BLACK Is Back

by Russell Blake

  Black snapped back to reality with a jolt, and Genesis regarded him like a mountain lion eyeing a fawn.

  “Is that your gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” she asked, and then stiffened when more loud voices echoed down the corridor.

  “Come on. Let’s see what’s going on out there,” Black said. He took off at a jog, not waiting for her to follow.

  At the barrier, four of B-Side’s crew were holding the rapper back. Across from him, Moet and two of 2Bad’s entourage were restraining 2Bad as well. B-Side had a small cut trickling blood down his right cheek, and 2Bad’s lip was swelling.

  “Tha’s right. You heard me. You ain’t nuthin’. You don’t write your own raps, you punk. You a fake, a wannabe Blunt,” 2Bad snarled at B-Side. Black caught Moet’s eye, which had a glint of amusement in it, and Black wondered whether he’d put 2Bad up to the display.

  “You full of it, you little bitch. I got more in my little finger than you ever gonna have in your life,” B-Side spat, struggling to get at his nemesis. “Tha’s all you are. A little bitch. Moet’s bitch girl, his shorty.”

  “You all brave when you got your death squad wit you, ain’t you. Who tha bitch now? At least I don’ have to steal other people’s raps to get by, you no-talent prick.”

  “You as played as a ten-dollar crack whore, punkass. An’ you hit like a bitch. I been hit worse by my mama.”

  Black edged forward and got between the two rappers. “All right. Enough.” He stared 2Bad down. “If you came looking for a fight, doing it at B-Side’s show’s about as low as it gets. Is that how you want the news to read tomorrow? ‘Jealous rival tries to disrupt show’? Because that’s how it will play. And you’ll look like a punk.”

  “Who you think you talking to?” 2Bad hissed, but Black could see from the young rapper’s expression that he’d scored a direct hit.

  “The laughingstock of the rap business, if you keep this up for even another second. You want that kind of coverage? Look around you. Half the industry’s here, and all the media. I’d back off right now and get out while you can, because they’re going to tar and feather you for picking a fight. Is that what you want?” Black didn’t wait for a response. He turned to the security men. “Get B-Side backstage. Now.”

  “This ain’t over, bitch,” B-Side yelled, and Black leaned toward him and spoke softly so only he could hear.

  “Enough. Walk away. You’re giving him what he came for. Just ignore him. He’s nothing. This is your show. He’s navel lint. You’re a star. Now start acting like one. Move. Now.”

  B-Side scowled, but nodded and elbowed toward the backstage rope. Crisis averted. Black swallowed hard, and then he saw Sam crossing the room to where Moet was standing, a small smirk of triumph on his face.

  “Have you lost your frigging mind?” Sam blurted, facing off against the mogul.

  “Sam. Nice to see you again. Been awhile, hasn’t it?” Moet said, his voice as evenly modulated as though he were discussing the weather.

  “I want you out of here, now. This is way over the line. And take your attack dog with you.”

  “Apparently the two youngsters don’t like each other. How is that my fault?” Moet smiled.

  “This is invitation only. You were invited because of who you are. But when your gang gets out of control, the party’s over.”

  “You sure you want to do this, Sam?”

  Black tugged at Sam’s jacket. “Sam. Can I see you for a minute?”

  Sam whirled to face Black, and then realized who was asking. “Sure. In a second.”

  “It’s important. We need to talk now.”

  Sam seemed about to argue, and then he recognized a graceful out when he was handed it.

  “Fine. What is it?” he said, walking away from Moet, Black by his side.

  “I wanted to get you away from that. It’s already bad enough. The papers are going to have a field day with it, without you doubling down and confronting Moet in front of everyone. You do that and he’s got no choice but to dig in. This way, you’re just a busy guy who has to move on to more important things.”

  Sam nodded. “Good thinking. I can’t believe they pulled a stunt like that. It’s a really low blow.”

  “Agreed. I think now you need to come up with a spin and put Genesis to work on the media. Whoever gets their ear first is likely to prevail. Don’t think that if Moet planned this he won’t have someone working the crowd. It’s all about perception. I’d have someone from B-Side’s new security team escort 2Bad out of the club, but let Moet stay. That way he saves face, and you don’t escalate this any further. And 2Bad isn’t in the house to cause any more trouble – but it’s not you, it’s just a security precaution.”

  “You’re not just a pretty face, are you?”

  “I’ve got a small amount of experience, Sam. Just making suggestions. You can take them or leave them.”

  “No, you’re right. Time to do some damage control. Where did you leave Genesis?”

  Black contemplated how to answer the question, but was saved by her appearance, radiating vitality as she slipped by B-Side with a peck on his cheek.

  “Ask and ye shall receive. Good luck,” Black said, and then left them to their work while he tried to find Roxie in the throng. He did a lap around the room and saw her near the far bar, talking with a tall man with long hair in his late thirties, wearing a silver Armani jacket and ripped jeans.

  “What was all that about?” Roxie asked when Black materialized by her side.

  “High-spirited youngsters. Good-natured rivalry. A schoolyard scuffle,” Black said, sizing up Roxie’s new friend. He held his hand out to the man. “Name’s Black.”

  The man shook it. “Jerry Weintraub. A&R for RCA. What’s your line?”

  “Security,” Black said, preferring not to elaborate.

  “I was just telling Jerry that he should come see us play,” Roxie said, and Black could see that Jerry was interested in more than her pipes.

  “Yeah, it sounds like it would be fun. Give me your number and I’ll call you to make sure I entered it right, then text me whenever you have a gig,” Jerry said as he extracted an iPhone from his jacket pocket.

  Roxie took it from him and dialed her cell number. Her back pocket rang, and she terminated the call. “There. File it under Roxie.”

  “Roxie. I like that,” Jerry said, and Black fought to control his gag reflex. The man was plainly trying to figure out the shortest distance between the club and Roxie’s pants. Then again, it went with the territory, and Roxie could more than take care of herself.

  “Nice meeting you, Jerry,” Black said, and moved to the bar to get another drink. After Genesis, the fight, and his conflicted flare of protectiveness for Roxie, he could use one, he reasoned. He ordered a Jack and Coke, and then guilt over Genesis assailed him with the force of a hammer to the head. What had come over him? He was with Sylvia. He liked Sylvia. A lot. They were good together. Why was he allowing Genesis to jeopardize that? And what was her angle? Why him? He’d been around the block enough to be honest with himself – he had a certain charm, but it wasn’t ‘tear my clothes off and take me now’ level charisma, more a ‘maybe if I was drunk enough’ or ‘what the hell, I’ve done worse’ caliber game.

  No, there was something else at play than his irresistible good looks and Adonis-like physique, not to mention his snappy fashion sensibility. Genesis wanted something from him. And she was pulling out all the stops to get as close to him as possible.

  Roxie tittered a fake laugh at something Jerry said, and he felt a momentary flicker of anger, which he tamped down. The drink came just in time. He swigged half of it in a gulp, and then decided to see how things had settled backstage. According to his embarrassingly expensive watch, they had ten minutes to go before B-Side would take the stage. With Genesis busy running interference, his virtue would be safe, at least for a while, so he braved the security team again and found his way to B-Side’s dressing room.


  When Black entered, B-Side looked up, and the two security men who had arrived with him glared at Black like they were ready to waterboard him. B-Side’s entourage lounged around the room. A fat joint was making the rounds, the cloying smoke thick as fog.

  “Yo, Black. What up?” B-Side called out. The rapper seemed to be genuinely pleased to see him. “Thanks for playing referee there. Punks an’ wannabes always getting in my face.”

  “Looks like you took one for the team there, huh?” Black said, eyeing the cut on B-Side’s cheek, which had already clotted.

  “One of his rings got me. Otherwise it felt like a fly landed on me,” B-Side said, and his homies laughed.

  “Yeah, he seems like a lightweight.”

  “He ain’t nuthin’,” B-Side agreed, his street accent thick now that he was in full character.

  “You going to kill ’em?” Black asked.

  “Everybody be dead before I get to the chorus, man.”

  “Break a leg. I’m going back out front to enjoy the show.”

  “Yo, wait a second.” B-Side stood and walked to the door with Black. “Thanks for the security guys, too. They all right.”

  “They’re more than all right. They’re badasses. Every one of them can kill with his bare hands. No lie.”

  “I can tell. Full-on ninja juju.”

  “Yup. They’ll watch your back. Oh, and some advice – don’t eat anything here. Just to be safe.”

  “I know. They already schooled me.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you around,” Black said, and B-Side nodded to him, looking for a brief instant young and vulnerable, a little boy playing at being a tough. The moment passed, and Black twisted the doorknob, feeling the security guards’ eyes on him as he left.

  Roxie was still enjoying Jerry fawning over her like a schoolboy in heat when Black returned, and then the lights dimmed and a deafening beat shook the floor as a spotlight began sweeping the stage, where a tall Rastafarian manned a DJ booth next to a drum kit and several amplifiers. The crowd cheered good-naturedly, and B-Side’s band took the stage – accomplished sidemen dressed in inner-city chic, in keeping with B-Side’s ganged-up image. The backup vocalists joined them, and B-Side emerged from backstage, brandishing a wireless mike like a weapon as the band synched up to the beat. Then it was show time. A guitar wailed like it was singing the blues on the Mississippi delta over a pulsing bass riff, the drums thumping like artillery fire as B-Side stripped off his shirt, revealing slabs of stomach muscle and a body-builder’s upper torso covered in tattoos. The fans went nuts as he launched into his hit, “Slap Dat Bitch Down,” and Black watched for a few minutes before returning to the bar for a freshener.

  Rap wasn’t his thing, and to his ear it was just B-Side shouting over a marginally tight band.

  He watched Roxie, hips grinding to the rhythm, and suddenly he felt tired. It had been a long twenty-four hours, and he was definitely earning his money on this one, no question. B-Side finished his first number and transitioned into his second, which promised his enemies that he would cut their asses like a night prowler.

  When the performance had drawn to a close, it felt like he’d been bludgeoned with a tire iron from the over-amped kick drum, and he couldn’t get Roxie free of her new admirer fast enough. There was no need to stick around after the show – security would spirit B-Side away through the rear entrance to his waiting limo, so he could avoid the throng of fans who were swarming at the backstage checkpoint in vain.

  As he and Roxie traversed the emptying room, Black caught a glimpse of Genesis’ shiny silver armor as she schmoozed two journalists, and his remorse fought with a pull of desire that was as troubling to him as his mixed feelings about Roxie, who seemed to grow more attractive with each drink.

  Probably some kind of early male menopause, he thought, and then they were out of the club, heading for the parking lot with a stream of other attendees as the club feverishly prepared for the night’s show, with doors opening in two hours – a never-ending cycle that had been going on as long as Black had been in Hollywood and would continue long after he’d gone to his ultimate reward.

  “So you score an audition?” Black asked, his ears still ringing from the volume in the club.

  “Maybe. I think he’s more interested in playing Fifty Shades with me. But you never know.”

  “So cynical for one so young.”

  “Tell me he didn’t have letch oozing out of every pore.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “No, Roxie, you certainly weren’t.” He turned his head and regarded her. “Are we clear on how you’re going to handle Todd?”

  She rolled her eyes and frowned.

  “After Jerry? Piece of cake.”

  Chapter 25

  The gallery was a modest one, with multiple rooms featuring various artists’ work. A tall woman with an unfortunate facelift greeted Black and Roxie at the door and welcomed them inside, pointing out the wine and cheese bar set up on a white-tableclothed podium near the entrance: several bottles of indifferent Chilean red wine sitting next to a half-empty bottle of California chardonnay and two trays of Swiss cheese on wheat crackers. Forty or fifty people mingled while sipping their chosen poison from clear plastic wine glasses. Black was only halfway to the drink table when he was intercepted by a short, paunchy man with an obviously dyed goatee and a haircut that defied gravity.

  “Welcome, welcome. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before, have I? I’m Walter Mellon. The owner,” he explained, extending a limp hand with all the enthusiasm of a fast food employee offering extra ketchup.

  “Jim Black, and this is–”

  “Roxie. I’m his daughter,” she announced with a beaming smile.

  “Oh. Very nice. It’s not often that we get two generations of aficionados,” Walter said.

  “Well, we do try to do as much as possible together. Time goes by so quickly, and you never know how long you have,” Roxie explained.

  “Yes, there is none of us sure of when our time has arrived. It’s one of the things I love about art. It’s timeless, and makes a wonderful legacy to pass down through the ages,” Walter tried, honing his pitch as he took in Roxie’s tats.

  “We just came from a rap concert!” Roxie said excitedly, a look on her face like she’d been lobotomized on the ride over.

  “Really,” Walter said, growing cooler by the second.

  “The family that raps together, stays together,” Black intoned, his voice dead serious.

  “How wonderful. Well, take your time, enjoy the wine, and let me know if you have any questions.”

  “Are any of the artists here tonight?” Roxie asked.

  “Oh, my, yes. We’re lucky enough to have Mona Herrick with us. She’s in the second room, where her landscapes are displayed. A brilliant talent. Really making a stir. I have no doubt her work will be fought over by collectors in years to come. And Todd…Porter is in the last room. You’ll see his sculpture throughout the gallery. He works mainly in ceramic – a very unusual take on post-modern sensibility, very urban but cultivated at the same time. We’re fortunate to have some of his most important pieces on display.”

  Black nodded along, wondering what the little man was talking about, and he felt his eyes glazing over.

  “What makes a piece important?” Roxie asked, and Black could have kicked her. They were in. No need to belabor the introductions and bore themselves to death.

  “Good question. They’re pieces with a certain weight, a particular gravitas and impact, you know?”

  “So the heavier ones are more important?” Roxie asked, her voice completely free of mockery. Black knew that tone too well, and wondered how he could cut it off at the pass.

  “Mmm, not so much. That’s more of a catch-all phrase. I meant pieces that create a sort of visceral response, that trigger an emotional note, preferably with a sense of irony or whimsy. That’s
really what Todd specializes in. He’s quite gifted. You’ll see.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him,” Roxie said, and then left them for the wine.

  “What a remarkable young lady,” Walter said, trying to compliment him. Black supposed owning a gallery selling high-priced art was all about sucking up. He made a mental note to cross that off his list of potential careers.

  “Yes, she is. We’re all hoping that third time’s a charm on rehab. She’s had a difficult time of it.”

  “Yes, well, remember to ask for me if you have any questions,” Walter said, eager to move on to a better class of prospect.

  “Will do, Walter.”

  Black joined Roxie at the podium, where she was pouring herself a brimming glass of white wine. He splashed a dollop into a glass, tasted it, and then filled the glass with red.

  “How is it?” Roxie asked.

  “Kind of like battery acid with some vanilla extract mixed in.”

  “Just the way I like it.”

  “Nice crack about you being my daughter, by the way.”

  “Well, Black, you are old enough to be my dad.”

  “Ouch. Not really, unless I started when I was sixteen or so.”

  “Papa. Paaapaa…”

  He shushed her, looking around in case they were attracting attention. “Could we save the Comedy Central routine for later?”

  “Sure thing, Pops. Where to now?”