Black

by Russell Blake

  Freddie had posted the bill on his site, an exclusive scoop that drove traffic through the roof, along with a lurid commentary suggesting that she’d been obviously drunk and abusive to members of the staff – an embellishment, perhaps, but non-disprovable, and it made for more interesting reading. The truth was that Melody was fairly boring by Tinsel Town standards, and was mainly newsworthy because of her upcoming role opposite Hunter. Their on-screen sizzle had been rumored to extend behind the camera, and Freddie had been giving his arch-enemy Hunter hell over it, memorializing his every move during production and hinting broadly that the over-the-hill action star was doing more than reading lines with his young co-star.

  Which of course had enraged Hunter, which was the entire point. Freddie delighted in portraying him as a tired, played-out has-been desperately trying to maintain a flagging career nobody cared about, noteworthy solely as an object of ridicule and because of his dalliances with girls barely out of training bras. It didn’t matter whether it was true or not, because after a year or two of his anti-Hunter campaign, spin had become reality, and all the other pubs were adopting the same tone, lumping him in with favorite whipping boys like Charlie Sheen and Mel Gibson.

  Hunter had retaliated by barring any of Freddie’s quislings from access to him, his co-stars, or the mega publicity machine that had begun rolling six months ago to build buzz over what the studio was hoping would be a blockbuster hit. That made Freddie’s FSA appear to be out of the loop, no longer relevant – the kiss of death in the gossip business. Hence Freddie had mounted a new counter-Hunter campaign focusing on dredging up dirt on the movie, its stars, industry scuttlebutt…whatever he could find to subtly smear the release so that in his readers’ minds it was a non-event before it hit the screen. So far it had worked like a charm, but with the accident, news coverage had gone ballistic, and overnight the non-event had become the most talked-about film in town.

  And Freddie had sustained a major black eye. It was his paparazzi who had been in the van, and now his competitors, as well as the larger media outlets, were already rumbling about them having chased her off the cliff, causing the accident. That could cause as big a backlash as the Princess Diana thing and make it almost impossible to do his job for a while. That in turn would translate into lost revenue, which was unthinkable. He needed to get in front of the story before any more leaked, and one of the ways he could do it was by drawing the always volatile Hunter out with an unexpected photo shoot and some loaded questions about whether he’d been sleeping with his drunken co-star. If the dolt lost it and took a swing at Cheatsheet, it would be front page on every screen in the country – he’d see to that.

  The tip had been a stroke of luck, and the plan was to ambush the director as he departed the press conference that had been orchestrated for just a few pet networks – reporters who were in the studio’s pocket and were sympathetic to Hunter’s plight. If he could goad the director into going berserk it would be gold, and could be used to kill the movie’s chances in the court of public opinion before a frame of it had been screened.

  “Freddie said the service door would be open, back on the alley,” Cheatsheet murmured as they walked past the scrapings of humanity that congregated on the sidewalks, the sour smell of body odor and human waste lingering like a pall of untreated sewage gas.

  “Let’s hope we can get in and out without being swarmed by this bunch of rejects. Jesus H. Christ, when did downtown become the Tijuana slums?” Bones griped.

  “Actually, last time I was in TJ it was cleaner than this.”

  The men rounded the corner and found the alley mouth, down which a few junkies with vacant expressions stumbled on their way to nowhere. They waited a few moments till one of the more enterprising finished digging through a dumpster, and then set out for the service entrance, a heavy steel slab painted glossy black.

  The door opened as promised, and they found themselves in a refuse holding area, a large concrete chamber with double doors at the opposite end and a stairway in the far corner. The informant had included rough layout details, so they unhesitatingly descended the stairs to the lower level.

  Once there, they found themselves in a hushed hallway, dotted with double doors. This was the conference center level, and their info had the meeting taking place in room C – which they could have easily spotted even without the heavy cables leading from the utility room opposite the elevators to the suite at the end of the hall.

  Their plan was a simple one: They would hide inside, and when the meeting broke up, they would jump out, Bones filming as Cheatsheet went on the attack with the questions, and hopefully the outrageous tone of his interrogative would cause enough of a scene for Hunter to lose it, or at least hurl invective at them, which could be used to paint an ugly picture of an angry, out-of-control bully. It was a classic set-up, and judging by the time, they would only have to wait fifteen minutes in the small, dark equipment room.

  “What’s with all the cables?” Bones asked as they approached.

  “Lights and whatever. Maybe they have some special presentation stuff they’re using. Who cares? Get in there. The tip said it would be open, too.”

  Bones twisted the handle and the door swung inward, and a few seconds later they were inside, unpacking the gear from Bones’ backpack. Cheatsheet had a small penlight, which he held for Bones as he retrieved the video equipment and the tape recorder and microphone.

  “I hope he goes frigging nuts. Grizzly on a rampage time. It could be worth six figures, easy,” Cheatsheet whispered.

  Bones grinned in the darkness, his countenance that of a feral animal contemplating dinner, eyes glistening in the weak beam of the tiny light.

  ~ ~ ~

  Down the hall, a figure watched from a cracked service door as the two men skulked to the equipment room and edged their way in. After checking the time and verifying that the hall was empty, the figure made for the stairwell with a measured, unhurried gait. At the base of the steps, the figure paused, extracted a cell phone from a black windbreaker, and then stabbed the send button before whirling and tearing up the stairs.

  ~ ~ ~

  Inside the equipment room, a five-gallon plastic jerry can half-filled with gasoline hid on one of the steel rack shelves. A small burner cell phone sat next to it, a tiny wire trailing from the black plastic container’s top into the little device’s guts.

  When the call activated the ringer, an electrical impulse sparked inside the container, igniting the gas fumes, and a nanosecond later the fuel exploded, filling the room with a fireball that instantly seared the skin off the two paparazzi. A moment later the fire alarm was triggered and the sprinkler activated, drenching the floor with water as both men collapsed in steaming heaps on the linoleum. The bare copper tip of the high-voltage cable that extended from the breaker panel sent a lethal pulse of electricity through the water on the wet floor, instantly killing both men.

  All but the emergency lights shut off, the master having tripped, and the hotel plunged into gloomy chaos.

  Chapter 8

  Black was finishing dinner with his parents when his phone lit up, Highway to Hell sounding loud and clear from its speaker. The other diners in the restaurant glared at him as he fiddled with it, trying to turn it down before answering it. His parents watched him with curiosity as he raised it to his ear.

  “Black here.”

  “Black. This is Hunter. We met today.”

  Black eyed his parents and turned away so they couldn’t easily hear his words. “Yes?”

  “Have you heard about the hotel?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you watch the news?”

  “I’m at dinner with my family. This isn’t a good time.”

  “Guess where I just spent the last three hours? With Los Angeles’ finest. They took me into custody for questioning. I just got released.”

  Black stood up and walked to the lobby area, signaling to Spring and Chakra that
he would be right back. “For what? The accident yesterday?”

  “No, I was doing a press conference downtown, and somebody fried two paparazzi.”

  Black swallowed hard. “Fried?”

  “Some kind of a bomb is what they’re saying. Killed them both.”

  “And why were you being questioned? Didn’t you have a roomful of people with you?”

  “I’d slipped out to use the restroom when it happened. My co-star was wrapping up his one-on-one with the press.”

  “So you have no alibi for when the bomb went off?”

  “That’s basically it. But they pulled security camera footage. The bathroom was upstairs one level, and there’s a cam there. It shows me going into the bathroom.”

  “Which is why they didn’t hold you.”

  “Correct.” Hunter hesitated. “Listen, I was thinking about what you said earlier, about not being able to do everything successfully by yourself. I’d like you to come by the house again, tonight, if possible. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

  Black glanced at his watch. “I’m just wrapping up dinner. I can probably be there by ten. Does that work for you?”

  “I’ve got some crap I’m also dealing with, so that’ll be perfect. See you at ten. And Black? Thanks for giving this another shot.”

  “No problem. But as of ten, you’re on the clock.”

  “Fair enough. Whatever your hourly rate is, consider it paid as of this call. You’re already on the clock.”

  Black set the phone down, shook his head, and returned to the table where he scowled at his parents. “What a weird business this is,” he said, and motioned to the server for the bill.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” Spring asked, concerned.

  “Oh, just one of the most powerful directors in Hollywood, calling to set up a meeting later tonight. He needs my help,” Black said, keeping his voice casual.

  “Wow! Congratulations. That’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Chakra asked, pulling his battered wallet from his pants and fingering carefully through it before extracting a hundred dollar bill for the check. Black didn’t try to haggle with him about it.

  “All in a day’s work. Although nighttime meetings are a little out of the ordinary. Sounds like the man’s got an urgent situation.”

  “I’ll say.”

  They drove home, full of organic pasta and cheap Chianti, and Black escorted them upstairs to his apartment, bid them good night, and headed back down to the waiting Cadillac. Thankfully, Gracie’s apartment was dark, so he wouldn’t get hijacked. By the time her Scotch ran out it was sleepy time, and she was reliably out like a light by nine.

  Bel Air loomed like royal palace grounds above the city’s twinkling lights. Its pristine real estate was the most coveted in L.A., every other home owned by a star or a mogul, Bentleys and Rolls Royces and Lamborghinis prowling the hilltop lanes, while only a few short miles away street people pulled cardboard over themselves in preparation for another long night. The old Eldorado sputtered to a stop in front of Hunter’s gate, and Black jabbed at the intercom button and waited for the ornate iron barrier to swing open, wishing he’d had a little less wine with dinner. Then again, it wasn’t common for him to be on call at night, so he’d had no way of knowing he’d be doing his second interview by starlight.

  He pulled up the circular drive and rolled to a halt in the same spot he’d occupied that afternoon and killed the big engine. A silence fell, and his ears detected the soft chirping of crickets from the surrounding trees. Off in the distance, a large dog barked halfheartedly before stillness descended again. Up here was none of the noise that was constant closer to the city, and he had to strain to make out the sound of traffic from the 405 freeway a scant mile away.

  The Caddy’s door groaned open and he stepped onto the cobblestones, debating for a moment whether to don his hat before dismissing the idea. He straightened his tie and smoothed his hair with a steady palm as he studied the hedges for any signs of the drunken daughter, but she must have graduated to other forms of amusement than tormenting new arrivals, and he was alone under the night sky, the house looming large in front of him.

  He was mounting the stairs when the front door opened. Meagan stood backlit like a goddess, her nightgown nearly translucent in the warm glow from the interior. He wondered whether she knew that her outfit hid no secrets when the light was right, then decided that it didn’t matter – this was his new client’s wife, and the man was a heavyweight mover and shaker. If she had an exhibitionist thing, that was Hunter’s problem, not Black’s, although he couldn’t help but admire her toned legs and perfectly sculpted–

  “Well, hello again, Mr. Black. I didn’t think we’d be seeing you so soon, but looks like it’s my lucky day,” she said, her voice a siren’s song, every note melodious and in tune, with a feline sensuality that was undeniable.

  “Mrs. Hunter…”

  “Meagan, remember?” she chided, still in the doorway, barring his entry while giving him a million dollar view.

  “Right. Meagan. I talked to your husband earlier, and he wanted me to meet him at the house at ten.”

  “Oh, he hasn’t gotten in yet. But do come in and make yourself at home. I’m just having a margarita before I go to bed. Would you like one? On the rocks?” she purred, stepping back and inviting him in with a wave of her half-empty glass.

  “I don’t drink when I’m on the job, Meagan,” he said, stepping into the foyer, keenly aware of her voluptuous figure only a few short feet away.

  “Nonsense. You’re not on the job right now. I insist. Besides, I hate to drink alone. It’s so lonely and desperate, you know? I’m guessing you like it hard over the rocks. None of that blended stuff for you,” she said, closing the door softly behind her and brushing by him. “No, I can see you’re a real man. Maybe even prefer just a straight shot of tequila? Skip right to the chase?”

  Black shrugged in surrender. “Maybe just a small one. Margarita, that is.”

  “There’s a good sport. Thanks for humoring a lady,” she crooned and moved to the kitchen, where an orange glass pitcher sat on the expansive granite island next to a bucket of ice. She lifted out three cubes and dropped them into a Mexican leaded glass tumbler and then poured it three quarters full of the amber fluid, taking the time to squeeze in a lime before picking up the glass and bringing it to him. “Try this. It’s my special recipe. Been in the family for literally hours.”

  As Black took a sip, the potent nectar filled his mouth with vanilla and caramel, then citrus and orange juice, all of it held together with a massive wallop of tequila.

  He nodded appreciatively and took another taste, and it felt like he’d hooked an IV bag of straight alcohol up to his feed and opened the line.

  “Wow. That’s…that’s incredible. I mean, seriously. It’s the best margarita I’ve ever had in my life.”

  “The secret is using three different anejo tequilas, each with its own flavor profile, and topping it off with a splash of Grand Marnier and a few drops of Chambord. I find I can’t enjoy anyone else’s margs now. They’re highly addictive,” she said, moving closer to him and holding her glass up for a toast. Mischief danced in her eyes as she clinked her glass against his, and then she took a long pull on her drink before closing them and leaning her head back in obvious invitation. “Mmm. It’s like heaven, isn’t it?”

  Black was getting uncomfortable with what had shifted from mild flirtation to something considerably more. This was a married woman. Whose husband would be arriving at any moment. His better judgment took hold and he moved away, choosing an overstuffed chair in the living room before this thing, whatever it was, with Meagan could escalate. She followed him in, gliding on the marble floor like a jungle cat, and sat on the padded arm of the chair. He caught a glimpse of her pupils, which were dilated, and he wondered in passing what else she used to dull the jagged edges of life besides alcohol.

  “So tell me, Mr. Black, what do you do for stimulation in this bi
g, nasty ol’ city?”

  “Mostly just work for the rich and famous, Meagan. And the odd spouse who believes his mate is cheating on him,” he said, hoping to introduce some sanity into their interaction.

  “I meant when you’re not working. How do you relieve your accumulated tension? Are you married? Is some lucky young lady your steady girlfriend?”

  “No wife, no girlfriend. Just me and twelve cats.”

  She eyed him distrustfully. “You’re such a liar. I bet you don’t have any pets.”

  “I have one bitter, morbidly obese cat. But he’s more the office cat. The kind who despises you even though you saved at least one of his miserable lives and feed him every day.”

  “That’s probably because he’s male. I bet all the female cats melt around you.”

  Black took a gulp of his drink and felt the tension seep out of him, washed away by the high-octane drink. So what if his new client’s wife was sitting on the arm of his chair, smelling like jasmine and female allure and radiating thousand-watt sex appeal? Did that make him a bad man? Had he put the moves on her or in any way encouraged her? Poor thing was only human, after all. Was it his fault that he had such undeniable animal magnetism?

  Such were his thoughts as a curtain of fragrant hair descended on his face and her open, full lips nipped his ear and then moved toward his mouth.

  The rear French doors creaked and he opened his eyes, pulled back to reality by the small noise, and he caught a glimpse of Hunter’s daughter through the glass panes, her eyes burning as she looked at him accusingly. Meagan let forth a small moan, a tiny cry of hunger and complete submission, and Black was sorely tempted to close his eyes again and let her take him to heaven – but some part of him that was still sane and sober enough to know better made him stiffen and gently push her away.