Black

by Russell Blake

  Next was a clip about Hunter’s messy and expensive divorce – his second – and a short piece about his daughter, a common Hollywood story: in and out of rehab a half dozen times, arrested for possession more often than she’d changed her hair color, a downward party spiral culminating in an ugly incident outside a club where she’d been injured. Nothing else on it; more an afterthought to fill up space.

  The last bunch chronicled Hunter’s vocal anti-paparazzi campaign, where he’d used his influence to get a bill floated in the California legislature to impose restrictions limiting their access and delineating what they could and couldn’t do. Hunter had made it his mission to single-handedly gut the annoying photogs who swarmed like blackflies around the bloated celebrity carcass that was Hollywood, and had made considerable headway before the bill was voted down. In response he’d redoubled his efforts, making enemies out of most of the local press in the process.

  The final link was to that morning’s Los Angeles Times, about a tragic fatal accident in Malibu Canyon the prior day involving the female star of Hunter’s new film, as well as a van with paparazzi in it. The coverage was short on specifics, but a witness said the Italian sports car that the star – Melody Cambridge – had been driving lost control due to high speed, and the van was unable to evade the ensuing chaos and also crashed.

  Black scrutinized the photo of Cambridge and shook his head. Gorgeous twenty-something, a hot career on the ascent, dating one of the more eligible eye candy actors in town, a blockbuster about to be released…and now she was being scraped off the rocks at the bottom of the gulch. A final line in the article said that the police were testing for the presence of drugs or alcohol, and he wondered how they did that after a car ignited following a ten-story drop.

  He pushed back from his desk, stood, and stretched, deciding to stop for coffee on the way to Bel Air, the most expensive real estate in L.A. He’d spent plenty of time in the area operating the last failed business he’d tried before starting the P.I. firm: discreet private limousine service to the stars, which had been one of the ways he’d gotten so connected in town.

  During its two-year operation, he’d driven just about every celebrity and mogul worth mentioning. He’d gotten referrals from his friend Bobby Sorell, an entertainment attorney who’d gone from being his worst enemy to an unexpected ally, after structuring the deal where Black had foregone any claim on the songs he’d written in return for a lousy hundred grand. That had been bad enough, but then the bastard had begun sleeping with Nina, his nineteen-year old wife, and had helped her divorce him when she’d become the hottest female singer of her era, eclipsed only by Beyoncé when Destiny’s Child had bounced and shimmied onto the scene.

  Be that as it may, Sorell had done his best to make amends, and Black believed that he really felt bad about how it had played out. Black had moved from his customary blind rage to a cautious truce that had developed into a real friendship, as his ex had moved on from Sorell to a string of high-profile flings that had culminated in two disastrous marriages to A-list celebs – bad boy actors with big careers and even bigger egos, probably overcompensating for other shortcomings.

  “I’m headed out,” Black announced as he strode through Roxie’s reception area. She didn’t look up from her furious text messaging, thumbs punching and stabbing her little cell phone with rapid dexterity as she listened to music on her computer speakers. “What’s that you’re listening to?”

  “A band.”

  Black nodded. “Yeah, I got that. What band?”

  “You wouldn’t know them. They’re hip and cool.”

  “I know hip and cool things.”

  She eyed him scornfully. “Sure you do.”

  “I’m serious. I do. I’ve got game.”

  “Uh huh. Nobody says that anymore.”

  She turned the music up, and the chorus of the driving, psychedelic-tinged melody filled the office:

  When you see yourself in a crowded room

  Do your fingers itch, are you pistol-whipped?

  Will you step in line or release the glitch?

  Can you fall asleep with a panic switch?

  She lowered the volume. “I love these guys. They’re called Silversun Pickups. I think they’re slathered in awesome sauce.”

  “I swear I’ve heard of them.”

  “No, you haven’t. Don’t lie.”

  “No, really, I have. Don’t they do that Fox song that’s gone viral?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are so not being remotely truthful. It’s okay. Once you’re over your ‘best if used by’ date, you can’t be expected to know what’s cool anymore. No need to pretend you do in some pathetic bid for approval.”

  “Roxie, I’ll have you know not long ago I was a player in the music business.”

  “Is this where you start crying?”

  “I was. I wrote all the songs for Nina’s first album. You know, the biggest album of the decade?”

  “I wasn’t born yet.” She hesitated. “Is that the phone?”

  “I’m standing right here. I can hear that the phone’s not ringing.”

  “Right.” She stared at him.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “Okay,” she said, without a trace of interest. “I guess that means I’m screwed on the chai for today, huh? Thanks for nothing.” She returned to texting.

  “I’ve got a big case here. Sorry I can’t be your beverage boy.”

  She looked up from her engrossing communiqué. “Are you really going to go dressed like that?”

  “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

  “You look like you fought your way out of a thrift store by putting on clothes. Somebody probably died in that suit,” she commented dryly, peering at the forties-cut lightweight gray two-piece. “Just promise me you aren’t going to wear one of your hats.”

  “What’s wrong with my hats?” he asked, bristling.

  “Nothing, if you’re a Seattle hipster trying for angst in a café. But frankly, a fedora on an adult male who’s…” – she paused – “not a spring chicken anymore, makes him look like a sad old douche.”

  Black gawped at her, speechless.

  “Maybe that’s too harsh. More a twat. Yes, I think that’s what I was looking for. The hat, combined with that outfit, says twat all over it. Without the hat, maybe the client will think you’re poor and had to wear Dad’s suit. But the hat kicks it to five-alarm clueless,” she concluded, and then sat back with a sweet smile that reminded Black of a python looking at a baby chick.

  “I don’t know what to be more offended by…” he sputtered.

  “Well, take your time. I understand you slow down as you get older.” Another beaming flash of perfect white teeth.

  “Roxie, I don’t pay you for fashion tips,” he began, annoyed.

  “You hardly pay me for anything. And judging by your threads, it shows. Don’t worry, this is for free. I’d just hate for you to not get the gig because the client thought you should be wearing a red nose and clown shoes along with your throwback wardrobe.” She eyed him scornfully. “Hey, I know. Why don’t you lose the Cadiboat and drive one of those little cars like they have at the circus? Then when you get out at his house, you can throw confetti in the air and honk a little horn as you do a pratfall.”

  He studied her, alternating between rising to the bait and appreciating the humor in her dead-pan delivery. She batted her violet eyes twice, the heavy black mascara around them giving her the appearance of a bipolar raccoon, and returned to her texting, his presence now ignored.

  “What’s up your butt today?” he asked.

  She exhaled noisily and set the phone down. “It’s Eric. I think he’s cheating on me.”

  Eric – her deadbeat boyfriend who operated a tattoo parlor up on Sunset, catering to a clientele of wannabe musicians and bored suburban teens. Black had met him twice, and both times thought he was a slimy jerk that looked like Pitbull’s untalented ugly brother. Roxie and he had been together for t
wo and a half years, and this was a regular occurrence – probably because ol’ Eric was in fact a lying, cheating scumbag.

  “Haven’t you been down that road before?”

  “This time I think I busted him. One of my friends saw him with some slut yesterday when he was supposed to be at the shop. They were having coffee.”

  “Maybe they were drinking chai.”

  “Very funny, funny man. I’m serious. I think he’s banging her.”

  “Not that I don’t love Eric like a brother, but he does come across as a sneaky shit rat who’ll jump anything with a central nervous system. No offense. The last time you caught him red-handed, he first lied, then denied everything, then apologized and swore it meant nothing and he’d never do it again. In my experience, a guy who would never do it again would never have done it in the first place. Which I’ve told you.”

  “I know, I know. You’re right, even if you do dress like a minor character in some bad British mod movie.”

  Black took a step toward her, and then stopped himself. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’ll think of something. Sorry to dump my crap on you. But you asked.”

  “That’ll teach me.” Their eyes locked. “I’ll bring you back a chai.”

  Her customary tough chick demeanor returned, and she returned to her texting. “Gee. Thanks. Remember. Lose the chapeau. Or print ‘douche’ on your business card. ‘Douche Solutions.’ That actually has a better ring, come to think of it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use that word. It’s offensive.”

  “Solutions?”

  He shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. He would never win. She’d been with him now for over a year, and he had yet to prevail in any argument with her. Rather than bashing his head into the wall over and over, he elected to make a graceful retreat, and barely heard Roxie’s words as the door shut behind him.

  “Good luck.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Hunter’s palatial home in Bel Air was a mini-estate on a half acre, the house a garish ten-thousand-square-foot pseudo-White House that had been designed for a prominent Iranian millionaire before he’d moved up to fifteen thousand square feet of French Revival down the street. The heavy wrought iron security gates were open, and Black eased the Cadillac up the long half-moon drive, cursing the engine’s sputtering. His maintenance ethos for cars was in accord with his physical fitness regime – a combination of procrastination and denial. But perhaps it was time for a service. His brow scrunched as he tried to remember the last time he’d done anything but put gas in the Eldo, and nothing popped up. Every morning, he gave it the old Texas tune-up – started the motor and revved it until the lumpiness generally subsided. He made a mental note. Perhaps it was time to have a professional look at it.

  He shut off the motor and glanced at his hat, beside him on the seat, and then opted to leave it there, Roxie’s words still ringing in his ears. The car door creaked as he pushed it open, and cracked like a rifle shot when he slammed it closed. He adjusted his jacket and tie before walking up the flagstone path to the overblown entry doors. His attention was pulled to the right side near a tall hedge, where a young woman stood watching him, supported by two aluminum crutches. He removed his Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and peered at her, noting the nasty scar tissue on her right cheek and temple.

  “Hello,” he said, offering a wan smile.

  “You delivering food or something?” she asked, a slight slur in her voice.

  “That might pay better. No, I’m here to see the man of the house. Andrew Hunter.”

  “You can’t be a cop, unless they’re hiring out of central casting rejects. What do you want him for?”

  Perhaps Roxie had a point about his retro style. He’d taken a lot of incoming over it lately. Maybe the forties look had played out.

  “I have a meeting with him.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Who are you?”

  Black realized she was drunk, even though it was only lunchtime.

  “An acquaintance. I’ll just ring the doorbell, if you don’t mind.” Black turned and mounted the three steps to the stone-tiled porch and thumbed the button.

  “Suit yourself, loser,” the girl muttered just loud enough for him to hear. He ignored it and waited for someone to answer. He was studying the ornate carving of the three-inch-thick mahogany slabs when the right one opened and he found himself facing an incredibly beautiful strawberry-blonde woman in her early thirties, he guessed, before re-appraising her up to mid-thirties. She was wearing a red silk dress that clung to her curves like a shipwrecked man to flotsam, and her frank green eyes met his without flinching.

  “Yes?” she asked, her voice as musical as a Yo-Yo Ma solo.

  “Look out. He’s probably a process server,” the girl called from the hedges, and the woman at the door gave her a sidelong glance that would have frozen lava before returning her gaze to Black.

  “Hello. I’m Jim Black. I called earlier. Mr. Hunter is expecting me.”

  She gave him a long appraising look, taking him in, and he had the uncanny sensation that he was standing there naked, with his parents, teachers, dead relatives, and everyone he knew pointing at him and laughing. She finished her assessment and held out a perfectly manicured hand.

  “Meagan. Meagan Hunter.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hunter,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it delicately.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t break easily. And you can call me Meagan. Mrs. Hunter sounds so…formal.”

  A soft breeze stirred the tops of the mature oak trees that dotted the property perimeter, and for a split second Black felt a shiver run up his spine. The way she was regarding him was definitely not…formal. She eventually released his hand and spun gracefully, her long, tanned dancer’s legs gliding easily across the Versailles-patterned travertine floor. “He’s out in back by the pool. Close the door behind you, please,” she called over her shoulder, leaving a lingering fragrance of fresh-cut flowers in her wake.

  Black did as instructed, then hurried to catch up, admiring the way her dress moved with her, like some kind of erotically charged sheath. The garment looked expensive, and so did the woman. Life at the top had its perks, obviously.

  They walked through a great room to a row of French doors. She pulled one open and held it for him, blocking a portion of the opening, so that Black had to squeeze uncomfortably close to her in order to exit to the rear patio. Okay, perhaps not uncomfortably close. But close, anyway.

  “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Black,” she murmured to him as he edged by. “Don’t take Nicole’s attitude as reflective of ours. She’s just having a difficult time adjusting today. Truthfully, every day.” He sensed her appraising him again. She wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue and then beamed at him. “I hope we see more of you around here. It gets so…boring, sometimes.”

  Black kept his expression neutral and averted his eyes. His potential client’s trophy wife was coming on to him. Which could have been nothing, just a habit she had, the kind of thing bored, hot women did instinctively to any male within range. He knew the type, and while she was definitely exuding sex appeal like a Rainbird sprayed water, he got the feeling that it was equally unfocused, and he just happened to be the nearest target.

  “Thanks. Nice meeting you,” he mumbled, stepping out onto a flagstone deck that stretched for about a football field. A seated man wearing a bright orange Hawaiian shirt reclined near the azure pool, talking on the telephone, and when he saw Black he motioned him closer. Black squinted against the sun’s glare and put his glasses back on as he approached. The man’s features were familiar to him from countless action films, though as he drew near, he could see that while the trademark smirk was the same, the surrounding flesh was a little more worn than onscreen, with a tell-tale smoothness around the eyes that hinted at exorbitant well-performed surgery.

  Hunter waved at a chair on the other side of the stone table and contin
ued his phone call.

  “I don’t give a damn, you moron. This is a terrible day, blah blah blah, but the truth is we couldn’t buy the kind of publicity we’re getting. Move up the damned premiere date to this Friday, while the accident’s still in the news. Don’t argue with me. Just do it. And set up the press conference. We got handed a break. I want to capitalize on this.”

  Hunter hung up abruptly and tossed the phone onto the table, then held out a surprisingly small hand in greeting. In fact, Black’s first impression of Hunter was of a small man – nothing like what he’d been expecting from the movies. He couldn’t have been over five-seven, if that, with a barrel chest covered with tufts of graying curly hair. Black tried to reconcile the reality with the storied bad boy of brawls and volatile misbehavior, but it didn’t come easily, looking at the flip-flop-wearing aging surfer before him.

  Black shook, noting the crushing alpha-grip Hunter delivered like a vise.

  “So you’re Colleen’s friend? The gumshoe? They still call ’em that?” Hunter barked, his voice gruff from years of hard living.

  “You can if you like. Jim Black. Of Black Solutions.”

  “Solutions? That’s a crummy name. No sizzle. I’d change it to something salient, like ‘Black Investigations.’ That’s got way more sex to it, you know? In this business, it’s all about sexy. A PI – now that’s got some snap.”

  “I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing.”

  Hunter leaned over and reached for a glass of juice next to his chair. He didn’t offer Black anything. “Well, Joe, I have a problem. How much did Colleen tell you?”

  “Not much. Just said you needed some help with something. She’s good people, so if I can do anything, I’m all ears…and you can call me Black. Everyone does.”

  “The problem’s the frigging paparazzi. They’re like locusts. A menace. Like ticks on a dog. I hate the miserable bastards.”