BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  Black settled back in, watching, and two hours later checked the time, the street now bright with morning light. He needed to get into the office, and traffic from East L.A. would be a bear. It would be a small miracle if he made it in less than an hour, putting him at his building about the time Roxie usually sauntered in at nine-ish.

  The big V8 roared to life and he pulled away from the curb. At least he’d reassured himself that, whatever Ernest’s faults, he wasn’t moonlighting on the docks, so he could scratch that off his list. Which wouldn’t really help Stan, but facts were facts.

  He wheeled to the end of the block and onto the artery that led to the freeway, where he was greeted by a sea of brake lights. Waves of heat shimmered off hoods as the great unwashed waited for their chance to crawl their way to work. Black punched his stereo on and tapped his fingers to Aerosmith’s “Love in an Elevator,” Tyler’s bawdy wail cutting through the screaming guitars like a testosterone-driven bird of prey. The car next to him held two Latinos with gang tattoos pumping whatever the latest rap noise was; the atonal stuttering of the rapper bemoaned the trials and tribulations of keeping his bitches in line and fending off hoes who wanted a piece of him.

  Black considered dropping the top but decided against it, as the residual Santa Anas were still gusting, carrying with them enough allergens to make Black’s face swell like a Shar Pei’s. He debated popping another Benadryl, but thought better of it given how sleepy he already was, now forty-eight hours since he’d started the nocturnal surveillance with no more than cat naps each day for a break. If it had been anyone but Stan, he would have been charging two grand a day for his time, easy, but friends were friends, and he didn’t have anything better to do – certainly no clients beating down his door.

  Which was fine. There was money in the bank, for the first time since he could remember, from a series of jobs that had been thrown his way by satisfied customers. So he wasn’t worried. Yet. Although he knew it could turn on a dime, and just because he’d had a good run didn’t guarantee it would continue.

  The drive into downtown was worse than he’d feared, and by the time he made it to the office it was half past nine. There were no parking places on his block, and he had to walk what seemed like miles from his eventual spot to his building, tired, unshaven, bleary-eyed and un-showered. He mentally steeled himself for a scathing reception from Roxie as he swung the downstairs entrance open and tromped heavily up the stairs, his limbs feeling like he was swimming through molten lead as he made his way toward a truculent, obese cat that despised him and an assistant who tormented him for sport.

  And that was the good part.

  When he pushed through his office door, Mugsy, the porky feline bane of his existence, cracked one sleepy eye and took him in with a look of disapproval before going back to sleep. For a brief instant Black envied the cat, but shook it off as an odor like an open sewer assaulted him.

  “I see Mugsy’s digestive problems aren’t preventing him from on-loading his body weight in cat chow per day. Can’t you open a window or something? It smells like a camp latrine in here,” Black said by way of morning greeting.

  Roxie didn’t look up from her monitor. Her hair was dyed purple with black tips and her forearm sported a new tattoo of the cartoon character Speedy Gonzalez slathered with Vaseline. “Morning, boss man. Why don’t you just kick him while you’re at it? Start the day right?”

  “I’m just saying that if I was a client, I’d turn around if that hit me when I walked in.”

  “Oh. Right. Maybe that’s why the unending stream of eager customers has slowed. It’s Mugsy’s fault.”

  “The place stinks.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about that much longer. I’m turning in my notice,” she said, and finally looked up at him. Her eyes were ringed with exaggerated black mascara and her full lips gleamed with ruby red lipstick. In spite of himself, Black felt a stirring, which quickly faded when he registered her words.

  He hesitated, wary of some ruse. “Yeah, right. Sure you are.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’m moving.”

  Black walked like an automaton to his office and hung his jacket on the door before returning to make coffee. “Wait. You really mean it? You’re moving? Where to?”

  “To Germany. Berlin. In three weeks.”

  Black almost dropped the pot as he fiddled with the filters. “Berlin? Why? That’s like a whole other country. And they don’t speak English there.”

  “Glad you’ve heard of it. Your command of geography is always impressive. They speak German. Hence the name of the country. German-y. I kind of put that together already. It’s on the internet.”

  “You haven’t answered the why part,” Black said, dumping an extra dollop of coffee into the reservoir and sliding it into place. “Do we have any bottled water?”

  “I usually just scoop it out of the toilet when you have me make coffee. Which is poison, you know. I’m pretty sure just smelling it shortens my life.”

  “Which would be funny coming from someone sitting in Mugsy’s methane den, if laughing didn’t make me gag. But seriously, Roxie. Why Berlin?”

  “It’s Eric. His cousin lives there, and suggested he open a tattoo parlor. Business has only been so-so lately at his place up on the strip, so he agreed.”

  “Wait. So Eric can’t make his business work in the tattoo capital of the world, and the solution is to go to Berlin and try his hand at it there? And you’re going to follow him?”

  “There’s apparently a big demand for skin art in Germany. All the rage.”

  Black tried to frame a civil response but couldn’t, so he went out into the hall and filled the pot from one of the bathroom sinks to buy himself time. For all their sparring, Roxie ran his business, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to replace her. She was a pain in the butt, but damn good at what she did, and…and the truth was, it wouldn’t feel like Black Investigations without Roxie’s sarcastic, deadpan delivery to greet him every morning.

  When he returned to the suite, he decided to be casual about her revelation, play it cool. Eric was a malingering lowlife and probably wouldn’t be able to scrape up the money to move, so this was likely all drama that would come to nothing.

  He poured water into the coffee machine, switched it on, and waited patiently by it as it burped and sputtered.

  “What’s that on your pants? You have some kind of…accident?” Roxie asked.

  Black remembered the coffee in the car. Damn. He’d spaced. Should have stopped at his apartment.

  “I spilled something on them.”

  Roxie went in for the kill. “I know as men enter their golden years, they lose control of their bodily functions. Kind of like old dogs. They say the knees are the first to go, but I’m not so sure about that.”

  “That’s something to look forward to, I suppose. But in this case, I had a little accident with some 7-11 coffee.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I mean, it totally is, but I’m trying to be supportive so you don’t feel bad about the natural effects of aging.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Charity begins at home.”

  Her eyes twinkled with glee. “Are you going to get those adult diapers? I’ve seen them at the store. I can pick you up a bag…”

  “I don’t need diapers.”

  She smiled sweetly. “You do if you’re going to poop your drawers.”

  “Can we get back to you moving to Germany?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, anyway, we’re going to leave in three weeks, so you’ll need to find someone else willing to work impossible hours for nearly nothing.”

  “You don’t even work seven hours a day. And I pay you well.”

  “You pay me well if I was living in a mudhole in Bangladesh, Mr. Slum Dog.”

  Black refused to rise to the bait. “How sure are you about this?” he asked, his voice even. “It seems sudden.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. We agreed on it over the weeke
nd. Eric’s already arranging for someone to take over the shop here on a sub-lease.”

  “Wow. Well, what are you going to do in Berlin? What about the band? Your career?”

  “There’s a huge rock scene there. And these days, being in L.A. doesn’t get you much. It’s not like it was back in the Stone Age. Labels look internationally for talent, and they invented this thing called the internet a while ago, so it makes it pretty easy. I figure I’ll move, find a band, and build it from there. Hell, it’s not like Capital’s knocking my door down, anyway. Can’t be any worse in Germany.”

  “Yes, it can. It rains a lot. And snows. And all they eat is sausage, lard, and pig sphincter. And…you’ll be leaving Mugsy to fend for himself,” Black said, playing his hole card last.

  “Oh, no. I already told Eric Mugsy’s going with us. There’s no way I’d leave my little fur baby behind.”

  “Little isn’t the first word that comes to mind,” Black said, eyeing Mugsy’s sleeping form. “Unless you think an economy car’s little.”

  “He’s losing weight. I’ve got him on special food.”

  “Is that what that stink is?”

  She glared at him. “Don’t worry. He won’t be here to sully your empire much longer.”

  “I’m just afraid the smell’s going to trigger the fire alarm.”

  “Why do you have to bag on him? He loves you.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Is it your incontinence that’s hardening your heart against him?”

  “I’m not incontinent.”

  “Right. And you didn’t sleep in your suit, either. Weren’t you wearing that yesterday?”

  “I was on a stakeout.”

  “With a bottle of Jack for company? Little drinky drink after a fight at home, perhaps? And now you’re taking it out on a helpless cat?”

  “I haven’t had a drink in two days.”

  She rolled her eyes theatrically. “I’m afraid you’re not at a meeting, but I’ll congratulate you anyway. One day at a time, and all that.”

  Black smiled good-naturedly. “Roxie. I’m not an alcoholic, and I’m not incontinent.”

  “They say you have to lose the denial to move forward.”

  Black considered continuing the circular banter but opted for coffee instead. He carried the pot into his office, wanting to reduce his interactions with Roxie until he could formulate a coherent response to her announcement. Eric was a first-class slimeball, but women sometimes fell for those, he knew, and Roxie had apparently decided that whatever Eric’s faults, he was her slimeball. Black had no doubt Eric would screw her over, but he couldn’t just blurt that out like a jealous lover. He needed hard facts, and right now he was so tired he couldn’t think.

  The phone rang, and it took Roxie three rings to break away from whatever she was doing online to answer it. Black poured himself a brimming cup of steaming brew and was dumping in enough sugar to drive him into a diabetic coma when his line buzzed and Roxie’s voice called from her station.

  “It’s Bobby. Line one.”

  Black took a deep breath and lifted the headset to his ear.

  “Yo. Bobby. The Bobster. Bob-a-licious. How’s it hanging?” Black asked with fake good cheer.

  “Um, good. Listen, I’ve got a potential client here with me, and you’re on speakerphone.”

  Black’s stomach did a flip, and he muttered an inaudible curse and switched gears. “Right. Well then. With whom am I speaking?”

  “My client, Daniel Novick. He’s got a deal in progress, but he’s got some misgivings and is looking for some investigative talent. We were wondering what your schedule looked like?”

  A higher pitched voice came on the line. “Hi, Mr. Black. Daniel here. I was hoping we could get together at some point today or tomorrow. Bobby has nothing but good things to say about you.”

  “That’s good to hear. Let me look at my book,” Black said, rubbing his face. He couldn’t meet a client looking like he’d slept on a park bench. And he was too groggy to be coherent, much less impressive. So it would have to be tomorrow. “I’m afraid I’m booked today, but I could make it mañana in the morning. Do you want me to come to your office, or should we meet at Bobby’s?”

  “Either way’s fine with me,” Bobby chimed in.

  “Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to come to mine?” Daniel asked.

  “Not at all. What’s the address?” Black asked. Daniel gave him the information – an exclusive area of Beverly Hills just off Rodeo Drive.

  “Can you make it at, say, eleven? I’ve got meetings before then,” Daniel said.

  “Of course. That would be perfect. Eleven tomorrow, at your office. Is there a business name?”

  “Yes. It’s DNA. We’re one of the largest modeling agencies in the country. We have offices here, New York, and Miami. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

  “Mmm, no, I’m afraid not. But I’m not really in that business, so…”

  “Well, no matter. I’ll look forward to meeting you. I’m hoping you can help me with my issue.”

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  Bobby’s voice boomed in the background. “See you then. I’ll call you back in a few.”

  “Okay.”

  Black disconnected, his head suddenly splitting, and jotted down the name and address before he forgot it. He took a gulp of coffee and burned his tongue, prompting another round of soft swearing. Aside from this possible new business, it had been a terrible day so far, and it had barely begun. He debated crawling under his desk, curling up in a ball, and going to sleep, but nixed the idea. Bobby would be calling any time. Maybe he’d go home after he talked to him. Catch a little shut-eye and try to recover. He couldn’t keep going at his current pace – Stan’s shirking ex-employee would have to take a back seat for a little while.

  He took another cautious sip and grimaced as the tip of his tongue tingled. Whoever Bobby referred was usually a high roller, so the gig would be worth at least two hundred fifty per hour, plus expenses. He hoped that Daniel had a really complex problem that would take some serious time to unravel. Selfish, but there it was. Especially with Roxie’s status in question, money might make things easier. If the impossible happened and she really did leave, he’d be running ads, interviewing, and maybe even paying more to get a qualified replacement.

  Not that Roxie could be replaced. For all her difficult ways, she was a crack researcher, and kept his affairs straight. His bookkeeping actually made sense now; when he had a case her research was always fast and efficient, and other than Mugsy turning the office into a kitty litter box, he couldn’t really complain.

  Plus, in spite of her constant harassment, he had a weak spot for her. Actually liked her, if he was honest with himself. If she really left…he knew he’d miss her, even though he’d never admit that to anyone.

  He checked his emails and killed time, and twenty minutes later Bobby was on the line again.

  “So fill me in. What’s Daniel’s deal?” Black asked.

  “He’s a bigwig in the fashion industry. Does a ton of business. Mainly out of New York – he’s only here occasionally to check up on the local office. He’s buying another agency in town, and he’s got problems with the transaction.”

  “Problems? What kinds of problems?”

  Bobby sighed. “He thinks someone’s targeting his talent.”

  “Targeting? What does that mean?”

  “It means someone’s killing the models.”

  Chapter 2

  Black felt better the next morning after a long night’s sleep and his first shave and shower in forever. He’d awoken to Sylvia’s kisses, and after a languorous lovemaking session he’d selected one of his black suits and a teal tie that would have been at home on Sinatra, and prepared himself for an eventful – and hopefully profitable – day.

  Once showered and dressed, he poured a bowl of cereal and sat at the postage-stamp-sized kitchen table, spoon in hand, munching on sugary puffs as he stared bla
nkly out his grimy window. Sylvia shuffled in, still groggy, wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else, and poured herself some orange juice. She’d been spending most nights at his place over the last month, which he didn’t mind a bit, but had resisted bringing any clothes over – some kind of a girl thing, Black supposed.

  “You look very handsome. Dignified,” she said, eyeing him from the refrigerator.

  “If I can fool you, I can fool anyone.”

  “You should wear that tomorrow night.” Sylvia was an artist, and had a big show coming up the following evening that she’d been excited about for weeks. “I’ll be the envy of everyone there.”

  “I’m more than a boy toy. Not much more, but still.”

  “That’s what you think. I just keep you around for sex.”

  “Not that I have a problem with that. Just saying.”

  “Seriously. You’ll be the star of the show.”

  “Except that I know nothing about art.”

  “Even better. Neanderthal sells big these days.”

  He finished his cereal and carried it to the sink. “You going to hang out here today?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve got errands to run and some last minute stuff for the exhibition. I’m getting more nervous as it gets closer. Pulling my hair out.”

  “You could have fooled me. You’ll do great.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve gotta go. See you tonight?”

  “I’ll call. I don’t know yet. I might not be good company. I probably won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Okay. Just touch base later. I’ve gotta run.”

  Sylvia’s arms circled his waist. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. He gave her a long embrace, and when they parted he felt, as he often did, that he was a truly lucky man.

  Which changed when he remembered that he had a therapy session with his quack, Dr. Kelso. He made another resolution to stop pouring money he didn’t have down a black hole in the form of appointments every other week with the charlatan, but as usual chickened out once he was on the couch staring at the painting he was convinced the twisted doctor had placed there to torment him.