Black

by Russell Blake

  “I’m pretty sure it will be on YouTube by tomorrow, if it isn’t already. There’s no place to hide anymore when every phone’s a camera.” He rubbed his face, tired. “Don’t worry about me and Hunter. It’s not your fault. Oh, and by the way, his movie blows goats. It’s a total dog.”

  She shook her head. “Poor bastard.”

  “I’ll say. Don’t ask me how I know this, but he’s up to his ears in debt.”

  “That doesn’t entirely surprise me. I heard rumors.”

  “Still plugged in, are you?”

  “Old habits.”

  Black finished his drink. The amber fluid seared a punishment down his throat before spreading welcome warmth through his body. A part of him wanted to finish the bottle with her, but a bigger part of him refused to go down that road. She was right. By now, if he was going to choose that path, he would have. After his marriage had cratered and his career had hit a wall, he’d certainly had the chance. And he’d flirted with climbing into a bottle, no doubt, but it had never happened.

  And it certainly wouldn’t tonight.

  He looked at his watch. Three a.m. A long night by any measure.

  Colleen watched him walk into the kitchen with his glass and set it next to the bourbon bottle, hesitating briefly before walking to the door.

  “You live in a dark place, don’t you, Black?”

  “At least the rent’s cheap. It’s the only neighborhood I can afford.”

  “You’re a good man. Don’t ever forget that. It counts for a lot.”

  Black twisted the knob and pushed the scarred plastic-coated door open. “Thanks for the drink, Col. You’re the best.”

  “One day you might be lucky enough to find out,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Drive safe. I’ll lock up behind you.”

  A hot breeze off the nearby desert stirred the oleanders around the trailer as he approached his car, the liquid courage still strong in his veins. An orange moon sneered down at him as he felt in his pockets for a smoke, and he was inwardly uttering a lunar curse when his phone rang, the sound jarring in the night’s stillness.

  He looked at the display and spat next to his tire before answering. “I gather you made bail,” Black said as he climbed into his car.

  “Good guess. I could use a ride,” Hunter said, his voice defeated and tired.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. Maybe less.”

  Chapter 22

  An ambulance rumbled into the emergency entrance bay at Hollywood Methodist Hospital with the third gunshot wound of the night – Fridays were big ones for trauma physicians all over town, as drug deals went south and passions ran hot ahead of Saturdays, which always set records for man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. Something about weekends brought out the killer instinct, the desire to rob that liquor store, jack that car, teach that bitch a lesson. The emergency room was the province of the uneducated, the stupid, and the desperate at that late hour, and the staff had the air of combat medics doing triage after a particularly bloody assault.

  Sick babies hacked their colicky coughs at the ceiling as immigrant mothers who spoke no English tried to comfort them. Drunks held broken arms and bloody faces while waiting their turn, and the aged and dying did so in quiet misery seated in uncomfortable plastic seats, attended to by indifferent receptionists who would gladly have been doing anything else in the world for a living – and soon would be the second they got a chance to update their resumes. The harsh glare of cheap fluorescent lighting gave even the healthy a sallow, sickly look, accenting shadows under tired eyes and flesh tugged earthward by gravity’s unforgiving pull.

  Upstairs in the critical care ward the graveyard shift was on duty, only two harried nurses to mind the forty-six rooms. Every night on that floor at least two, and sometimes more, patients would go to their final reward, requiring reports be filed and relatives notified and rooms cleaned and cleared for the next unlucky winner. It was an unending grind that wore the nurses down over time, and required nerves of steel and an incredibly positive disposition that could withstand the corrosive effect of watching people die every day.

  Freddie Sypes was in a private room, hooked up to an array of monitors, having been CT scanned and MRI’d before having his jaw wired and his broken wrist put in a cast, an appointment already made with a cosmetic dentist who could repair the damage from the beating. There was no intracranial bleeding that the doctors had been able to detect, but he was due for another MRI in the morning to confirm, and had a concussion, the extent of which was currently unknown. He’d regained consciousness only briefly and had been incoherent, and was now on high-dosage pain medication as he dozed fitfully, the staff stopping by regularly to try to keep him awake as was routine with concussions.

  The door of his private room eased open on silent hinges, the only sound the beeping of the monitors and the hiss of the air conditioning from the overhead vent. A figure in hospital greens approached his bedside, a surgical mask in place, and after a long glance at Freddie’s bruised face, produced a syringe and swiftly emptied the contents into the IV line. The figure hesitated for a second, then reached out with a trembling hand and smoothed Freddie’s hair before retreating back to the door and slipping out as quietly as a wraith.

  Four minutes later Freddie slipped into a coma. Alarms sounded on his monitors as well as at the nurse’s station, and the staff sprang into action. The ward physician came running from the employee lounge, and after a quick evaluation, ordered another scan.

  Within half an hour Freddie was dead.

  Nobody saw the intruder.

  An autopsy would reveal in forty-eight hours that he hadn’t died from the blows, but rather from lethal injection.

  By which point, none of it would matter.

  Not that it did anymore for Freddie.

  ~ ~ ~

  Black pulled up outside of the Hollywood Community Police Station and lowered his passenger window, ignoring the various shifty lowlifes that were loitering in the vicinity as he searched for Hunter.

  He almost jumped out of his seat when Hunter slammed his hand on the fabric roof and appeared at his driver’s side window.

  “Jesus. You scared the crap out of me. Don’t do shit like that in this neighborhood,” Black said.

  “What? We’re in front of a frigging police station.”

  “Which is about as safe as being in front of an embassy in Benghazi. Hop in.”

  Hunter rounded the hood of the car, gave it a pat, and then slid in next to Black. “Pimping ride there, homeboy.”

  “Thanks. You got out fast.”

  “I pulled strings at the studio. Whether they like it or not, they’re pregnant with my movie, so they need me out and promoting it while this gets sorted out.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” Black said, putting the car in gear and pulling away. “I presume you want to go home?”

  “You got it. Thanks for the pick-up.”

  “All part of the service I provide.” Black gave him a sidelong glance. “I also do windows.”

  “Good to know.”

  They drove west in silence, traffic sparse at the early hour, and then Hunter cursed under his breath. “The bitch wouldn’t even try to bail me out. She wouldn’t answer her cell phone. Let them take me in and left me for dead.”

  “Your wife? She might be upset because you beat Freddie into snot at your movie premiere.”

  “Which you were supposed to make sure went off without a hitch,” Hunter fired back, his temper flaring.

  “No, that wasn’t the deal. I was supposed to figure out who’s killing the paparazzi, and why. You hired a security chief to watch your back and take care of the premiere.”

  “Who you recommended.”

  “Who’s one of the best in the business. But he can’t stop some whack job who decides to poison someone in the crowd. Nobody could do that.”

  “I pay, I expect results.”

  “Then you need to expect results that are achievable.”

/>   Hunter glared at him. “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, don’t you?”

  “You mean the only person who answered his phone when you called for a ride in the middle of the night? Is that who you mean?”

  “You still have a bad attitude.”

  “Maybe you should try to beat it out of me,” Black said, his own temper flaring from the combination of the hour, the alcohol, and his client’s insolent tone. “That’s worked well for you so far, right?”

  Hunter seethed next to him but didn’t say anything.

  The ride into Bel Air was tense, and Black turned the stereo on at low volume so he didn’t have to listen to Hunter breathe. When he made the turn to head up the hill, he switched it off again.

  “You played me on the fight at Stubbs, didn’t you?”

  “Played you? How?”

  “You contacted Freddie yourself.”

  “Wow. Sherlock frigging Holmes, at your service. Of course I did. I needed a PR moment. That’s how you do it. It got coverage everywhere. And even with the spin Freddie put on it, that built credibility – nobody questioned it was genuine.”

  “Makes me wonder what else you’ve been lying about.”

  “I’ve been seeing other PIs. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault…it’s me.”

  “Maybe you can work on the comedy act while you’re in the joint.”

  “Never gonna happen. I’ll do community service, kiss some babies, haul some trash. I’m contrite. Maybe take an anger management class. Get therapy. They don’t put guys like me in jail.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Maybe. But famous is famous. Look at Beretta. No way the DA is going to want another one of those nightmares. No, this will fade away.”

  “The civil suit won’t. You’ll lose that.”

  “You know what? You’re right. But by then it won’t matter. The movie will be a hit, all my financial worries will be behind me, and I’ll have to cut a big check to the little prick to make it go away. In this town, that’s how it rolls. Meanwhile, I’ll have three more scripts in development and studios begging me to work with them.”

  They approached Hunter’s street and Black twisted the wheel, sending the Eldorado screeching around the corner, annoyed by Hunter’s assured tone.

  “It’s not your lucky day. The film’s a turd. Probably nobody would tell you the truth, but it is. It’s going nowhere.”

  Hunter clenched and unclenched his fingers, and for an instant, Black actually thought he was going to attack him. The moment passed, and then they were rolling up to Hunter’s estate, the gate open.

  “You know about as much about the movie business as you do about fashion, huh, Black?”

  “I know a bad movie when I see one.”

  “Yeah. Everyone’s a critic,” Hunter said as he swung the door open and stepped out.

  “It’s going to bomb. Sorry. There it is.”

  “Thanks for the ride, tough guy.” Hunter took two paces from the car, and then turned, almost as an afterthought. “Oh, by the way. You’re fired.”

  “I guessed that. I’ll be by to pick up my check tomorrow. You still owe me another fifteen grand. You already burned through the deposit.”

  “Sure thing. Although if you’re right about the movie, you may have to sue me for it.”

  Black didn’t respond; instead, he took it out on the accelerator and roared off, leaving a plume of blue exhaust in his wake.

  Chapter 23

  The phone rang like a fire alarm and Black turned to grope for it, the light peeking through his bedroom curtains the only clue to the time. He looked at the screen and then punched it on.

  “What are you doing calling me at this ungodly hour? It’s Saturday,” he demanded.

  “It’s ten a.m., sunshine. Your client’s got a big problem. He’s going down,” Stan greeted.

  “What are you talking about? He made bail.”

  “Freddie died last night. So now it’s murder. With about a dozen different video feeds of bully boy beating Freddie to a pulp as exhibit A.”

  “He’s not my client anymore. We parted ways last night. This morning. Whatever.”

  “Probably a wise move.”

  “I think so.”

  “I was just giving you a heads up in case you wanted to be there when he got taken into custody.”

  “Nope. Not me. My work there is done.”

  “Fair enough, buddy. Go back to sleep. Sounds like you’ve earned it.”

  “Trust me. I have.”

  Black hung up and then stumbled to the bathroom, still groggy. He was flushing the toilet when his cell rang again.

  “Black.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Roxie. Good morning.” Roxie worked a half day on Saturdays and a floating weekday, assuming she hadn’t played a gig the prior night.

  “Whatever. Listen, you just got a call. Hunter’s wife. She’s freaking out. Wants you to call her.”

  “Why?”

  “Sounds like Hunter’s gone off the reservation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently he’s drunk, high, and waving a gun around.”

  Black swallowed hard. “A gun?”

  “Some movie prop. Whatever. You want her number?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just texted you. Should be there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Lot of drama in your life all of a sudden, Black. Just saying.”

  “Gracias for the wise observations. I have to make a call.”

  “Whatever. Mugsy says hello.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he made a hobby out of your chair when I wasn’t looking.”

  “No.”

  “See you later, boss. Gotta run.”

  “Roxie–”

  Black found himself talking to a dial tone. His phone vibrated, and he thumbed the cursor to the phone number Roxie had relayed and pushed send as he hurriedly pulled on a pair of gray herringbone trousers.

  “Thank God you called. He’s gone nuts.”

  “Meagan. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But he’s lost his mind. You need to come out here and help me.”

  “Call the cops.”

  “They’re already on their way.”

  “Then what do you need me for?”

  “Black. Please. I’m afraid he’s going to hurt someone.” She paused. “Or me.”

  Damn. “Fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Please hurry.”

  The line went dead, and Black scrambled for a shirt and some shoes. He snagged a vintage navy blue Hawaiian shirt with stylized red hula girls dancing across the fabric, slipped on a pair of loafers, and made for the door, grabbing a black fedora and Ray Bans along with his holstered gun and keys on the way out. His phone rang yet again, and he answered as he took the stairs two at a time.

  Colleen’s agitated voice sounded tight. “Black. It’s Colleen. We’ve got an emergency.”

  “I know. I just spoke with Mea – with Mrs. Hunter.”

  “She called me looking for you. Sounds like the fecal material’s hitting the fan.”

  “I’ll say. I’m on my way over there right now.”

  “Good luck.”

  The Cadillac started with a throaty burble and he revved the engine until the idle smoothed out, thinking that perhaps today would finally be the day when he took it in for a tune up. Then he pointed the big white hood toward Bel Air, where his former client was on a drunken rampage. Maybe he should have stayed in bed, but he’d always been a sucker for a girl in trouble, and you couldn’t get much more troubled than, “Help, he’s trying to kill me,” or words to that effect.

  When Black arrived at Hunter’s estate, police cars were parked at angles around the outer gate, the officers taking cover behind their vehicles, weapons drawn and pointing at Hunter, who was standing on his front steps in a bright orange silk bathrobe brandishing a three-quarters-empty Scotch bottle in one hand and what look
ed like an 1800-era long-barreled revolver in the other, his hair askew and a crazed look in his eye. Several of the statues near the front of the house had bullet scars from where Hunter had fired at them, and he looked like a madman with his robe hanging open and his star power hanging in the wind. A uniform stopped Black as he approached and told him that there was a situation so he couldn’t go any farther, and then he spotted Stan, standing by his car.

  Stan saw him and waved; and then all hell broke loose as a gunshot rang out and a red blossom stained the breast of Hunter’s robe, followed closely by a volley of shots. Slugs slammed into the aging film star and he jerked like a demented marionette before tumbling face forward onto the bloody marble steps, his body still twitching as the police continued shooting.

  “Hold your fire! Everyone. Hold. Your. Fire,” Stan yelled, and then repeated the command over his car’s PA system.

  The gunfire stopped and relative tranquility returned to the area. Black’s ears were ringing as he instinctively edged closer to Hunter, and he regarded the downed actor sadly as three of the officers approached through the open gate, weapons still trained on the motionless form. One kicked the ancient revolver away and nudged Hunter with his foot. Stan shook his head and faced Black.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, speaking louder than usual because of the tinnitus.

  “Just out for a drive.”

  Stan gave him a hard look.

  “Mrs. Hunter called. She said that Hunter had gone berserk. I’d say that was pretty accurate,” Black explained.

  “She called us, too. Said the same thing.”

  They both regarded Hunter’s inert body, and then Stan shrugged.

  “Looks like he just saved the taxpayers a really long, expensive trial.”

  “Yup.” They continued to watch the officers as they holstered their weapons. “I should have stayed in bed,” Black said.

  “I’ve found that the days I say that to myself when I wake up, I always should have.”

  “Then again, that’s most days for you, isn’t it?” Black asked.

  “True dat. So I’d basically just become a five-hundred-pound shut-in.”