BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  Black tried his hardest to ignore the thinly-veiled depiction of warring phalluses, but it was no good. Their cavorting, thrusting into a hellish sky rendered by the artist, was simply too much. He turned and looked at Kelso, his rubbery lips like two worms ringed by unruly strands of coarse graying beard, his thick horn-rimmed glasses a deliberate affectation, Black was sure, intended to lend him a scholarly air that was entirely undeserved based on what he’d seen of the good doctor’s performance to date. Kelso seemed ready to fall asleep at any moment, as was often the case during their time together, and after asking a few perfunctory questions about Black’s mood, could have easily been dozing between vaguely interested moans and monosyllabic grunts. Until Black touched on the topic of Roxie, which always seemed to perk the old pervert right up.

  “Yeah, it was just odd. One day everything’s fine, and the next she’s giving her notice.”

  Kelso sat forward. “Yes. I see. And how does that make you feel?”

  Black frowned. “Annoyed, to start with. Because now I need to find a new assistant.”

  “To start with. Hmm. And by annoyed, don’t you really mean angry?” Kelso asked.

  “No. More annoyed. And a little rejected.”

  “Because she’s made a choice. To leave. And you take that personally, yes?”

  “Of course I do. She’s leaving me, isn’t she?”

  “Well, she’s leaving Los Angeles. Perhaps everything doesn’t hinge on you?”

  Black waved him off. “This Eric – her boyfriend? He’s a complete dirtbag. Cheated on her, treats her like garbage, lies all the time. He’s one of those guys who’s always got a sneer on his face, you know? Like everyone but him is an idiot.”

  “It’s safe to say you don’t like him?”

  “Very perceptive. The thing is, he’ll wind up hurting her. It’s just a matter of time.” Black sighed, the forest of stabby phalluses in the painting blurring as his eyes watered from his allergies. “I just can’t believe she’d fall for his line of BS over and over.”

  “Are you still having sexual thoughts about her?” Kelso asked. Black didn’t like his tone, but didn’t call him on it.

  “No,” he lied.

  “None at all?”

  “Not that I recall,” Black answered in his most lawyerly way.

  “Remember that, for our time together to be effective, you have to tell the truth.”

  “Right. Well, okay…maybe a few times. But that’s only natural.”

  “Because she’s attractive.”

  “Well, yes. I mean, no, she’s a freak. But she has a quality about her.”

  Kelso nodded. “Yes. A freak. And you mentioned before that she dresses provocatively.”

  “Sometimes. Although she thinks I’m a trainwreck. She actually accused me of soiling my trousers yesterday.”

  “Soiling?” Kelso repeated, savoring the word like a rare wine.

  “Pooping my pants.”

  “I see. So you and your assistant were talking about…defecation? Your defecation?”

  “No. I mean, she was giving me shi…she was teasing me about a coffee stain on my pants. Which turned into a discussion about my age. It was actually kind of funny.”

  “Your sexy young assistant teasing you about your pants and your age. Funny. I see.”

  “No, you don’t. We have a different kind of working relationship. We tease each other. Or she teases me, most of the time.”

  “So she’s a tease, is she?” Kelso now seemed extremely interested. More so than Black could remember.

  “She teases. Yes.”

  “The young woman who dresses provocatively teases you.”

  “You make it sound sexual. It isn’t.”

  “If you say so. Tell me, does she ever touch you when she’s…teasing you? Perhaps rub up against you? Touch your arm or your hand?”

  “Touch me? No. Of course not. It’s nothing like that. She does it verbally.”

  Kelso seemed disappointed, but soldiered ahead. “Let me ask you a question, and I want you to be completely honest. Remember how important that is. Being honest.”

  Black closed his eyes. “If this is to help me. Right. Got it.”

  “Do you have fantasies about her?”

  “Besides wishing she’d do her work, you mean?”

  “Sexual fantasies.”

  “No. I’m not dreaming about banging my assistant.”

  “Or dominating her?”

  “No.”

  Kelso eyed him skeptically. “You mentioned the boyfriend. You seem animated when you discuss him. You resent him, yes?”

  “Because he’s a lying scumbag.”

  “And because he treats her poorly…at least, in your estimation.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you feel a protective impulse toward her.”

  “I suppose.” Black found that if he squinted and then blinked fast, he could make the penises seem to dance. Sort of a hula. Or maybe a kind of polka circle, a penile line-dance.

  “But you don’t feel that she recognizes his negative qualities like you do?” Kelso pressed.

  “No. She’s blind to his faults. Or it’s like pregnancy. She immediately forgets the pain and only remembers the positives.”

  “You think of your sexy young assistant in the context of pregnancy? Interesting.”

  A chime sounded. Black sighed with relief. Kelso sat back and studied his note pad, which Black would have bet contained nothing but obscene doodles. “You know what the bell means,” Kelso said.

  “Yup. I’m a hundred bucks poorer.”

  Kelso ignored the barb. “Same time in two weeks? Unless you’d like to come in next week to discuss Roxie some more. It seems like that situation’s reaching a crisis point for you.”

  Black smiled humorlessly. “Actually, no. For some reason I feel better about that. I have a clearer idea of how I’m going to handle the problem. No need to beat a dead horse.”

  Kelso eyed him distrustfully. “A clearer idea? I trust there’s nothing…you want to confide in me?”

  “Nope. I know what the bell means.”

  He left Kelso sitting, looking uncomfortable, and with a final glance at the painting, walked out of the office, stopping at the reception desk to hand over his money. When he descended the stairs to the street he was whistling, and realized that he did indeed felt better. Whether Kelso knew it or not, talking to him had given him insight on how to deal with his Roxie issue. Of course Kelso would probably have disapproved of what he intended to do. Then again, Kelso had disturbing erotic paintings in his office, regardless of the innocent air he affected when asked about them.

  No, to stop Roxie from going to Berlin, affirmations, analysis, and positive thinking wouldn’t be much good. What would do the trick would be allowing her scumbag boyfriend to hang himself, with Black helping him to do so. Which, even though he was taking on a new client and had his hands full with Ernest, he’d make time for.

  Although for a fleeting moment he wondered whether there was any way to get Eric to take Mugsy and leave Roxie behind, but then dismissed the thought.

  No point expecting miracles.

  Chapter 3

  Black cut across town and entered the rarefied environs of Beverly Hills. Scores of the wealthy clad in the latest fashions ambled down the Rodeo Drive sidewalks, taking in the overpriced goods in prohibitively expensive shop windows. Black circled around looking for a parking place, wondering to himself about a society where buying crap you didn’t need was considered a legitimate way to spend the day. He was early, so after he found a space, he decided to try a cup of eight-dollar coffee at a café with an unpronounceable Italian name and serving staff that would have been at home in a Lady Gaga video.

  He ordered a cappuccino and checked his messages while the black-clad waitress sashayed to get his drink with the insouciant lack of urgency that typified the service the wealthy received in L.A. Stan had sent an email requesting an update. Ever since Stan had gotten a
n iPad from Black for his birthday, he’d transformed from a Luddite to an online fanatic. Black rarely spoke with him on the phone anymore, Stan’s fascination with the colored screen rivaling a three-year-old’s for the latest Pixar heart-tugger.

  Black tapped out a quick ambiguous response and pressed send just as his drink arrived. The waitress’ face resembled photographs Black had seen of deep water ocean fish: sallow skin, eyes bugging out as though her internal pressure was too great for her flesh to contain. She gave him a disinterested, dead glance and went back to her position by the espresso machine, practicing her silent Italian dismissiveness, her talents wasted on the likes of him.

  He took his time, savoring every quarter’s worth of coffee as he watched a parade of exotic cars drift by piloted by the powerful or their mates, each a glass and steel cocoon of privilege that strove to distance and elevate the lucky occupants from their fellow man. A trio of stunning women walked by speaking what sounded to him like Russian, and he wondered silently how the world had changed so much since he’d arrived in town. Black’s bursts of self-awareness and introspection were few and far between, but occasionally he’d be overcome by the sense that he’d been left out of some important dialogue everyone else had participated in, missed the memo that explained how life actually worked.

  Kelso had that effect on him, he decided, and resolved for the umpteenth time to end the sessions at the next appointment. His rage was under control, his impulses moderated, and lying on the couch blathering about whether or not he wanted to jump Roxie’s bones wasn’t doing him any good, as far as he could tell.

  Black finished his cup and slid cash beneath the saucer before walking to the back of the café and using the restroom. He looked reasonably presentable, he decided as he studied his reflection in the mirror, and began the loop of silent positive affirmations he’d been working with since he’d started his Kelso ordeal. He was a winner. He was master of his own destiny. He did rule everything he could see. The fruit of success was dangling from the tree of plenty awaiting him to effortlessly claim it for his own.

  Of course, that would have resonated with more conviction if he wasn’t living from paycheck to paycheck in a fleabag apartment with moldy carpet and questionable plumbing, but no matter. Today was his day, and he was going to seize the moment.

  Daniel’s building was a copper-tinted glass monolith. His company occupied the entire sixth floor, and when Black stepped from the elevator his newfound confidence evaporated. Two female receptionists who should have had their own television show looked up at him, headsets locked in place with military precision, and waited as he approached.

  “Yes?” the blonde asked, a single arched eyebrow making him question his existence.

  “I’m here to see Daniel.”

  “I see. Your name?”

  “Black.”

  “Black. That’s it?”

  Black tried a grin. “That should be enough.”

  She exchanged a glance with her companion and tapped something out of sight below the counter before murmuring unintelligibly for a few moments. When she looked back up at him she’d thawed a few degrees. But still no smile.

  “Gunther will be out in a moment to show you back. Pellegrino?”

  Black was stumped. “I don’t know who designed my suit.”

  She didn’t blink. “Would you like some water? Juice?”

  “Oh. No. I’m good.”

  A tall man with a shaved head and pecan-colored skin emerged from a doorway behind the reception area and offered his hand.

  “Mr. Black. I’m Gunther. Please. Right this way. Daniel’s waiting for you.” Gunther motioned for Black to follow him into the depths of the building. They passed offices with edgy young men and women with trendy clothes and expensive haircuts, all wearing headsets and engaged in phone conversations. When they reached the corner office, Gunther held the door open for him. Bobby was sitting on a black leather Scandinavian sofa under a huge, expensive-looking oil painting, all chaotic swatches of black on an arctic background, which looked like a Rorschach ink blot. His orange booth-augmented tan was highlighted by his white polo shirt and golf pants, his hair plugs lacquered back in a passable Godfather impression.

  “Black. Good to see you. This is my client, Daniel Novick. Daniel, meet Black. The best in the business,” Bobby said, not getting up.

  A whippet-thin man with an equally deep tan and thick blond hair rose from behind a minimalist glass desk and approached. Black took in his five-hundred-dollar shirt and slim-cut tan trousers and noted that his shoes probably cost more than a month’s rent for his office.

  “Mr. Black. Nice to meet you. Please. Sit. We were just getting started,” Daniel said, shaking Black’s hand.

  “Thanks.” Black lowered himself into one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  “I’m so glad you could make it. Where do I start?” Daniel asked, sounding slightly out of breath as he returned to his seat.

  “I’ll do the setup,” Bobby volunteered as he eyed Black. “Daniel’s firm is a major modeling agency, and he’s acquiring another big player here in L.A., which is owned by a character named Thomas Demille. It’s the largest in town, and a force to be reckoned with. They’ve agreed in principle to go forward, negotiated a price, and are in the diligence stage. But Daniel has some concerns. The largest is that several of Demille’s models have met with ugly…accidents…since the deal became public knowledge, and there’s been an exodus from the firm.”

  “Well, exodus is a strong word. But the talent’s definitely on edge, and I don’t blame them. We’ve lost a handful of faces to competitors, which diminishes the value of Demille’s agency to us. Nothing critical yet, but I don’t like the direction it’s going,” Daniel explained.

  “Back up. What kind of ugly accidents?” Black asked.

  “One of the biggest talents in Demille’s roster committed suicide while at a shoot in New York. Only there are serious questions as to whether it was a suicide at all.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “They’re ruling it suicide, but I don’t get the impression they’re motivated to dig very deeply into it.”

  “Why do you think it wasn’t suicide?”

  Daniel leaned forward. “I had some models in that shoot as well, and they said that Daria – that’s the girl who died – was upbeat and happy throughout the three days on location. She was dancing and having a great time at the wrap party, and then she disappeared, and the next thing anyone knew, she’d thrown herself off the building. It made no sense to anyone…”

  “Did the cops do a toxicology report?”

  “Yes. She had alcohol in her system, and a prescription pain medicine,” Daniel said.

  “Which one?”

  “Dilaudid.”

  “That’ll knock a horse out with the right dosage, mixed with booze.”

  “Be that as it may, she didn’t overdose.”

  “Right. You said she street-dived?”

  Daniel grimaced. “Yes.”

  “Okay. So what else? You mentioned several incidents?”

  “About a month ago, another rising star was doing a beach shoot in Santa Monica, and the makeup base they applied was spiked with acid.”

  “Ouch. How could that happen?”

  “Obviously, it was deliberate. The police investigated, but there was no final determination of any suspect. Someone laced the makeup with acid, but who remains a mystery. It was a big shoot, a lot of models, dozens of crew, security…”

  “How’s the model?”

  “It’s a tragedy. The damage was done before they could flush it all off. She’s had some reconstructive surgery, but her career’s over.”

  Black thought for a moment. “I can look into that. You said it happened here?”

  “Yes. It was in all the papers.”

  “I must have missed it. If you can email me the details, I’ll put out feelers.”

  Bobby cleared his throat. “Black’s got ins with the
police,” he said, as though announcing Black’s uncle was the Pope.

  “I see. Very well, I’ll shoot you something later,” Daniel agreed.

  Black studied Daniel’s refined features. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to do some digging on the Demille agency, and see if you can find out who’s behind the attacks.”

  “We don’t know that the suicide was an attack.”

  “Fair point. But the timing’s suspicious.”

  “Okay. What kind of background can you get me on the agency?”

  “I’ll have one of my people send you everything we have. History, the players, accounts, the works.”

  “That’s a start.” Black glanced at Bobby. “My rate’s two-fifty an hour, plus expenses. Ten grand retainer. I’ll give you progress reports when I have something to talk about.”

  “Very well. Gunther will cut you a check.”

  Black sat back. “Do you have any pet theories as to who could be behind this?”

  “I’ve spent sleepless nights racking my brain. I just don’t know.”

  “There were no disgruntled employees of Demille’s? No angry partner who was ousted? No lawsuit that finished badly?”

  “No. Thomas Demille started the firm and has managed it since its inception. No partners. Although…there was a high-profile incident with one of the models, just after Daria’s suicide. It caused quite a stir. Scandalous, really. One of the agency’s top names was caught on camera…misbehaving. They had to let him go. It was a big deal.”

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  “Their marquis male model, Zane Bradley, got arrested by two African-American police officers at a traffic stop here in Los Angeles. For DUI. Anyway, Zane did a Mel Gibson and crossed a lot of lines. He was tossing the N word around like confetti. Really ugly. Unfortunately for him, somebody leaked the dash cam footage. It went viral, and the outcry was huge. Demille fired him, and he’s been blacklisted from the industry. Nobody wants to use him. I don’t blame them. Who wants their product or firm associated with racism?”