Black

by Russell Blake

  Black nodded, waiting for him to continue.

  “I’m looking for someone to head up my security while I’m preparing to launch my latest movie – Nine Hard Lives. It’s epic, stomp-you-in-the-face action, but with some romance and a message of tolerance, and it’s going to do big, big things. But I’m being very selective about how I market it. I like to have complete control over the ads, the interviews, publicity, everything. And I don’t want the paparazzi anywhere near it. I don’t need those maggots, and I want to keep ’em at bay.”

  “I’m aware of your lack of love for them.”

  “You know why, right?”

  “I don’t have all the details. That you do is enough for me.”

  Hunter sighed. “My daughter Nicole has problems. Issues. Likes her booze a little more than is healthy. She’s also no stranger to chemical stimulants, OK? Whatever. None of us is perfect. A few years ago, she was outside of a club at two a.m. Got hassled by some paparazzi. Her story is that one of them got overly pushy and the next thing she knew she’d gone face down on the street. Face planted. A car struck her a glancing blow and broke her hip, her leg in a couple of places, tore half her face off, broke her cheekbone and jaw. The cops wouldn’t press charges against the paparazzi – they claimed she was wasted and fell.”

  “I presume they ran a toxicology report.”

  “No question she was over the line. Blood alcohol through the roof. But she claims she was pushed, and I believe her.”

  “I think I met her earlier out front. No witnesses?”

  “Just the two paparazzi. Who just happen to work for the company run by my nemesis – Franklin-Sypes Associates. FSA.”

  “Your nemesis?”

  “I got into it with the owner. Freddie Sypes. A bona-fide fecal stain. Used to work at the Times, and he was worthless then, too.”

  “Got into it,” Black echoed.

  “You might have read about it. Cost him seven figures. I sued him over the incident with my daughter, and he wound up settling because his attorneys knew he would lose if it went to trial. Ever since then, he’s made it his personal mission to make my life miserable.” Hunter cleared his throat. “It was that incident with my daughter that convinced me to start my anti-paparazzi campaign.”

  “His website’s one of the most popular in the country, isn’t it?” Black asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s pure garbage. Guy’s a dirt bag. I heard he had to sell off most of the company to raise money for the settlement, and he’s still pissy about that. Screw the little bastard, I say.”

  “So, aside from needing some security, what’s your problem, Mr. Hunter? What do you need me for?”

  “Look…this movie I’ve got coming out – it’s not really a comeback, because it’s not like I ever faded, you know what I mean? But it’s my big one. Been working on it for years. You seen the news on my female lead?”

  “Went canyon diving yesterday, didn’t she?”

  “She was being chased. The witness confirmed it. The van that also crashed had Freddie’s shitbirds in it. I hope they took a long time to roast. They caused the accident.”

  “I…some of the early reports say that she hit the witness first, then the van lost it.”

  “I’m telling you, she was being chased. She was panicked.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Melody and I were…close. I knew her better than she knew herself – you get that way if you’re a good director. She hated the paparazzi almost as much as I do. From what I hear, they cornered her outside of one of her hangouts and chased her from the valley. That’s been confirmed by witnesses at the restaurant.”

  “No offense, but the stuff I read said she’d had four margaritas in two hours.”

  “Hey, I’m not saying she was Mother Theresa, all right? But have a little respect. She was a brilliant actress and a beautiful woman, and now she’s dead because those bastards drove her over the edge.”

  Black chose not to argue the point. Hunter was clearly upset, and he remembered the actor’s history of volatility.

  “Right. Which brings us back to why I’m here.”

  “I…I’ve heard from some of my contacts that I’m being eyeballed by LAPD because of the recent deaths of some of FSA’s paparazzi scum. It started last month with the photographer who got flattened in a hit-and-run while he was staking out my condo in Santa Monica. Then two weeks ago there was a fire at FSA’s headquarters. Arson, with two people hurt. And now there’s the van that went over the cliff. I had a couple of homicide yuck yucks here this morning asking about my whereabouts over the last twenty-four hours. Like I had something to do with the crash.”

  “Sounds like you need a lawyer, not an investigator.”

  “I got lawyers crawling out my ass. What I need is someone on my side to figure out why I’m being singled out.”

  “You’re pretty vocal about the paparazzi being the devil’s henchmen.”

  “So what? They are. But that doesn’t mean I’m going around killing them. Someone’s trying to frame me, and because of my visibility taking on FSA, I’m the natural fall guy, at least if you’re not thinking very clearly.”

  “Did you get the names of the LAPD suits?”

  “I have their cards somewhere inside. Oh, and besides the investigative work, I need someone to run my security for this premiere. Someone from the outside. I let my security chief go yesterday, and I need someone now.”

  “I see. Why did you let him go?”

  “Freddie’s parasites have been showing up at convenient times – to them, anyway – and there’s no way they could be doing so without inside information. Someone’s feeding them. It was either him, or someone working for him. Either way, his job was to prevent that from happening. He wasn’t able to, so end of story.”

  “You want me to run security for you at the same time I’m trying to mount an investigation? How exactly would you see that working?”

  “We meet once or twice a day, go over what you have planned for the various events, and then we work together to modify anything I think needs changing. And I’ll need daily reports on your investigation, as well as what progress you’re making on figuring out who’s leaking info to Freddie.”

  Black leaned back in his chair. “I see. Do you have a lot of experience in security work? Investigations?”

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed and he studied Black more carefully. “It’s not rocket science, from what I can see.”

  “I’m sure making a movie seems that way to someone from the outside. You just give the actors the script, set up the cameras and make sure the lighting’s okay, and let ’em roll. Piece of cake, right?”

  “Not really. And frankly, I don’t like your tone.”

  “Mr. Hunter, I could probably help on the investigation side, but I don’t work the way you want. I take a job, I check in when I have something material, and I require carte blanche and full access or I can’t guarantee any kind of results. But as to running security and investigating leaks, and further trying to mount a parallel investigation into who, if anyone, could be framing you…I’m afraid I’m not your man. Anyone who took that on and promised more than failure would be lying to you.”

  “There are dozens of guys who would give their left nut to have this opportunity.”

  “Then maybe you should call one of them. Because all I could do is one of the three jobs you just described. I won’t bite off more than I can chew.”

  The two men stared at each other for a few beats, the sun dancing on the surface of the pool as the tension hung like an insult between them.

  “Seems like Colleen overestimated you,” Hunter hissed, his tone ugly, his complexion having darkened dangerously.

  Black knew his type. Spoiled, privileged, expecting to call the shots. Which was fine, except that Black couldn’t be effective with a client like that. The control freaks were the worst, and Hunter had “control” painted across his chest in foot-high letters.

  “Sorry I wasted your t
ime. Good luck finding someone to help you out,” Black said, rising. “I can recommend some solid security people if you need dependable help on that end.”

  “You’re making a huge mistake. This could be a career maker for you,” Hunter warned, and Black shrugged.

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve shot myself in the foot. Nothing personal, but I can’t work the way you want to. Either I have complete autonomy, or it’s a non-starter.”

  “I don’t do complete autonomy in any area of my life, Black. That’s how you wind up road kill.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say. No hard feelings. Best of luck with the cops and the paparazzi. Oh, and your movie. Don’t worry, I can find my own way out.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  Black debated butting heads with the actor but then thought better of it. Instead, he took measured steps back to the house, Hunter’s eyes boring holes in his back the entire way. Even in his dire financial straits, Black wasn’t interested in being the lapdog for a Hollywood bully – and that’s how Hunter had struck him. He’d been dealing with them for most of his adult life in the entertainment business, first in music, then as he’d dabbled with his entrepreneurial disasters. Life was too damned short to subject himself to the kind of abuse that would be a constant part of that job, and he knew better than to accept a position that would make him miserable.

  He only saw a housekeeper busy cleaning in the kitchen as he passed through the house – no evidence of the bombshell wife or the snarling, inebriated daughter. When he opened his car door a small piece of paper, folded over, a floral aroma rising from it, quivered on his red leather seat. He picked it up and glanced at the contents, then folded it back up and dropped it into his left jacket pocket as he fished for the keys, anxious to be away from the weirdness that pervaded every cranny of the grandiose estate.

  There was no way he would ever call her. Not a chance in hell.

  At least that’s what he told himself as he cranked over the engine and slid the column shift into gear.

  He didn’t need that kind of drama.

  Black spent the better part of the half hour drive back to his office trying to erase from his memory her smell and the way her eyes danced in the sunlight, as well as the way a few ridiculously expensive inches of sheer red fabric hung from her impeccably molded breasts.

  Chapter 5

  “What the hell are you doing to me here, Black?” Colleen’s voice crackled over his earpiece as he neared his office. The urge to have a cigarette was almost overwhelming, but Black bit back the impulse. Perhaps now would be the beginning of an entirely new phase of his life, where he eschewed boozing, smoking, chasing women…

  Or maybe not. But he would wait at least ten minutes before succumbing to temptation.

  “It wasn’t meant to be. He didn’t want me to help him – he wanted an errand boy. I don’t play that,” Black explained.

  “You couldn’t have found a way to work with him? He’s really in trouble, from what I can tell.”

  “No disagreement there, but it wasn’t in the stars. Look, I could use the money, but I’m not going to take an assignment where I have no hope of success. And this is a losing proposition the way he wants it to work. So, pass.”

  “He called me after you left. Not a happy man.”

  “He didn’t strike me as happy when I got there, either, so perhaps it’s more of a character trait than a response to me.”

  “Hunter can be difficult to deal with, but he’s good to have in a clinch.”

  “Super. Then you cozy up to him. I’m out.”

  “You’re making me look bad.”

  “That’s not my intention. But the way he wants to run things, as in hyper-control-freak mode, isn’t my thing, Colleen. You know that.”

  “Hey, it’s your funeral. I was just looking out for you, thought I’d throw you some biz. Hunter knows everybody – a positive outcome would have guaranteed a thriving career.”

  “I hear you. Thanks for thinking of me, but this ain’t my dance.”

  “Will you at least do me a personal favor and nose around, see if you trip over anything obvious? He really believes someone’s out to get him with this whole paparazzi thing.”

  Black turned the corner and began scouting for a parking place on his block. “Sure. I can make a few calls. But other than that, there isn’t much I can do without spending a lot of my time…and money I don’t have.”

  “Anything you can do, I’d appreciate, doll face.”

  “You guilt-tripped me into it. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  Black spotted an opening fifty yards from his shabby office building and coaxed the Caddy to the curb like a reluctant mule. The power steering howled beneath the hood, and he made another mental note to have someone look at the belt.

  Roxie looked up from her monitor when he opened the door and grinned at him winningly – always an ominous sign, he knew from experience.

  “What? Did my doctor call and say the polyp was malignant?”

  “Worse. Your parents are in town. They called a few minutes ago and want to get together with you.”

  “You’re kidding. With no notice?”

  “I told them you had nothing on your plate. Was that bad?”

  He sighed. Of course she’d provided no cover for him. That was her way.

  “No, that’s perfect. And I still have the rest of my day to contend with. Maybe a piano will fall on me or something. Or a meteor strike. A man can dream.”

  “There’s always the aneurism to hope for – I know older guys have to worry about that sort of thing.” She paused and regarded him. “I’m guessing that your big meeting didn’t go well? So I better stock up on ramen for dinner?”

  “There was nothing I could help the nice man with. Believe me, I tried,” he said as he walked into his office, shoulders slumped. “Did they leave a number?”

  “I emailed you. Your mom sounded excited.”

  “She always sounds like that.”

  Black signed into his account, peered at the digits, and entered them into his phone. His mother’s distinctive, trippy voice chirped at him after three rings.

  “Artemus! I’m so glad we reached you. We just got to town!”

  He winced at her use of his first name. “That’s a nice…surprise. Did I miss where you told me you were coming?”

  “You know, it came up suddenly, and your father and I decided we hadn’t seen you in ages, so why not hop on a plane and visit? Mix some business with pleasure? We were hoping we could stay at your place for the night. Do you still have the same apartment?”

  Black choked down the immediate anger that flashed in his mind at her assumption that she could intrude in his life whenever she felt like it. He knew how she was. This was nothing new. They could afford to stay at the Four Seasons and be chauffeured around by limo, but instead wanted to save the money and sleep on his crappy sofa bed. The resentment he felt about his parents selling their little cottage-industry hobby to a major conglomerate in the mid-nineties, pocketing a fortune, rose like sour bile. Here he was busting his hump to get by, and they’d literally fallen over a multi-million dollar deal for her hand-made organic soap. It was lunacy. And then his nice-but-dim father had decided on a whim to invest most of their newly amassed fortune in Apple – not because he’d performed any analysis, but because he’d thought the logo was cool and he liked the company’s philosophy. Perhaps even more rankling for Black, after turning seven million into a hundred, he’d then sold all their stock because of an article he’d seen on Yahoo about the company mistreating some Chinese workers, and avoided a forty percent drop in its value.

  For two people living in a time warp, for whom money had no importance, they’d hit the jackpot while he toiled in obscurity, scraping by with next to nothing. Of course they’d offered to lend him whatever he needed, but his pride was such that he’d rather turn tricks at the Echo Park men’s room than accept a dime from them.


  “Yes, Mom, still living at the Paradise Palms,” he said, striving for a neutral tone. His apartment complex, a euphemistically named two-story fifties-era crackerbox boasting one- and two-bedroom dwellings grouped around a hideously maintained swimming pool, was the kind of dump that embarrassed and embittered anyone with a more promising career than fast food service. He’d been calling it home since his limousine business blew up – after he’d appeared at the Grammys with a high-profile pop starlet in the back of his car, overdosed on some powerful cocktail he’d somehow missed while regaling her about a big name music producer he’d worked with back in the day.

  The sight of the young ingénue falling out of the limo onto the red carpet and then vomiting all over his pants as he stood holding the door open, face frozen in shock, had pretty much killed the business, as had the lawsuit she and her parents had filed when she’d gotten out of the hospital. Even though it had ultimately been dismissed, his “Limo to the Stars” gig had been forced to close up when the bank cut his meager credit line and repossessed his two limousines, and his trademark stretch hot pink Humvee became the punch line to every Hollywood bad joke.

  “We’re just around the corner, up on that Sunset Boulevard, having a late lunch – yummy salads at a cozy organic restaurant we found. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to come let us in so we can get settled? We don’t have to be anywhere until tomorrow, so we put aside the whole afternoon just for you.”

  Black glared daggers at the back of Roxie’s skull, willing it to explode for having told them that he was open for the rest of the day. Her budding psychic abilities must have been flagging, as were his telekinetic skills, because she continued reading the fashion website she favored without a hint of discomfort.

  “Sure, Mom. I can be there in…half an hour.”

  “That’s awesome! And remember – no ‘mom.’ It’s Spring,” she chided good-naturedly.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’ll see you soon,” Black said, and then hung up, eager to discontinue the interaction. For whatever reason, his parents drove him crazy, and just the sound of his mom’s voice could send him into a spiral of self-loathing and anger.