BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  “This is shashlyk. That’s chicken, this one is lamb, and this is beef. All very tender,” Tasha said, her eyes now bright from the alcohol.

  They munched on meat while Black mulled over Tasha’s insights. He hardly noticed when yet another glass of vodka arrived, although he noted absently that his head was starting to spin. So Demille was a switch hitter. And a broke one. Who was losing models to his competitors, and needed this deal. At least on the surface. He cursed silently – something was tugging at the edges of his awareness, but he’d had too much to drink to focus.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Tasha’s bare foot touching his calf. He sat back and smiled, hoping to extricate himself without losing an apparent ally.

  “Tasha, I like you, and honestly, I’m flattered, but–”

  “But you’re not interested,” she said flatly, her smile turning mean as she said it.

  “No, it’s not that at all.”

  “Then you are interested?”

  “I have a girlfriend.”

  “Ah. Lucky her. But she’s not here, is she?”

  “If I wasn’t with her…”

  “Right. I know. You’d be in my panties faster than a teenage boy.” She swallowed her drink and stood unsteadily. “No hard feelings, Mr. Black, but I thought I sensed something from you that was a little more…promising.”

  She was starting to slur, which was only surprising because she’d held it together pretty well up until then.

  “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression…”

  Tasha swayed slightly, taking his measure, and shook her head. “You have no idea what you’re missing, Mr. Black. No idea at all.”

  “Tasha – I didn’t mean it like that…” Black said, trying to do damage control.

  She shook her head and stalked off, her high heels clicking against the marble restaurant floor, leaving him sitting alone, wondering how it had all gone wrong so quickly. He debated going after her, but what was the point? They were both drunk, and nothing good ever came from trying to clarify a misunderstanding when wasted.

  The waiter arrived to clear the plates, and Black asked for the check before heading to the bathroom. When he stood he had a sudden bout of dizziness, and realized just how much alcohol he’d had. After an unsteady trek to relieve himself, he paid the bill, which was almost three hundred dollars, most of it vodka, and made his way to the entrance clutching his folder. The valet brought his car, and Black drove it two blocks before parking and calling a taxi on his cell phone. The last thing he needed was to add a DUI to his list of problems. Even drunk, he had enough sense to cab it home. He’d retrieve the Caddy in the morning. It would be safe in that neighborhood, he was sure.

  The taxi ride took fifteen minutes, and he sent a text to Roxie as the cab eased to the curb. He wove his way to the stairs that led to his second-floor apartment, which demanded his full, unsteady attention. His fingers felt thick, like they were being operated by somebody else, and he fumbled for his keys. He groaned when he got his door open, and was in real trouble as he staggered to the bedroom, swaying like a sailor on the deck of a boat pitching in rough seas. It was all he could do to get out of his suit before he dropped onto the bed, assuring himself that he’d only rest for a minute before hanging up his clothes and brushing his teeth. He closed his eyes, the room spinning ominously, and was snoring almost instantly, vodka fumes drifting from his open mouth as his body battled to process the ocean of abuse to which he’d subjected it for the second time in a week.

  Chapter 12

  The morning started rough. It took Black a half hour to rinse the metallic taste from his mouth, and even as he dressed he suspected he was still sweating out about seventy proof. The only positive he could think of was that at least he hadn’t smoked – so he’d avoided inhaling over a hundred additional toxins, and ducked the compounding effect on his body. Still, it was rocky going as he negotiated his apartment stairs, and only when he couldn’t spot the Eldorado on the street did he remember he’d left it near the restaurant. He was momentarily seized with a bout of anxiety, and his brow beaded with sweat even though the morning was cool. He had a recurring nightmare from his band days in which he’d gone to a party after playing a club, drunk too much, and found himself on the street in front of the party house, unable to find his car.

  Fortunately, that was only a dream. A taxi arrived a short time later in response to his call and whisked him back to the restaurant, where he was able to easily locate the Cadillac. He stopped at a franchise coffee shop for a large cup of wakeup, but didn’t have the energy to go on the offense with the perennially superior service staff, who correctly interpreted his somber tone as a sign of weakness and exchanged smug smirks with one another as he shuffled to the cashier, a broken husk of a man, at least for the moment.

  By the time he made it to the office he was half an hour late, but relatively energized by the caffeine. He did his best to put a bounce in his step as he climbed the stairs, which would have been more convincing if his liver hadn’t pulsed in pain with each footfall.

  When he swung his office door open he was treated to Mugsy rolling on the floor with a new kitty toy while Roxie gazed at her computer with the intensity of a programmer working on a string of code.

  “Gutenmorgen, Fraulein Roxie!” Black exclaimed with a giddy edge of fake cheer. She looked up at him and returned her eyes to the screen.

  “You look like you’re having an allergic reaction,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You’re puffy. And your eyes are swollen. Did something bite you?”

  He was tempted to say the Beluga bug had stung him, but elected discretion. “Maybe I’m retaining water. I’ve been all moody, too. Could be that time…”

  She ignored his quip. “As long as you’re okay. I was just concerned, is all.”

  He stopped and stared at her. “Roxie. Are you feeling okay? That almost sounded heartfelt. And this is the first time in months you haven’t bagged on me over my clothes, or my hair, or something I said. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I like it. But it worries me a little…”

  “I figured since we only have another couple of weeks together I’d suck up to you in the hopes that you give me a severance bonus.”

  “Oh. Good strategy.”

  “Does that mean I’ll get a big bonus?”

  “Depends on what you mean by get, big, and bonus, I suppose. One could argue that the invaluable experience you’ve gained working with me will last you a lifetime, and there can be no greater bonus than that.”

  She stared at him with dead eyes. “I knew it was a bad idea. You smell like booze.”

  “I do?”

  “And you look like a burn victim or something. Flushed. Oh, gross. You’re sweating.”

  “I just walked up the stairs. It’s a little warm in here.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I see Mugsy’s got a new toy.”

  “Yeah, I spent some of the nonexistent bonus money you’re not going to give me on something to keep him occupied so he doesn’t destroy anything more in the office.”

  “A good move.”

  “A waste of seven bucks, now that I know I’ll be living off my experience and not some hard cash.”

  Black changed the subject. “How did the band take the news about you leaving?”

  “They were bummed. But they’ll get over it. It’s not like we were getting rich playing in the clubs around here. L.A.’s full of singers. They’ll live.”

  “How about Eric? He’s got to be running pretty hard, tying up all the loose ends with the shop before he takes off.”

  “Yeah, he’s been super busy. And he’s got a trade show he’s exhibiting at in a few days. He’s got a small booth already paid for, so he’s trying to pull that together, too.”

  “Why doesn’t he skip it?”

  “I guess he’s hoping he can get some international contacts for the new shop. The only good thing is that he’s got a new tattoo artis
t who’s helping him out. From Berlin. A friend of his cousin’s who wanted to spend some time over here.”

  “Oh, really,” he said noncommittally.

  “Yeah. She’s the one who gave Eric the idea of partnering up with his cousin to open one in Germany.”

  “Huh. Have you met her?”

  “No, she only comes in part time. But she’s probably hella cool. I mean, the chick’s an ink jock. Can’t get much more badass than that.”

  “Right. Probably all dark and Goth. Germans are like that.”

  “How would you know, Mr. I-know-nothing-about-Berlin?”

  “Hey, I said good morning in German.”

  “Little internet translator action there, I’m guessing.”

  “See? This is why we have tension in the office. I do something nice, and you twist it into something ugly.”

  Roxie swiveled back to the screen. “You should go blot your face. You look like someone sprayed you with water.”

  “I do not.”

  “What’s that disorder where you sweat profusely for no reason?”

  “I don’t have a disorder.”

  “I forget what causes it. I think it’s male menopause. The body starts breaking down…”

  “I’m not going through male menopause. There’s no such thing.”

  “Hyperhidrosis. That’s what it’s called. I saw it on the Discovery Channel. Kind of gross. And there’s no real cure.”

  “Roxie…”

  “The lady they were interviewing said it’s like a curse…”

  “Roxie, I don’t have hyper…I don’t have that.” He held Tasha’s folder aloft and placed it on her desk. “Here are the lists of the models at the three shoots. Can you work your magic on them, please?”

  “Sure. Because you’re so generous with me, and all.”

  Black walked to his office. “You look nice today,” he said, using the old kill ’em with kindness feint to disarm her. Unfortunately, he was forgetting who he was dealing with.

  “Are we back to the sexual harassment thing now that I’m leaving soon?”

  Black stopped at his doorway. “I’ve never harassed you.”

  “That’s your story. I’m going to start taping these exchanges. I feel icky just having them. Ew.”

  “Maybe you should tape how many hours you don’t do work while at the office.”

  “Mr. Grumpy. A common side effect of hyperhidrosis. Tragic, really.”

  Black closed his door and hung up his jacket, and then mopped his brow with a tissue. Roxie was partially right – he wasn’t feeling so good. He slid his desk drawer open, removed a bottle of aspirin, and washed down three with the tepid dregs of his coffee.

  A half hour after he turned on his computer, Roxie’s summary appeared in his inbox. She’d assembled her first set of matches on Tasha’s list. Black scanned the list of names and nodded, and then called Hailey and Trish, who showed up as having an address in the San Fernando Valley. The voice that answered the phone sounded young, so he assumed he’d gotten Hailey.

  “Ms. Stills, my name’s Jim Black. I’m handling an investigation for Thomas Demille’s agency, and I’d like to talk to you as soon as possible. This afternoon, in fact, if you’re going to be around.”

  “I…I don’t know. I need to ask my mother. But she’s not here right now…”

  “I’ll swing by at three o’clock. It’ll only take a few minutes. Will she be back by then?”

  “I guess.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you at three.”

  “What was your name again?” Hailey asked, her voice uncertain.

  “Black. Of Black Investigations.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Black hung up and opened the email Daniel had sent him, with all the contact information for Demille’s models. He hadn’t had time to go through the whole roster, but it was way overdue. He checked off the names that were on the list Roxie had compiled, and quickly saw that there weren’t as many who had been at all three shoots as he’d feared. Hailey. Clarissa. James. Regina. Gabriel at the beach shoot and Mexico, but not New York. Three more names he didn’t immediately recognize. Zane at the New York shoot, but not at either of the others. And, of course, Demille.

  Which reminded him that Demille still hadn’t returned his call. Annoyed, he dialed Demille’s number again. The receptionist gave him the same stock response as the prior day, and Black dutifully left another message, hoping that his stern tone would put the fear of God into her, but doubting it from her bored assurance that it would be passed on.

  Black looked on the list and found Demille’s cell number, but when he called it, it went to voice mail. Black repeated his request that he call as soon as possible and left his number, hoping he’d kept the anger out of his voice. His next call was to Daniel.

  “Demille’s dodging me. He never called me back, and he’s not answering his cell phone.”

  Daniel exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry, I should have told you. He has a sailboat, and he told me yesterday he was going to be taking it out to Catalina for the night. So it’s not that he’s ducking you. He’s probably in an area where he doesn’t have cell service.”

  “At least that’s one mystery solved today. I’ll work on being more patient. But I really do want to talk to him as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll pass that along. I’m sure it’s not deliberate. He has every reason to cooperate.”

  “You’d certainly think so.”

  By noon, after a trip to the corner donut shop and two cinnamon rolls down the hatch, Black was starting to feel human again. The vodka was kinder to him than the tequila had been, for which he was thankful, although even the thought of alcohol made him queasy.

  He read the rest of the background information Roxie had assembled, and at 1:00 he announced that he was going to lunch and would be out the rest of the afternoon. Roxie didn’t try to pretend interest, which Black found strangely reassuring. He found a diner that specialized in colon-clogging cuisine, ordered a double chocolate milkshake and the big boy special with extra grease. He could feel his arteries harden just from breathing the sad establishment’s pervasive perfume of deep-fat-fried everything.

  His meal arrived swimming in an oil slick, and he pushed his doubts out of his mind, trusting that when his subconscious had figured it out, it would let him know. He took a heaping forkful of mystery meat coated in congealed lard and chewed contentedly, washing it down with a gulp of milkshake, and reached for the salt, determined to add insult to injury. Maybe when he was done with his meal he’d call Sylvia and see if she’d forgiven him yet. With everything that he had going on, he’d almost forgotten that he was still in the doghouse, and he made a mental note to make amends, even though in his mind he’d done nothing wrong.

  An old woman with raccoon mascara and makeup apparently applied with a paint roller shambled down the aisle toward the cash register, clutching her faux leopard skin coat around her like she was freezing, holding a muttered conversation with an invisible companion. Black watched her go by and wondered how people wound up in places like the diner – what her story was, whether she’d ever loved, or lost, or been well. Melancholy settled over him like a heavy blanket, and he followed her progress as she unfurled a small wad of dollar bills and counted each off like it was her life savings being exchanged for lunch – which perhaps it was. He felt a moment of kinship with her, a sad sense of sharing the same reality, if only for a second, and then she was gone, off to whatever purgatory she inhabited, leaving the diners to their mastication. Black gazed out the window at the stream of traffic, the only constant in the city, and wished for a cigarette and a margarita and the warm kiss of the tropical sun. In his mind he drove to the airport and boarded a plane for Mexico, this time never to return, his future uncertain but better than his present.

  Instead, he flipped out his notepad and considered how he was going to catch Ernest and Eric in their lies while stopping whoever was killing the models. Perhaps not the same as escaping t
o Baja, but at least a way to pay the rent while he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up.

  Assuming he ever did.

  Chapter 13

  The drive over the hill and into the San Fernando Valley took longer than Black had anticipated. A semi-rig had blown a tire, which had shredded and struck the car behind it, causing it to lose control and ram the van next to it. By the time the whole mess had played out it was a six car pile-up, and all but one lane was blocked by the Highway Patrol as they tried to restore a semblance of order.

  Hailey’s neighborhood turned out to be one step above trailer trash. Her house was a modest rancher built in the sixties, all yellow stucco and cheap aluminum windows, the lawn moderately overgrown and a twenty-year-old Chevrolet truck in the driveway. Black swung the rusting iron front gate open and approached the porch, amazed that a budding supermodel lived in such a modest manner. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. When the door opened, Hailey was framed in the sunlight, her long hair cinched in a loose ponytail, wearing gray sweat pants and an oversized flannel shirt. She regarded him for a long moment, silent, and then a loud female voice called out from behind her, in the depths of the house.

  “Hailey. Show him to the living room.”

  She turned slightly, her eyes still on Black. “Yes, Mom.”

  Black waited for her to invite him in, but she still gave him the same dead stare. Something about it made his flesh crawl. She was breathtakingly gorgeous, of course, but her gaze seemed…vacant, or drugged. Not all there.

  “Come in,” she said, her voice flat, and Black did a double take as he stepped into the house. The entire foyer and hall were lined with headshots of Hailey from childhood through the present, creating the sense that he’d entered a shrine to her – the Church of Hailey. She shut the door behind him and brushed by, eyeing the photos as she led the way.

  “It’s a little weird. But you get used to it,” she said in a low voice, the tone still…detached…and led him into the living room, where her mother, Trish, was sitting in a reclining chair. The television was tuned to a reality show, the sound barely audible.