club, talking on a headset.
“Don’t give me that. This was an act of God, no matter how many shysters you get to parse the contract. He got poisoned, for Christ’s sake. What was
he supposed to do, go onstage and die for the box office?”
Sam appeared to listen, then barked at the caller again. “Look. Let’s work something out. The audience got most of the show, so that shouldn’t be a full refund, right? So we book another show, and give ticket holders half off. But if you stiff him, you’ll be in court by nightfall, you got that?”
Sam pressed a small button on the headset and then made his putt, missing by a scant few millimeters. He shook his head and went to his desk, waving them forward to the three chairs in front of it.
“B-Side’s nervous. He thinks that the juju man’s out to get him. And apparently your discussion with him didn’t help matters, Black. What do you think you’re doing, anyway?” Sam demanded.
“He wanted to see me. I went. He told me about the voodoo stuff. Do you think there’s any chance that he’s nervous because a boat exploded beneath his feet, killing everyone but him and the girls? That might have thrown him a little. It would throw me.”
“He says it didn’t faze him.”
“Sure it didn’t. Because he’s bulletproof and invisible,” Black said, his voice tense.
“Any word on what the cops think? You’re connected. You should be able to find out.”
“I talked to them. There’s no proof it wasn’t accidental, so that’s a dead-end unless something else surfaces. No pun intended.”
“Then what am I supposed to tell him? He’s all but refusing to do the tour now. That would be a disaster. Sales will plummet if there’s no tour to support the album. Besides, nowadays, all the money’s made off the box office and T-shirts. That’s our bread and butter.”
“Wait. So he’d rather stay alive than make everyone rich?” Black asked.
Genesis cut in, staving off a confrontation. “If he had to postpone the tour, that wouldn’t necessarily be the end of the world.”
“Did you hear a word I just said?” Sam barked.
“Hear me out. I could get a lot of coverage out of him having to pull dates because some crazy killer is on a rampage. Controversy sells. And a killer is about as controversial as it comes.”
“It still wouldn’t make up for the money we’d make with him on the road for a year.”
“True, but hopefully the police or Black will figure out what’s going on before long. So it’s not going to be a year.”
BLACK Is Back Page 13
