Black

by Russell Blake

  “I told you he loves you. He only does that to people he really loves.”

  “How come he doesn’t do it to you, then?”

  “I guess he loves you more,” she said, batting her eyes at him. She was wearing her usual black top and black jeans, today with red Converse All-Stars. Black had to admit that it wasn’t a bad combination – she had a way of filling it out nicely.

  “And now I’ve got the scars to prove it. The fat bastard ruined my slacks.”

  “Ruined them? Come on. Don’t be a whiny bitch, boss. They’re fine. Oh. Wait. Is that blood?”

  Black’s hand shot to his crotch area, where everything felt intact, at least.

  “Is this really appropriate behavior for a male business owner? I mean, in front of his only female employee?” Roxie asked innocently.

  “You said you saw blood.”

  “No, I asked whether that was blood. I was mistaken. But that doesn’t excuse your standing there fondling yourself in front of me. It’s kind of icky. I’m just saying…”

  “Roxie, I was not fondling myself.”

  “All right, this is getting really uncomfortable in here. Can we please just stick to being professional?”

  “The cat clawed my pants.”

  “You mean your slacks.”

  “Whatever. Mugsy started it, not me…”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve learned about your newest client?” Roxie asked in her typical abrupt manner, having lost interest in tormenting him, at least for the time being.

  “After I finish bleeding out.”

  “Your boy Hunter’s a deadbeat,” Roxie said, savoring the final word with the relish of a wine connoisseur quaffing a glass of ’95 Petrus.

  Black did a double take. “Come again?”

  She gave him an insulted look. “I’ll ignore that. I got his credit report, and he’s a late pay on everything but his cars. And get this – he’s got tax liens on the house, in addition to the large mortgage, which he hasn’t paid for five months. Credit card debt is over a quarter mil, owes the IRS a small fortune, stiffed his private jet company to the tune of a hundred grand…”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She regarded him deadpan, without blinking. “Because that’s how I kid.”

  “So you’re not kidding…”

  “Nope. He’s broke. Or he’s stretched so thin that he’s had to put it all on black. Pardon the pun.”

  She handed him the report. He took it and began pacing as he read.

  “He’s broke, all right. I don’t suppose you got anything from the banks listed on here?”

  “No. I don’t feel like committing more than one felony per hour, thanks.”

  “Damn. I hope the check he gave me doesn’t bounce.”

  “I don’t get the sense from the report that he’s ready to start selling his furniture yet. But the point is that he’s not fat, like you’d expect.”

  “Looks like he took out a big second on the house…mmm, maybe five years ago. Couple million.”

  “And then the market tanked.”

  “The good news is that it’s coming back,” Black said.

  “Not in time to save his ass from the IRS.”

  “Looks like he owes them over a mil.”

  “Ouch.”

  Black handed her back the report and glared at Mugsy, who was busy licking himself clean from his usual position by her desk. “Keep that bloodthirsty animal away from me. He’s a menace.”

  “He’s a big, furry ball of love with your name on it.”

  “You know how much this suit cost?”

  “I thought you were wearing it because you lost a bet.”

  Black knew better than to continue.

  “Did you see your parents before they left?”

  “No. I told you I was on a stakeout. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Black looked her over. “Want to tell me what’s going on, Roxie?”

  “It’s just that Spring seemed so…fragile. I think you’re too hard on them. I thought they were sweet.”

  “She’s about as delicate as a fighting dog.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s what, seventy or something?”

  “Something like that,” Black said, his voice betraying the uncertainty.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know how old your mother is…” she said, her voice damning.

  Mugsy looked up from his ablutions and peered at Black through hooded feline peepers.

  “I do. I just lose track sometimes. Seventy’s about right. Maybe seventy-one.”

  “You should try to be nicer to her. She’s the only mother you’ll ever have. In fact, you should be nice to both of them.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I mean it, Black. Don’t be a dick. They care about you. You should make a point of going up and visiting them at least twice a year. I would if my parents were still alive.”

  “I thought your mother was.”

  “Don’t try to evade the issue.”

  “Can I go do some work now that the counseling session is over?”

  “Suit yourself,” Roxie said, and returned to whatever she’d been doing on her computer, which looked to Black like shopping at an online clothing site.

  He stepped across the threshold into his office and stopped, then leaned back and looked at Roxie.

  “You’re right, you know. I get that.”

  “When have I ever been wrong?” she asked.

  “There’s such a thing as a graceful winner, you know.”

  “Not here, there isn’t.”

  Chastened and contrite, Black closed his door and took off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of the visitor chair. He sat behind his desk and stared at the ceiling for a few moments, then picked up his cell phone with a sigh and dialed a number he still knew by heart.

  “Hello?” Spring’s voice was chirpy, even long distance.

  “Hi, Spring.”

  “Hello?”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Hello…”

  “Mom?”

  “Damn. Whoever this is, hang on. My headset’s acting funky.”

  Black winced as a loud crackling nearly deafened him, followed by several blasts that sounded like his mother was in the middle of a hurricane, and then her voice returned.

  “Hello?” she tried again.

  “Mom. Is this better?”

  “Artemus! What a lovely surprise. Sorry we missed you yesterday. We stopped by…”

  “I know. I was out on business.”

  “Is…is everything all right? Do you need money?”

  Black sighed. “No, Mom–”

  “Spring,” she corrected.

  “Right. Spring. No, I don’t need money, and I’m fine. I was just calling to see if you got home safely.”

  “Why, that’s so…so sweet, honey! Yes, we had our meeting and were back home by dinner time.”

  “How did that go?” Black asked, feigning interest.

  “Oh, you know. I’m just not sure I want all the responsibility. It’s so much work, I remember from before…”

  “What is?”

  “Growing the company to meet these people’s production demand.”

  “Production demand. On candles?”

  “I know! Isn’t that a trip? Anyway, they wanted so many over the course of each year…”

  “Who was it you were meeting with, Spring?” Black asked, keeping his voice even.

  “The folks that own Trader Nick’s. They must really like my candles.”

  “Wait. Trader Nick’s wants to carry your candles?”

  “They actually wanted an exclusive. But the part that bothered me was that I’d have to quadruple output to meet their minimums, and…well, that’s just a big hassle. Plus, I sell them through Ruthie’s down on Telegraph, and she’s been a good friend ever since the soap days…”

  “So you’re turning down Trader Nick’s volume commitment to sell a handful of candles to Ruthie
?” Black echoed disbelievingly.

  “No, fortunately they were willing to let me have a waiver for the stores in Berkeley.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t want to run a big company.”

  Black swallowed hard. Even if the profit on candles wasn’t that great, it had to be a lot of money his mother was dismissing. Then again, she already had a lot of money.

  “I can totally appreciate that.”

  “Which is why we’re meeting with some nice people the Trader Nick’s folks introduced us to. They make some other products for them, and they’re interested in buying my candle business, or doing some kind of a license deal.”

  Black’s mouth tasted like glue. “A license deal. For Trader Nick’s.”

  “Anyway, your dad and I have been discussing it. Nothing’s been decided. But enough about us. That must be so exciting, working on a big case.”

  Black nodded, thinking about the paltry five grand retainer and how quickly that would get used up. “Oh, it is.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes and then Black signed off just as his door swung open, pushed by Mugsy, who looked ready for round two with his slacks.

  His frail mother was swinging multi-million dollar business deals over breakfast, and he was in a battle of wills with an obese ingrate of a tabby and an assistant who thought he liked going to discos with men. He was just thinking that it couldn’t get much worse when his office line buzzed and Roxie’s voice rang out like a klaxon.

  “Line one. Somebody named Stan. Says it’s urgent.”

  Chapter 17

  Black stared at the phone like it was a live snake, then raised the handset to his ear. “Hey, big guy. If it’s advice you’re looking for, four words: The butler did it,” he quipped.

  “Inside my heart soars like eagle at your pithy wit. Outside, not so much,” Stan said, his voice typically dry and matter-of-fact.

  “What’s going on, chief?”

  “You watch the news this morning?”

  “No. Why? Did I win the lottery?”

  “Another paparazzo bit the dust last night.”

  Black sat up, his mood no longer playful. “What?”

  “Sliced up a block from FSA headquarters. Ugly. Lots of blood.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “Why do you think? We’re looking at your client as a possible. I just came from his house. His alibi sucks.”

  “Really? What was it?”

  “That he was home, in his office. Problem is no witnesses. He claims he was reading scripts, so no computer history to verify he was there.”

  “Where was his wife?”

  “Apparently she got the tequila flu and retired early.”

  “Daughter?”

  “Wasn’t there.”

  “Alarm system? Housekeepers?”

  “Alarm wasn’t on. Only the family at home. Or not.”

  “You’re right. That’s not a great alibi.”

  “Nope. Then again, we don’t have anything linking him. No traffic cams of one of his vehicles in Santa Monica, no witnesses…”

  Roxie’s voice sounded from the front office again.

  “What?” Black demanded, irritated at being interrupted.

  “Your new client is on line two.”

  Black cupped his hand over the phone. “Shit. Really?” he asked her.

  “You want me to tell him you’re too busy to talk? Or you’re in the bathroom or something?”

  “No.” Black returned his attention to Stan. “Are we done?”

  “For now.”

  “Thanks for calling, buddy. Sorry you got another one thrown at you.”

  “Hey, at least it’s job security, right?”

  Black jabbed at the phone until line two lit up. “Black,” he answered.

  “Black. Hunter. The cops were just over here. Another scumbag got whacked, and they’ve got a hard-on for me.”

  “But all they did was question you?”

  “Some bull about where was I last night. Like now I’m Jack the Ripper. I can’t tell you how pissed off I am right now.”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think they bought it.”

  “What was it?”

  “That I was jerking off at the precise time they’re curious about. Who the hell cares what it was? The point is I’m being raked over the coals. Have you made any progress?”

  “Not really. It’s only been one day. Remember our discussion…”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it the first time. You’re a maverick. Work alone. Blah blah blah. Listen, that wasn’t the main reason I called. You’ve got my schedule. Tonight’s the sneak preview showing of the movie. I want you there.”

  “Why? Did you hire the security guy I put in touch with you?”

  “Yes, but I want you, too. Because I can sense you’re a film aficionado. You give off that vibe, with the clothes and all.”

  “The clothes?”

  “Hey, I got nothing against you guys. To each his own, you know?” Someone in the background spoke to Hunter, and then he returned. “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time to yak. Be there at 8:00. Show starts at 8:15.”

  Black found himself staring at the phone, a dial tone humming from the earpiece.

  He glanced at his forties-cut retro suit jacket absently, wondering why everyone thought that such a classic look was the province of those celebrating alternative lifestyles, and then Roxie was standing at the door.

  “You need to see this. FSA has a piece on Hunter from yesterday where he got into some kind of a fight.”

  Black stood and accompanied her back to her desk, where a photo of the actor from the worst possible angle managed to make him look paunchy, even though he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him that Black could tell. He read the short blurb beneath it and whistled softly.

  “Nothing like unbiased journalism. This makes it read like he went berserk and attacked some innocent bystanders for no reason.”

  “Isn’t that what happened?” Roxie asked, and Black noticed that she smelled good – like vanilla and floral shampoo.

  “Not at all. Some thugs were picking on a damsel in distress, and he came to her aid. I saw the whole thing. This is nothing more than a smear job.”

  “That’s about what I’d expect from these guys. I checked the other big sites, and a few of them have photos, too. Probably taken with cell phones, but not bad. Their accounts more match your description of what went down.”

  “No question that FSA has it out for Hunter. Obviously, they hate his guts. I bet if he saved a basket of kitties, they’d spin it so it looked like he was trying to drown them.”

  “Hey, at least he’s all over the news again. That can’t hurt his new movie’s chances, can it?”

  Black eyed her profile thoughtfully. “Any publicity is good publicity – as they say?”

  “I wouldn’t know, given that my band has never managed to get noticed enough to worry about it.”

  “That’s life in the big city.” Black paused. “How did things work out with Eric?”

  “I confronted him, and he swears on a stack of Bibles that he didn’t do anything. I know he’s a liar, but I kind of believe him.” She looked away. “I’m a weak woman.”

  Black’s hand instinctively moved to her shoulder to comfort her, but then stopped, hovering just behind it. A vision of Dr. Kelso popped into mind, staring at him like a stuffed boar’s head. He lowered his arm and straightened.

  “Hey. Nobody’s perfect, right?”

  “I guess not. I wish I had the cash to hire you to shadow him for a few days so I could know for sure.”

  “If you did, you wouldn’t be working here, and that would be my loss. And think how it would impact Mugsy – the fat little shit would have to be nice to me so I’d feed him. I think it would kill him.”

  “He’s probably rolling around on your jacket as we speak. Or using it as a scratching post or something.”

&nb
sp; Black’s eyes widened and he darted back into his office. Mugsy was lying on the seat of his executive chair, methodically shredding the leather.

  “Mugsy! Get off that right now!” Black screamed. Mugsy glanced up at him with a look of studied feline insouciance and then plopped down onto the floor with his trademark expression of disdain. Black watched as he stalked past on stiff legs, took up position by Roxie, and closed his eyes, exhausted from the exertion of destroying yet more of Black’s meager possessions.

  Black sighed and called out to her. “Let me know when you have the phone stuff on Hunter. That may give us a direction to pursue, because right now we’ve got squat, and the paparazzi are heading the endangered species list. And Hunter’s a prime suspect, which is bad for us, especially if he’s been naughty.”

  “Naughty might be a little tame for serial killing.”

  “Man’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Aren’t we all…”

  Chapter 18

  The private screening theater at Paramount held a hundred people, and the crowd gathered in the outer reception room, swigging cocktails and telling each other lies about their careers and projects. It was a mixed bag – some critics, a few sympathetic reporters, studio execs, the actors and their dates, friends, business associates, agents, and managers…and Black, who blended in like a sumo wrestler at a fashion show. Everyone had the glow of money and fame and power, even the press, who seemed to bask in it and reflect the aura like multi-level marketers at a big sales convention.

  Black’s gaze roved over the throng, grouped in threes and fours, sipping champagne and martinis as they tittered at each other’s witticisms, until it landed on the small bar that had been set up in the far corner. He made a beeline for it, feeling like he’d caught a touchdown pass and was fighting his way downfield. Meagan Hunter appeared out of nowhere in a glittery black dress that looked like it had been glued on, and slipped her arm into his.

  “Why, Mr. Black. What a delightful surprise. I’m so glad you could make it. Can I talk you into a cocktail before the festivities begin?” she purred, the aroma of expensive perfume mixing with alcohol fumes as she murmured in his ear like a lover.

  “Mrs. Hunger. Nice to see you again,” he said, then flushed as he realized his slip. “Hunter. Mrs. Hunter. Sorry.”