BLACK
is
The New Black
Russell Blake
Copyright 2013 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Features Index
Bonus excerpt from Upon a Pale Horse
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Bonus Excerpt ~ Upon a Pale Horse
About the Author
Bonus excerpt from Upon a Pale Horse
A controversial, frightening bio-thriller that blurs the line between truth and fiction, Upon A Pale Horse raises disturbing questions about the man-made origin of nightmare epidemics, and posits a conspiracy so plausible that it will linger long after the novel’s shocking conclusion.
When young attorney Jeffrey Rutherford’s brother is killed in a plane crash minutes after take-off from JFK, his life is turned upside down – especially when he discovers that his brother’s career wasn’t what it seemed. Jeffrey’s staid existence is upended as he races to unravel a Gordian knot of deceit and betrayal, and ultimately must battle an unstoppable adversary bent on systematic global genocide.
Preview and purchase details on Russell’s website
Preview and Purchase from Amazon
Go to excerpt at end of the book
Prologue
Peals of laughter drifted over the pulsing disco beat in the ballroom of the Peninsula Hotel. A cross section of New York’s beautiful people wiggled and shook to the band’s spirited rendition of “Play That Funky Music.” The singer leered in all the appropriate places, his white Angel Flight slacks and red satin shirt shimmering in the rippling light from the overhead disco ball as he did his best Mick Jagger rooster strut for the crowd.
Three tall young women on the dance floor ground their hips with the enthusiasm of strippers, twerking their equally statuesque and stunning partners, each one the lucky recipient of exceptional genes and youthful enough so any signs of debauchery hadn’t begun to show. One of the dancers, a thin black man wearing a too-tight yellow T-shirt that highlighted his bleached silver dreadlocks, threw back his head and grinned as the Ecstasy he’d taken a half hour earlier finally hit like a body slam to the mat.
Daria disengaged from her partner, a twenty-something hedge fund manager who’d invited her to his mansion in the Hamptons an hour after meeting her, and ran a hand through her ebony locks. He was nice, but insufferably full of himself, she thought as she raised a regal finger at a waiter. In spite of the man’s money, she’d already decided to blow him off – she could pick and choose rich admirers, and had been linked to some of the wealthiest bachelors in the world, so this again was just more of the same.
She gazed around and sighed. The whole party was a bore. After three years as one of the most sought-after models in the business, she’d attended more wrap parties than she could remember, and the novelty had long ago worn thin.
She’d come a long way from her native Venezuela, where she’d been discovered at fifteen by a scout from an American agency; her sultry look was an intoxicating blend of the lascivious and the pure, according to the gushing spotlight features in a spate of magazines the following year. Now, at nearly twenty-one, she was nearing middle age in her career, with a bloated bank account, two small dogs, and more frequent flyer miles than a diplomat to show for it.
The tables ringing the floor were sparsely occupied now that dinner was a memory and the fashion shoot finished. The crew took this opportunity to let their hair down along with the models, the music and dim lighting a great equalizer, everyone a rock star on this celebratory evening. Tomorrow would bring hangovers, flights back home and regrets after waking up with strangers, but for a few short hours it was prom night, and booty shaking was the order of the day. High-powered Wall Street bankers chatted with models half their ages from Milan and Paris, a pop diva held court with a fawning entourage, and a film star with a bad boy reputation was driving home an earnest point to a male star of the New York City Ballet who sipped theatrically on a martini, doing his best Marlene Dietrich with a forbidden cigarette smoldering in an ebony holder.
The band segued into KC and the Sunshine Band’s “That’s The Way” and the dancers woohooed like the singer had tossed hundred dollar bills into the air. A steward moved like a wraith through the assembly, balancing a tray laden with champagne flutes and Perrier bottles with the practiced dexterity of a juggler. The band worked the chorus, the bass player, a dead ringer for Bootsy Collins, hamming it up as he shucked and jived. A young woman clad in a painted-on black sequined dress, all chocolate skin and neon red hair, joined the singer on the refrain, and the crowd went wild – an hour earlier she’d been taking a final bow before a sold-out crowd at the Apollo.
Three days of grueling photo shoots in the Bowery and a host of distressed locations around the city were finally over, and the fall collection for one of the world’s top mediocre designers had been commemorated with smoldering urban angst, featuring cadaverous women from runways around the world and a cast of male counterparts with brooding glowers and come-hither pouts. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had been spent to get just the right look: steam rising from early-morning manhole covers framing barely legal ingénues with impossibly long legs and smiles that promised paradise.
Daria took another sip of champagne. The Veuve Clicquot the caterers were serving tasted like ambrosia, and she lifted her long waterfall of hair off her neck so the air could cool her. It had been an odd night so far, but that was nothing new in her whirlwind life. A wave of disorientation washed over her and then receded. She closed her eyes for a moment and got her bearings, and then took another sip from her glass. Daria liked her booze and her pills a little too much, but on the last blow-out following a big campaign she felt entitled to a little relaxation – after all, she’d more than earned it, a star in a glowing constellation of the fabulously beautiful.
Her new suitor moved to her side, and she spent the next five minutes and another glass of champagne apologizing for not taking him up on his generous offer, promising to look him up when she came back to town after another shoot in Prague the following week – a promise she had no intention of keeping. His arrogant face darkened at the rejection, albeit artful, and she saw the flash of spoiled petulance of someone used to getting what he wanted, which gave her enormous satisfaction as she strutted away. As she crossed the floor she glanced at her watch and realized that she was running late – she’d committed to a rendezvous for midnight, and it was already a few minutes past the hour.
With smooth efficiency, the elevator whisked her to the sun deck terrace high above the bustle of the streets, traffic still heavy even at the late hour on a Thursday. Daria pushed through the tempered glass doors and a
cool breeze greeted her, carrying with it the familiar smells she associated with the city: exhaust and the unique odors of the river and the park, all fresh-cut grass and dewy trees rustling in the moonlight.
She extracted a cigarette from her slim purse and lit it with a delicate gold lighter – a gift from a Saudi prince who’d been enamored of her charms, she remembered vaguely. One day tended to blur into the next for Daria on a treadmill of shoots around the world, long flights dulled by chemicals, and a loneliness so massive that at times it felt as though its weight would crush her. She blew a long plume of smoke at the stars. The skyscrapers around her glowed, and Fifth Avenue stretched below her with its neon parade of vehicles jockeying for position like a living organism fueled by the impatience of the privileged.
Her chocolate eyes took in the parade with impatience, and she checked the time again. The meeting had been an odd request, but she’d been intrigued, so she’d agreed. Being sworn to secrecy only added to the allure. But her time was valuable, even if she was slightly tipsy – the half a Dilaudid she’d swallowed on her last trip to the ladies’ room intensified the effects of the alcohol with a welcome rush of warm well-being.
Downstairs, a taxi pulled to the curb and a couple climbed out, laughing, their soirée at the theater having been topped off with a nightcap at a trendy bar. The man took his mate’s hand possessively and pulled her to him. She smiled as she nuzzled his neck, and was standing on her tiptoes to kiss him when the cab’s hood suddenly crumpled with an explosive crash and a shower of broken glass: Daria’s body had reached nearly terminal velocity before slamming into the vehicle.
The driver swung his door open as traffic screeched to a stop, horns blaring, Daria’s ruined form a bloody mess on the street next to the car.
The police arrived six minutes later, and the cruiser double parked, shielding her mangled corpse from oncoming vehicles. Her sightless eyes stared in wonder at the heavens, her earthly concerns no longer an issue, still beautiful even after the brutal finality of death had ended her worldly stay. One of the two uniforms approached with a blanket and paused before draping it over her.
“Damn shame, huh? She looks like she’s barely out of her teens,” he said to his partner, a stubby officer with a fireplug physique already going to fat.
“Yeah. Takes all kinds, though, huh? Probably high as a kite, thought she could fly or something. Or life was too hard – maybe she broke a nail this afternoon and couldn’t go on?”
They exchanged tired glances far older than their years and waited for the coroner’s van, waving traffic around the crime scene. Rubbernecking drivers slowed as they crept past, causing a chain reaction that would be felt for a mile.
The next day an article on the second page of the Times would bemoan the sad untimely death of one of modeling’s top stars, two networks would rush specials chronicling Daria’s meteoric rise to the air, an entertainment channel would feature a half hour of tearful commentary from her colleagues and family, and her last shoot would propel sales of the talentless designer’s collection to giddy heights. The cab driver would go on to sue Daria’s estate for emotional trauma, and her agent and peers would organize a candlelight vigil in Central Park, where one of Broadway’s hottest stars would deliver an a capella rendition of “Hallelujah” that would be the most downloaded video on YouTube for a month.
Chapter 1
Black hated when the Santa Ana winds blew the dust, pollen, and pollution from the Riverside basin into Los Angeles, seemingly targeting his allergies to maximize his misery. He knew that the seasonal weather wasn’t specifically designed to torture him, but as he sat behind the wheel of his Eldorado, eyes red, itching, and watering, it might as well have been personal. It was bad enough that he’d been up for two nights in a row on a stakeout, living on energy drinks, Snickers bars and convenience store coffee. The Santa Anas kicked that up to a whole new level of unpleasant, and he was now firmly entrenched in his own box seat in the seventh circle of hell.
He shifted, trying to get comfortable, his ass asleep from innumerable hours watching the dilapidated ranch house on the wrong side of the East L.A. border, and a partially drunk cup of tepid coffee spilled onto the seat from where he’d propped it before promptly forgetting it.
“Gah–” he exclaimed, cursing the universe as he strained to raise his cheeks from the red leather that would now be a diarrheic burgundy after the java had soaked in. He edged from behind the wheel and groped around on the passenger-side floor for the entertainment magazine he’d brought to pass the time, fishing between the wrappers and empty cans until his fingers found the cover. Fortunately for him the pages were cheap stock and absorbed far more than would expensive, glossy fodder. Most of the coffee was sopped up between announcements of films recently optioned or stories chronicling which starlets were in rehab again.
Satisfied he’d done everything he could, he resigned himself to sitting with a wet backside in a graffiti-covered armpit of Los Angeles, watching a tired stucco crackerbox for signs of life in the wee hours of the morning. Another gust of wind blew a cloud of dust and trash down the street, and the cloth roof of the convertible shuddered like a vagrant with the DTs.
A light went on in the house, and then off again – probably someone going to the bathroom. Black’s quarry was a man by the name of Ernest Crabtree, who’d never held a job longer than a year, and whose latest occupation had been working at a small hot dog shop that Black’s friend and confidante, Stan Colt, co-owned with two other cops. Ernest had slipped and fallen three months into his employment, and was now suing the partners for the pain and suffering he’d been forced to endure as a result of the mishap. He was drawing disability in the process, and Stan had asked Black to take a hard look at him, believing that it was possible Ernest was being less than forthright about his injury, for which he was getting daily massages, physical therapy, and apparently anything else he could think of, regardless of cost.
Black had agreed to do Stan a favor and had spent the last two evenings watching the house. Stan had opined that Ernest might be working an off-the-books night job to make ends meet – he’d apparently had similar gigs in the past at the airport and at the docks in San Pedro, loading cargo for a C-note at the end of a six-hour shift. Black had done some research into his background and found three prior injury claims over the last decade, lending some weight to Stan’s suspicions about him milking the system.
“The damned attorney is saying to settle with him,” Stan had said over a beer three days earlier. “Said it would cost an easy fifty grand to defend it through trial, so we’d be better off cutting a check for that now and sparing ourselves the grief.”
“Ouch. Those are expensive hot dogs.”
“Tell me about it. The problem is nobody’s got that much lying around – we dumped most of our spare cash into the business.”
“Did you try making him a lower offer?”
“Not yet. I’m telling you, I think the guy’s a wrong one. He’s got that shifty dirtbag look, you know?”
“I see it every time I look in the mirror,” Black had affirmed.
“I’m not kidding. I didn’t hire him – Tommy did. I should have known better than to let him handle that, but I had a full caseload at the time, and…you know how it goes.”
“Tell me again why you thought a hot dog business would be a great investment?”
“The location’s killer, with a bus stop right in front, and we’re selling two hundred dogs a day during lunch. We clear about a buck per dog after expenses, and with drinks…it’s a money-maker.”
“Right. Tubes of mystery meat. Empire building. But you didn’t factor in Ernest, huh?”
“Exactly. Come on. Do me a favor. It’s not like I haven’t done you enough of them. I talked to the guys. We’d even be willing to throw some cash at covering your gas, a few meals, you know?”
“Well, I’m awfully busy…”
“You told me it’s been a week and a half since your last ca
se.”
“Did I say that? I must have been drunk. Or disoriented.”
“It was nine in the morning. On a Sunday.”
“That explains it – must have been the Rapture.”
Stan had slipped two hundred bucks across the table, clinching Black’s fate for the foreseeable future. In truth, he would have helped out anyway, but with earnest money on the table, he felt more committed.
“I’ll do what I can. I need to keep my days open in case clients want to meet.”
“Suit yourself. Anything’s better than being bled to death by this parasite.”
The first amber glow of dawn was illuminating the sky when the lights snapped back on inside the house, and this time, stayed on. Black sat up. The street was quiet now, the wind having died down an hour earlier, leaving the asphalt dusted with a coating of sand blown west from the desert. He sank below the level of the dash when the front door opened. Out stepped Ernest, wearing a whiplash collar, a pair of sweat pants that did nothing for his rotund frame, and a white T-shirt that struggled to cover his belly. Black watched as he made his way to his car, a Ford Taurus from the mid-nineties, gingerly slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Black followed the car to a twenty-four hour market, which Ernest entered while Black sat across the street. He emerged a few minutes later with a loaf of bread in one hand and a bulging plastic bag in the other, and returned to his house. Black took a few photos, but knew as he did so that Ernest walking into a store meant nothing in terms of his claimed disability – he hadn’t claimed to be wheelchair bound, only that he’d injured his spine.
Black frowned and rubbed a tired hand over his face. Ten hours of surveillance for shots of Ernest with breakfast. Not exactly a home run.
His eyes burned, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror. He looked like a hobo, with a pallid face, dull unwashed hair, and the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes. Black felt an almost overwhelming desire for a cigarette, but quashed it – he’d managed to avoid smoking for several months, and wasn’t going to wreck the streak now with a weak moment.
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