Black

by Russell Blake

  Black was speechless. It all fell into place. “Are you for real?”

  “This is Hollywood, sugar. Land of make believe. I’d give you five to one odds that he planned the whole thing. He even got Freddie to cover it, if with a negative spin. Pure manipulation, and brilliant at that. I gotta buy the man a drink next time I see him.”

  “Huh. While you’re being so free and easy with the booze, tell me about the wife.”

  “Meagan? They’ve been married for, I don’t know, a dozen years. He booted his ex for her. Caused a big stink at the time. Meagan was barely out of diapers. Maybe twenty? Twenty-one?”

  “What’s your impression of how they’re doing these days?”

  “I don’t talk to her much. She doesn’t like me. Feeling’s mutual.”

  “Right. But at the sneak preview party, they didn’t seem to be getting along very well.”

  “Maybe she found out he was banging everything in town. A man like Hunter’s not going to change much. Twenty looked great to him when he was fifty, and probably looks even better to him now that he’s sixty-whatever. I mean, you know he was humping his co-star, right?”

  “Melody. Yeah, I kind of read between the lines there.”

  “And Meagan’s got the appetites of an alley cat, from what I can tell.”

  “Do you know that for sure?”

  “You mean do I have footage of her and the pool boy? No. But a woman can just tell these things, my boy. Rrowr.”

  “She’s been coming on to me pretty strong.”

  “There you go. Although I also get the sense she’s a calculating bitch. Might want to ask yourself what else besides your impressive physique she wants out of you.”

  “Fortunately for me, I don’t have anything else.”

  “Everyone has something else, darling. You just need to figure out what you have that she has designs on. Not that you’re not muy caliente.”

  “Maybe I’m just in the right place at the wrong time?”

  “That could be. Damn. Hang on.” Colleen had a short conversation with someone. “Sorry. Seth is painting the place, so it’s mayhem over here.”

  “No problem. I’ve kept you long enough. Say hey to Seth for me – I gather you two are more than friends.”

  “I can’t afford a pool boy, but Seth, for all his issues, manages to drive my car just fine. Why, you wanna bump ahead of him in line?”

  “Maybe another time, Colleen. Thanks for the info.”

  “Always a pleasure, babe.”

  Black navigated his way back to the office, wondering what he’d gotten himself into with Hunter, and then dismissed his misgivings. The money was good, and God knew he could use more of that. Who was he to judge his fellow man, or woman, especially at two hundred per hour? One had to be flexible. Not jump to hasty conclusions.

  He stopped by Preacher’s apartment building again on his way back, but met with the same shrieking invective from the old Vietnamese man, and no response to his repeated knocking. Maybe the scumbag had blown town after ripping enough people off. It wouldn’t be the first time, and the girl had already flown the coop. He was getting the feeling that it was a dead end, but he owed it to Gracie to put in at least a token effort. Plus, he’d been young and stupid once, and had certainly gotten tricked out of more than a few measly grand.

  Black hated to admit it, but Jared reminded him just a little of himself when he’d first arrived in L.A. The timeline had just accelerated since back in his day. It had taken almost two years for the town to crush his spirit. With Jared, it had only been a week.

  Everything was more efficient now.

  Probably the damned internet’s fault.

  Chapter 20

  Spotlights played through the night air outside of TCL Chinese Theater for the premiere of Hunter’s epic, Nine Hard Lives, which the promo posters warned would be shocking – and that this time, it was personal. Every variety of kook and Hollywood nutcase was out in force, thronging the sidewalks on either side of the barricades that had been set up to keep the undesirables at bay, vying for attention in the way that only the certifiably insane could.

  A man dressed as Stan Laurel of Laurel and Hardy, inexplicably painted head to toe in silver paint, stood next to his counterpart, an all-gold Pirate of the Caribbean who looked like he’d polished off a few too many cocktails before coming to work for the evening. Roller-skating Rastafarians for Jesus, a few holdout Hari Krishnas, three paunchy men in sombreros and gaucho suits with guitars and a sign proclaiming them as the Polish Mariachis (Polka Con Dios!), a juggling midget in a threadbare jester’s outfit, an eighty-year-old woman screaming Biblical prophecies in between serenading passers-by with off-key show tunes…anything you wanted, and plenty you didn’t, was at the spectacle, drawn to the glitter as surely as moths to a bug zapper.

  Near the far barrier, the paparazzi hung in a clump, like bluebottles around a camp latrine, waiting for the big show to finish so they could get photos. They’d already disrupted the proceedings while the stars had been arriving on the red carpet, and several from FSA had made a point of yelling inflammatory questions when Hunter arrived. Hunter had barely restrained himself from lunging at the men, who taunted him with the glib assurance of children pestering zoo animals from behind the safety of shatterproof glass.

  An espresso cart was set up, and the photographers were eagerly sipping the hot brew, their work hours having just begun. Many would be up until dawn, chasing down the inebriated and the unlucky who also happened to be newsworthy, and they relished a good caffeine jolt in addition to any other stimulants they could get their hands on. The film had started almost two hours before, and the air of expectation in the remaining crowd was palpable, a buzz of excitement at being in the proximity of the famous, if not the great. Young women in short skirts worked the area, their lean features already brittle in spite of their tender years, ignored by the uniformed policemen lounging together inside the barrier, safeguarding those who really mattered from those who clearly didn’t.

  Suddenly one of the FSA photographers by the barrier dropped his camera with a loud crash, followed immediately by his paper cup of steaming coffee, and then collapsed on the filthy concrete sidewalk and began to convulse. A nearby woman screamed as the remaining paparazzi alternated between stepping away from their colleague and drawing nearer in horrified fascination. His partner knelt next to him and began to loosen his button-up shirt collar, but pulled away when the fallen man started to foam from his mouth and nose, tiny flecks of blood coloring the froth pink.

  Two policemen hopped the barrier and jogged over, hands on their holstered pistols. When they saw the commotion, the first radioed for help while the other signaled to their remaining colleagues, who rushed to join them and see what the fuss was all about.

  Nine minutes later an ambulance rolled to the curb. Two paramedics leapt out and ran to examine the fallen man. One took the photog’s vitals while the other removed a medical kit from the rear of the ambulance, and then stopped when his partner looked up at him from his position next to the victim and shook his head.

  Ten minutes after that, the film ended. By then the area in front of the theater was chaos, with additional uniforms arriving and the crowd in a flux of slow motion pandemonium as more of the local eccentrics congregated to add their own special brand of magic to the tragedy. A legless saxophone player sat oblivious to the scene, propped against a lamppost down the block, playing a long, soulful solo as the police did their best to contain the area. A line of limousines waited at the curb like a funeral procession, yellow crime scene tape now cordoning off the espresso cart and the spot where the victim had dropped. When the theater doors swung open, the exiting audience was shocked by the unexpected display, police milling around trying to implement crowd control with marginal success.

  Black was one of the first out the door and quickly sized up the situation when he saw the squad cars and the ambulance. His phone went off as he stepped backward and leaned against one of th
e building façade’s oversized red columns, next to a highly stylized Chinese imperial lion, and he looked down at the screen to see a text message from Stan, warning him that he’d be there in two minutes and to stay put, along with his client. Black hadn’t seen Hunter since everyone had entered the theater, so he was unsure how to go about alerting him that the police wanted to have yet another chat, but he figured that eventually the star would have to exit, and then Black could corral him.

  The departing crowd had stopped to gawk at the scene, creating a bottleneck inside the theater that quickly developed an angry hum from the important people inside who were being blocked – something they were unaccustomed to and resented on principle. Jostling ensued, adding to the mayhem and carnival-like atmosphere on the sidewalk, the spotlights still sweeping the night sky as if nothing had happened. Traffic froze to gridlock as rubberneckers slowed to get a better look. An old Nova collided with a new Audi on the opposite side of Hollywood Boulevard, stopping the flow as the drivers inspected the damage.

  Stan’s unmarked sedan screeched to the curb twenty yards from the red carpet, a flashing emergency light stuck on the roof, and he hopped out from behind the wheel as his partner, Carl Field, swung the passenger door open and heaved his considerable bulk out. Stan spotted Black and gave him a dark look before quickly taking stock of the situation and assuming control. The corpse’s inert form still lay on the sidewalk beneath a blanket provided by a thoughtful paramedic. The forensics van pulled to a halt shortly afterward, and three technicians emerged lugging dark blue toolboxes and started collecting prints and evidence from the coffee cart while Stan organized the onlookers into groups of potential witnesses.

  Inside, the manager of the theater finally got on the public address system and announced that there had been an incident outside that would be cleared up shortly, and that he appreciated everyone’s cooperation in being patient – that it was a police matter, and they were doing everything in their power to speed things along. The murmur of displeasure increased to a steady roar, and Black watched as Stan and some more detectives organized things and began allowing people out. All he could think was that he was glad he was outside and not in the room with a theater full of people who had just sat through one of the most astonishingly bad and sophomoric cinematic efforts in recent memory.

  Stan saved Black the trouble of detaining Hunter, beelining toward him when he emerged, a look of fury on the star’s face because his big event had been ruined. Stan told him to stay put while he finished with preliminary questioning of the paparazzi, and Black could hear the outrage in Hunter’s voice over the tops of a hundred heads. In truth, Stan was overstepping, because Hunter had been inside when whatever had happened had taken place, and had about a thousand witnesses who could attest to it. Black saw Stan brushing past a group of women in sequined evening dresses and moved toward him.

  “What happened, Stan?”

  “Someone poisoned one of the photographers. And get this – with more cameras here than a Japanese pawn shop, there’s not one shot of the espresso vendor. Not one. All anyone remembers is that it was a Caucasian or Hispanic male with a black baseball cap and a beard. Which would be really helpful if there were only five adult males living in Los Angeles. So let’s just say I’m having a really bad night.”

  “Not as bad as Hunter is. Why are you holding him?”

  “I’m not. I just asked him to wait a few minutes so I can take his statement.”

  “Which looks to everyone, including the press, like he’s a suspect.”

  Stan leaned in to him and spoke so softly it was barely a whisper. “Yup. And you know why? Because I can.”

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Black said.

  “I just did.”

  They were both startled by a commotion at the edge of the crowd where Hunter was standing. Someone screamed, and by the time Black and Stan had made it to the area, all hell had broken loose. Black was straining to get a look at what had happened when he saw Hunter being restrained by two police officers, a look of pure rage in his eyes. He pushed closer and saw a familiar figure spread-eagled on the sidewalk, blood streaming from his ruined face.

  Freddie.

  “What the hell is going on?” Black yelled over the shouting voices. A man next to him, in his sixties, dignified and obviously wealthy, turned toward him.

  “The guy on the ground showed up and started taunting Hunter. Said his premiere was going to be the running joke of the decade. Hunter lost it when the guy said someone inside had called to tell him that the movie was worse than Ishtar,” he said, his voice gravelly with an east coast accent, seasoned by decades of good Scotch.

  “Damn.”

  “That’s when Hunter started swinging. The other guy went down like a welterweight. Glass jaw. I guess the man can hit, even if his acting’s not so great.” The man paused. “I think kicking him was over the line, though.”

  Black edged away, his heart sinking – his meal ticket had committed assault on the world stage against one of the most powerful media figures in town. Probably not time to be shopping for a condo, he thought, and winced as a collective intake of breath rose from Hunter’s entourage, accompanying the snick of handcuffs being locked into place.

  Black watched as another ambulance arrived for Freddie and hauled him off. Hunter was definitely in trouble this time. Even with provocation, he was going to get collared for battery and aggravated assault, at the very least. And even in L.A. that was considered a no-no.

  Not to mention that his movie sucked, and his wife was ready to jump in the sack with the hired help and maybe anyone else she happened across, when she wasn’t guzzling tequila and popping pills like they were Pez.

  For once in his life, he wasn’t envious of the rich and famous.

  Not one bit.

  Chapter 21

  Black waited by his car, smoking his fifth cigarette in the last hour as he contemplated excuses for buying a bottle of Jack and drinking it straight to his head – not that he particularly needed an excuse. A tapestry of stars glimmered overhead through the haze of smog that accumulated nightly east of L.A., the beige residue of the rush hour into Riverside. The freeway had been quiet on his night drive east, for which he was grateful. Since watching the debacle at the theater, a small part of him had died as he realized that Hunter had just shot his entire career down the toilet due to an inability to control his anger. Ground that was all too familiar to Black.

  He flicked the cigarette butt away like it had stung him and turned when the front door of Colleen’s trailer opened.

  Colleen stepped out wearing a fuzzy pink terrycloth robe that had seen better days. She studied Black’s face in silence and then wordlessly approached him and hugged him in an oddly maternal way. They stood together like that for an endless moment and then she pulled away.

  “Sorry to impose. I just couldn’t think of anyone else to talk to about the case.”

  She nodded.

  “You look like a guy who could use a drink.”

  “I’m an open book to you.”

  “Come on inside before you scare the neighbors.”

  He hesitated. “I’m kind of afraid if I start tonight, I might not stop.”

  She shook her head. “If you were the guy who couldn’t stop, you wouldn’t be afraid. Just one. Then I throw your ass out.”

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had all night.”

  “I’ll bet. Wanna tell me about it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  As they entered the trailer, Colleen frowned at all the newspaper and plastic taped down and shrugged. “Sorry about the mess. Seth’s painting and doing some updating.”

  “No worries. He’s pretty handy, then?”

  “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “How did a director wind up…”

  “…like this? It’s okay, sweetie. I know what I am. I don’t mind. The answer is, life happens. And when it does, sometimes you find yourself in places that su
rprise you.”

  She poured two glasses three fingers each of bourbon and handed him one.

  “I know that feeling,” Black confirmed.

  “Nobody gets the life they want. Sometimes, not even the life they deserve. So you make the best of it. Cheers.”

  They each took contemplative swallows and Black began pacing. Colleen sat on a plastic-covered easy chair and let him be. He looked at the little collection of photographs on her bookshelf and smiled.

  “You were a lot younger in these. So was Seth, in that one.” He motioned to a shot of Seth standing in front of a gangplank in Newport harbor, a festive sign announcing ‘Newport Beach New Years, 2000’ mounted on the archway leading up to the harbor cruiser. He tapped another one. “And look at you here. What were you, fifteen?”

  “Hardly. Let’s just say it was a while ago. Time has a way of running away from you if you’re not careful. One day you wake up and you’re inhabiting your mother’s body. And it’s always a shock. Just as it probably was for her.”

  “There’s something to look forward to,” he said, then took another swallow.

  “It happens to everyone, darling. There’s no shame in it. Just…it is what it is.”

  “You haven’t seen my parents. Where is your handyman, anyway?”

  “He’s out. He’s a night owl. I give him his space. He gives me what he can. It works. For now.”

  Black didn’t have anything to add, and silence settled over them like a heavy blanket.

  “Tell me everything that happened, Black,” she said softly.

  He stopped delaying, sat down, and did.

  When he finished, she whistled and downed the rest of her drink. “God, I’m sorry I got you into this. What a disaster. Although I would have paid money to watch Freddie get the crap kicked out of him.”