“I won’t press charges if they get the hell out of here and leave her alone,” Hunter said, his tone dangerous, gripping his helmet like he was ready to go another round.
“You heard him. Scram, or you can explain to the police why you assaulted a respected actor,” Black said, realizing that the crowd had now recognized Hunter. He hoped common sense would kick in and they’d want no part of an escalation that would undoubtedly have them both behind bars for a long time.
The men clawed their way upright, holding their faces, and snarled at Hunter before retreating to their motorcycles and pulling their helmets on. Exhausts rumbled across the lot as Hunter stood, one arm protectively around the girl, until the bikes roared off with a contemptuous growl as they tore onto the street and sped south.
“Are you okay?” Black asked Hunter, eyeing the girl, who seemed somewhat in awe of the actor.
“Sure. Just a couple of two-bit punks.” Hunter turned to consider his new companion. “You going to be all right?”
“Yeah. Thank you. I just want to get out of here,” she said, nervously scanning the growing crowd.
“Black, would you get her a cab or something?” Hunter asked. The girl pulled away from him, the moment past, and as Black escorted her to the street he dialed his office. When Roxie answered, he quickly told her what he wanted and where the cab needed to go.
“Yes, master. Should I pick up your dry cleaning while I’m at it?”
“Roxie, please just do it. Now.”
The line went dead, and Black debated calling back but decided not to. Roxie would call. She might be insolent, but she was highly competent.
“A taxi’s on its way. Do you need anything?” Black asked the girl.
“Nah, I’m cool. Thanks. That whole thing just freaked me out. Creeps.”
“Do you know them?”
“Sort of,” she said, and Black took the hint. It was none of his business.
“Wait here. The car should be around shortly,” he said, and she sat down on a concrete bus stop bench, resigned to her aborted day on the town.
Black returned to where Hunter was pulling on his helmet, having signed a dozen autographs for his fans. Hunter looked over his shoulder after swinging a leg over the motorcycle’s seat and flipping off a car that two men with cameras were piling into. Black watched them pull out of the lot and Hunter grinned.
“Who was that?” Black asked.
“Paparazzi.”
“Kind of convenient that they were here for that little scuffle, wasn’t it?” Black asked, his expression betraying nothing.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Hunter said. He hit the ignition and gunned the throttle, ending the conversation. “You’ve got my itinerary. See you when I see you, big man,” he called as he pulled away, and then he accelerated across the lot and edged into the sparse late-morning traffic.
Black watched him go, uneasy butterflies flittering in his stomach, and then he turned and walked back to his car, wondering what had really just happened.
Chapter 14
“Did you call the taxi?” Black asked as he navigated back towards Los Angeles, over the ridge of hills that separated the San Fernando Valley from the city.
“Damn. I knew I was supposed to do something…” Roxie said, and put the phone down. Black was used to it – it was her way of signaling that she was annoyed at a question. He waited a few seconds and then she picked it back up. “Of course I did.”
“Great. And have you got anything on the numbers I gave you?”
“Not yet. But I did get a hit on one of your movie dirtbags. Seems like he’s got a rap sheet for petty crimes. Reads more like a con man and a dope fiend than anything. Typical Sunset Strip bottom feeder.”
Black sighed. He’d already forgotten about Jared. “What have you got?”
“Looks like a home address. Actually, not that far from your place. Maybe eight blocks away. Like minds…”
“Spare me the insults before lunchtime. Which one is it, and what’s the address?”
“Reginald Calper. The one you scribbled ‘Preacher’ next to.” Roxie gave him the address.
“Okay, got it. I’ll go by and pay him a visit.”
“So no chai for me today, either. No wonder Mugsy hates you.”
“What does me not getting you chai have to do with Mugsy? And I thought you said he doesn’t hate me.”
“I just said that so you wouldn’t hold it against him. He’s protective of me, and knows when you’re subjugating me.”
“Subjugating?”
“Oppressing. Keeping me down.”
“I’m not subjugating you.”
“Classic misogynist. In denial.”
“I’m not a misogynist, although you certainly have me thinking about becoming one…”
“At least you’re open to accepting it. They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step.”
“I’m not admitting anything. You’re inventing this. I’m not a misogynist.”
“He said angrily,” Roxie quipped.
Black took a deep breath. “I’m not angry.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Hothead. Just don’t come into the office and hit me.”
“I’ve never hit you.”
“Yet.”
“Roxie? I’m going to hang up now. Is there anything else?”
“Misogynist, violent and angry, and now dismissive. Why am I not surprised?”
“Will you call me when you get something on the phone records?”
“Your mom and dad stopped by.”
Black pulled onto the freeway, having to fight his way on after being blocked by an older woman in a Buick, the Eldorado stuttering as it strained up the incline of the hill.
“Are you just trying to ruin my day?”
“They really did. I thought they were sweet.”
“How did they find my office?”
“Uh, you are in the book.”
“Damn.”
“Spring and I had a lovely time. Although she’s worried because you’re not dating.”
“Roxie…”
“She wanted to know if I thought you were gay.”
“Roxie…”
“She mentioned the wardrobe, and also the no girlfriend… I wish I’d had something more positive to tell the poor woman. Although she seemed accepting, if resigned…”
“I think this is where I hang up for real.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind if you like men, Black. To each his–”
Black listened as the engine labored and prayed they’d make it to the summit of the hill, much as he did every day, on every grade he encountered. He absolutely had to take it in and get it looked at. Just as soon as the check cleared the bank.
Which reminded him to stop at the bank. Thereby solving his maintenance problem.
Small miracles were showering from the heavens like manna, he thought as he crested the hill and started down the long winding grade, the city sprawling before him. The Cadillac stopped misfiring and returned to purring quietly, and Black resolved that this time he wouldn’t put off seeing his mechanic any longer.
The bank run took twenty minutes, by which time his stomach was signaling that it was time to eat. He considered something healthy, then opted for a big, greasy double burger slathered in down-home Island barbeque sauce with triple cheese, bacon, and a deep fried onion ring from a Hawaiian burger joint close to his apartment run by a constantly bickering Korean family who were about as Aloha as they were Irish. His nutritional needs met, he considered possible approaches to take with Reginald, AKA Preacher. As he burped up a rancid stew of teriyaki and pork byproduct, he decided that the direct approach was probably the best.
Roxie was correct that the neighborhood was nearby, but the proximity didn’t prepare him for how run-down the building was – it made the Paradise Palms seem like Buckingham Palace. He found a parking place down the block and took his time locking the car, eyes roving over the deserted street, more out of
habit than from a sense of any impending threat. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to be robbed of his trusty steed, he ambled along the sidewalk until he was in front of the building, which like his, was a horseshoe built around a pool – only this one had been paved over long ago, and the exterior could best be described as prison chic.
An ancient Vietnamese man sat in the courtyard, wearing soiled brown elastic-waist slacks and a T-shirt that looked like someone had been buried in it. He watched, stone-faced, as Black eyeballed the structure. Black nodded to him, but the man gave no response, and merely continued to rock back and forth on his cheap lawn chair, seemingly oblivious to the world.
Black climbed the stairs unhurriedly and moved along the second floor landing until he arrived at Reginald’s apartment – number thirty-two. He stood outside, listening for any signs of life, and after twenty seconds of silence, rapped on the door.
Nothing.
A sparrow alighted on the rusting iron railing five yards away from him and searched the area for food, then hopped away, having determined that there was nothing promising from Black’s direction. Smart bird, he thought, and knocked on the door a second time in the futile hope of a response.
The old Asian was still staring blankly into space when he returned, and Black stopped near him and tried his most inviting nice-guy tone.
“Hello. Do you live here?”
The man looked at him like he was insane, and returned to whatever reverie was playing on infinite repeat in his brain. Black was just turning to leave when the man rasped out in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, almost feminine in timbre.
“Whatchou wan?”
Black hesitated, considering the best way to describe what he wanted. “I’m looking for Reggie. I’m a friend,” Black said with what he hoped was a warm grin.
“Reggie?”
“In number thirty-two. Reggie.” Black didn’t see any recognition in the man’s eyes. “Preacher?”
The old man spit to the side in disgust. “Piece a shit,” he declared with startling precision, then folded his arms, as if convinced that Black was crafted from the same imperfect clay as his friend.
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Black agreed, wondering how to keep the man engaged long enough to get more information out of him than his global perspective on Reginald’s character.
“No good. Boy no good.”
While Black certainly couldn’t mount a spirited defense of Reginald in his absence, he sensed that the old man wasn’t likely to be forthcoming with much more information. Still, Black was a professional, so he gave it one last try.
“When does he usually get home?”
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he waved a gnarled hand dismissively at Black. “You go way or I caw porice.”
“But–”
“You go now. Mao. Didi mao!”
Black didn’t need to brush up on his Vietnamese to get the gist of the old man’s exclamation, and held his hands up in what he hoped was a non-threatening way as he backed slowly from the railing he’d been standing near.
“Okay, Grandfather. No disrespect intended. I’m going.”
“Mao! MAO!!!”
That went well, he thought as he exited the complex, the old man’s screams echoing off the walls in a parting serenade. Maybe next time he could just start shooting through the door instead of knocking. About as inconspicuous.
He returned to the car and slid behind the wheel, wishing he’d never agreed to do this for Gracie. Yet another example of him knuckling under, a pushover for the women in his life. The thought ignited a flare of annoyance, and as he settled in to wait for Reginald to show, he wondered whether there might not be something to Kelso’s ideas about females and his rage after all.
Chapter 15
Lorenzo yawned as he watched the sun set over Santa Monica, the warm orange fading across the ocean and transitioning to red as its last lambent trace sank into the horizon. It had been another long day in the FSA offices, sorting through countless rumors, tips, articles, and whispers, sifting for the gold amidst the pyrite.
His love for his job was still strong even after four years, in spite of the brutal hours and the workload and the relentless expectation of perfection and dedication from Freddie, who sat like a spider in the center of his information collection web, making decisions about how to present the tidbits he deemed worthy of the company’s attention. Lorenzo was the first line filter; if it made it past him, then it got passed up the line to his boss, Serena, who made the call whether to bump it up to Freddie or kill it.
It was a pecking order that worked well, and Lorenzo, one of the company’s first employees, had watched with thrilled amazement as the company had gone from just a few trusted staff to an organization with hundreds, working round the clock. The website had become synonymous with celebrity news, which in reality was nothing more than the latest dirt. But for FSA, it was paydirt, and Freddie always shared the wealth – to a point.
Lorenzo continued plowing through the endless stream of information and lost track of time, as he often did. It seemed like only minutes had passed, but when he glanced at his watch, he saw that it was pushing nine p.m. – a thirteen-hour day, one of many he’d devoted to the greater good of getting the juice on the stars FSA followed like a pack of hungry wolves.
“Ciao, sweeties. Be back in the swamp with y’all tomorrow,” he called out, adjusting his fitted jacket as he exited his cubicle. A few tired faces looked up at him, but most of the day staff had gone home already, leaving only a handful of the night shift settling in. Now that was a gig nobody in their right mind wanted. Everyone who worked the graveyard shift was doing so in the hopes of moving up to a day job at some point, figuring they had to pay their dues. Lorenzo knew that Freddie encouraged the rumor that it was a sure way into the big leagues. He also knew that only one person had ever made the leap – the rest of the story was to encourage misguided dreaming that convinced the young and the foolish to work all night for lousy pay.
He stopped in the restroom on the way out and checked his look – cropped black hair gleaming in the artificial light, stylish horn-rimmed glasses for a brooding intellectual edge, swarthy good looks still firmly in place, if a little shopworn. If he hurried, he could grab a quick dinner near his apartment and then take a shower before spending a few hours trolling the West Hollywood clubs.
Downstairs, he pushed through the heavy glass security door and ensured it locked behind him before starting down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. He knew that traffic would still be heavy on Santa Monica Boulevard headed down to Pacific Coast Highway and the beach, and he thanked Providence that he’d be going in the opposite direction, east into Los Angeles. If things worked out smoothly he could be eating at the café a few blocks from his house in no more than half an hour and out on the town by eleven at the latest. That would work.
He rounded the corner and nearly collided with a laughing couple, the woman a stunning blonde in her thirties, the man not so fetching, in his fifties. Love always managed to find a way in L.A., he’d found – popular grist for the company’s mill. Even better when the honeymoon was over and the accusations started flying, which was a regrettable byproduct of the lifestyle.
A homeless person shambled along near the parking lot, incongruent with the meticulously sculpted trees that lined the street and yet also an indelible part of the landscape. The down and out, the addicted and the deranged seemed to gravitate to Los Angeles as if it were the Promised Land, and one quickly grew inured to their shabby parade in even the swankiest areas of town. Something about the beach, coupled with the concentration of wealth, acted as a magnet for lowlifes, and Lorenzo didn’t even grant them a second glance nowadays – he’d come a long way since moving there seventeen years earlier with aspirations of being an actor, only to become hardened by the town, as everyone eventually did. The endless empty promises and broken dreams seasoned even the most generously predisposed inhabitants, and compassion was perceived as wea
kness in the city’s cutthroat environment.
He was approaching his Ford Festiva when he heard the rustling behind him, and he’d just begun to spin to face whoever was there when the first icy lance of pain shrieked through his chest, his lung punctured instantly by a wickedly sharp blade. He tried to scream but found he couldn’t breathe, and when the second blow landed, slicing through his carotid artery and most of the side of his neck, all he could muster was a groan of agony as he sank to the ground, his blood streaming through his hand, which clawed in futility to stem its flow.
His eyes began losing focus as his brain starved for oxygen, but even so he could make out the silhouette of his attacker, who stood silently, watching him die, occasionally glancing around to confirm that they were alone.
The ‘vagrant’ knelt next to his corpse once he’d bled out and methodically went through Lorenzo’s pockets until locating his wallet. Inside were a hundred and seven dollars, five credit cards, an ATM card, and his security card for the building. The killer also took his keys and then moved along the structure’s brick wall to the far street to disappear around a corner, leaving Lorenzo to be found by the security company that would occasionally swing by to police the lot several times each night.
Chapter 16
“Wow. You look terrible. Did you sleep in your car or something?” Roxie asked the following morning.
“Close enough. I was up late on a stakeout,” Black said, placing a cup of chai on her desk before plopping down on the couch across from her. Mugsy stalked over on stiff legs and then leapt onto his lap, as if he knew that he could get the maximum amount of hair on Black’s suit with the maneuver. Black rubbed his plump belly. Mugsy purred, and then hooked a needle-sharp claw into his trouser fabric and pulled on it. Black leapt up like he’d been scalded, and Mugsy flipped to the side, landing feet-first on the floor and scurrying off.
“Jesus. That damned cat!”
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