Black

by Russell Blake

  “I’m working on not judging.”

  “Let me know how that goes for you. I gotta go scrape up my latest problem off the steps.”

  “And comfort the distraught widow, don’t forget.”

  “I’ll leave that to you.”

  “Not interested, thanks.”

  “This is your big chance. You can call her, tell her all’s well, and then she’ll melt into your arms.”

  “I’m going back to sleep,” Black said, walking slowly back to his car, his shoulders slumped.

  Stan’s voice trailed after him.

  “Never a bad idea.”

  Chapter 24

  The following Monday morning, Roxie looked up from her screen as Black entered the office. Mugsy was in her lap, purring contentedly, his plump face transfixed with a look of bliss as she stroked him. Black had a momentary vision of himself exchanging places with the cat, and then shook it off.

  “Isn’t that sweet. How was your weekend?” Black asked.

  “Not bad, other than our only client getting gunned down on his front porch on Saturday. Kind of puts a damper on things, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does. Especially since I never got my final payment from him.”

  “Bummer. Does that mean I have to go back to hooking for a living?”

  Black raised one eyebrow.

  “A joke,” Roxie said.

  “I got it. I have a richly evolved sense of humor, you know.”

  “I know. I see your outfits every day, remember?”

  “Why all the grief over my fashion choices, Roxie?”

  “Um, because they make you look kind of like a retard. And nobody’s going to hire the retard PI. Which has me back on the street turning tricks with a pimp named Huggy backhanding me whenever I get out of line.”

  “You’ve been watching reruns again, haven’t you?”

  “Damned Seventies Channel. Curse you, Seventies Channel!” Roxie said, shaking her fist theatrically.

  “How bad is the chair?”

  “Don’t freak out. It’s only a material possession.”

  “Very enlightened of you, Roxie. But why is it always my material possessions that get trashed by that fat bastard?” he asked as he moved past her desk, throwing a wholly ignored black glare at Mugsy.

  “Maybe it’s because he hears you ragging on him. So he acts out.”

  “Roxie. He’s a cat. He has no idea what I’m saying.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That he’s a cat? Let’s just say I’m confident on that one. I’ve seen photos on the web.”

  “No, that he doesn’t understand you.”

  “Animals can’t speak English.”

  “Neither can half of Los Angeles. That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Fair point. But let’s just say that the overwhelming proof is that cats don’t understand English, either. There. Happy with the clarification?”

  “You’re wrong. I think they do. And that explains everything. Why he’s always hurt and afraid of you. He’s heard us discussing your rage issues, and how fat you think he is.”

  “I don’t think he’s fat. Fat would be a goal for him to slim down to. I think he’s obese. Morbidly obese. Because he’s lazy and shiftless and eats way too much.”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “And ‘we’ don’t discuss my rage issues. You do. I haven’t said a word about them. Assuming I had any. Which I don’t.”

  “Well, this is productive. Remind me about how you don’t have anger problems after you see your chair.” Roxie smiled sweetly and then returned to Mugsy, dismissing Black.

  Black entered his office, steeled for virtually anything, and studied his seat cushion, which had been torn open, with some of the foam padding shredded. He sighed and returned to Roxie’s desk.

  “See? No rage. Come on. Let’s see if Mugsy will fit in the microwave.”

  “That’s such bad karma. I can’t believe you would even say that.”

  “The damage isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

  “I know. I made it sound worse than it was.”

  “Why?” Black asked.

  “Because that way, you’d be expecting the whole thing to be ruined – basically gutted. And then you’d see that it was only partially destroyed and would be relieved. Psychology 101.”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d been to college.”

  “I read a book. Or maybe it was a magazine. What’s the difference between them again?”

  “One has pictures.”

  “Oooh, pictures! Like of ponies?”

  “Probably not if it was a psychology magazine.”

  “I thought Freund was big on phallic symbols. Aren’t stallions phallic?”

  “I think you mean Freud.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said ‘Freund.’”

  She studied his face and then shrugged. “You have to win every argument, don’t you? Maybe you should think about why that is.”

  “I don’t have to. You said ‘Freund.’”

  “There. That. See what I mean?”

  Black exhaled loudly with exasperation.

  “So did you quit smoking this weekend, boss?” she asked.

  “Sort of. I quit yesterday.”

  “That’s kind of like you ran out of cigarettes on Saturday and didn’t get out to buy any on Sunday, isn’t it?”

  “I prefer to think of it as the first small step in building my future.”

  Roxie rolled her eyes. “Did you need something?”

  “Why? Am I keeping you from important stuff?”

  “I was getting ready to feed Mugsy.”

  “That’s also a joke, right? See, I’m catching on.”

  “He hasn’t eaten today.”

  “Look at him. His fat has fat.”

  “He knows what you’re saying, you know. Can I get back to what I was doing?”

  Black understood he would never win with Roxie, so he shook his head. “Do we have any duct tape?”

  “Oh, sure, wait, let me get our air duct emergency repair kit.” She kept staring at him. “Hmm. That’s right. We don’t have one.”

  “Let me rephrase the question. Do you have any kind of tape I could use to repair the perfectly good, rather expensive executive lounger that the fat bastard in your lap tore to shreds?”

  Roxie slid her middle drawer open and removed a small roll of Scotch tape. She placed it on her desk and regarded it. “You might want to consider running out to Office Depot,” she said.

  “Yeah. That’s definitely not going to do it.”

  “I’d go, but then who would feed Mugsy? And of course, greet all the customers that will be showing up to hire us after your marquis client went down shooting?”

  “I was there, you know.”

  Her expression softened, and the usual mockery vanished from her eyes. Rather nice-looking violet eyes, Black thought, even with the overdone mascara. “Oh my God. No. I mean, how could I know that? How was it?” she asked.

  “It started strong, but I thought the end left something to be desired.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “It was a lot like watching your client get shot to pieces within rock-throwing distance of you. I’m not sure I have a word for that.”

  “Are…are you okay?”

  “They shot him, not me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “So does Mugsy, apparently. Do you let him use my computer while I’m gone, too? Does he have his own email account?”

  “Mainly he watches porn.”

  “That figures. Another business I’ll never make millions at. Kitty porn.”

  “I think it’s a tough gig. No credit cards or opposable thumbs.”

  “I knew there was a catch.”

  “So you’re okay?”

  He sighed. “Yeah. It was ugly. Not like the movies. Just…brutal and ugly and…shitty. A man died. As far as I can tell, for no reason.”


  She turned away from him and resumed stroking Mugsy, who shut his eyes and purred again. “I can go to Office Depot if you want.”

  “Nah. I don’t have much to do. I’d hate to think of poor Mugsy starving while I selfishly used your business hours to do things related to the business.”

  “Don’t forget to call your mom this week. You asked me to remind you.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I could have sworn you did.”

  “No, that would have been all in your head.”

  “Huh. You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “But don’t forget.”

  “Thank you, Roxie,” Black said as he moved back to the door, the little cat entryway she’d coerced him into mounting at its base worn from Mugsy’s considerable bulk squeezing through it.

  “It’s never too late for a chai. Just saying,” she hinted.

  “We’re creatures of habit, aren’t we?”

  “You always say that.”

  Chapter 25

  The aroma of wildly overpriced coffee filled the chilly atmosphere of the franchise café, its walls dutifully veneered with chrome and green lacquer, the furniture selected to create the illusory experience of a cozy, prosperous sitting room. That figures. The shop can afford eight-hundred-dollar lounge chairs, given what they charge for a simple cup of java, Black thought bitterly as he languished in the tortuous, crawling line, along with a hatful of other lost souls. His brooding reverie was interrupted by the ringtone of his phone. The spirited antipodean wailing of AC/DC drew stares from his fellow customers as Bon Scott shrieked “Highway to Hell.” Black fumbled in his pocket before his fingers found the talk button.

  “Black.”

  “Let me ask you a hypothetical question,” Stan asked. No hello.

  “Shoot.”

  “Let’s say you had this famous movie star who went psycho, so you had to gun him down.”

  “I see this is really reaching.”

  “And let’s say that thirty or so shots were fired from ten guns. Are you with me so far?”

  “I know the answer. That’s roughly three apiece. I’d have to get my calculator, but it’s close.”

  “Thanks. No, the weird part is that none of the officers involved in the shooting will ’fess up to firing the first bullet.”

  Black thought about it. “Nobody wants to be the one who started a massacre. Especially since Hunter never fired a shot.”

  “I said this was hypothetical, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it, but it’s just kind of weird. You were there. What do you remember happening?”

  “A shitload of shooting.” The woman ahead of Black in line turned and gave him an alarmed look. Black ignored her.

  “Right. But do you remember where the first shot came from?”

  “I thought it was off to the right of the house. One of the cops over there. You had enough of them.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But nobody on that side fired first. At least that’s the claim.”

  “Won’t ballistics figure that out?”

  “Sure. But there are about eighteen rounds in your man. It’ll take time to do matching on all of them.”

  “Your guys need target practice. Eighteen out of thirty? Yikes. What happened to shooting the gun out of the bad guy’s hand?”

  “We tend to focus more on shooting the bad guy.”

  “A sound approach. Roughly sixty percent of the time, if my math is right.”

  “You should have been an accountant.”

  “I should have been anything but this. At least the pay’s lousy and the hours suck.”

  “Welcome to my world. Never mind. I was hoping you could narrow it down for me, but I guess not.”

  “All I can say for sure was that the first shot came from the right side of the house, if you’re facing it.”

  “That’s my take, too. Oh well. What’s on your agenda today?”

  “I was thinking about dumpster-diving for food.”

  “Well, good luck, then. I hear El Pollo is always a good bet. Muy picante.”

  “Thanks.”

  The woman in front of him approached the counter and issued an elaborate order involving Italian adjectives, sugar-free chocolate, an admonishment against fat of any sort, and a precise specification of the sort and amount of foam with which she wished her concoction crowned, before moving further down the line to pay, again eyeing Black like he was going to try to steal her purse. The aloof barista, a young man with plentiful tattoos, the jaundiced skin of a junkie, and a way of repeating back orders while managing to make them sound like an insult and simultaneously seeming disapproving of the choice, greeted him with a company-issued courtesy nod that conveyed a heady mixture of contempt, anger, and apathy.

  “May I take your order, sir?” he asked, in a tone that made it clear he’d rather teabag a hobo.

  “Medium cup of coffee and a small chai.”

  “Mmmmmedium cup of daily roast and a short chai. Would you prefer Guatemalan New Year or Ethiopian Splendor?”

  “Whichever is better.”

  “They’re both excellent.”

  “Then give me whichever is more popular,” Black said.

  “The Guatemalan is a darker, richer roast, whereas the Ethiopian has more interesting secondary flavors.”

  “Guatemalan, then.”

  “Very well. Would you like room for milk or cream?”

  “Sure.”

  It was all Cliff, per his nametag, could do not to roll his eyes. Cliff paused for a moment, radiating ennui, and Black could sympathize with him after listening to the woman’s order, a passive-aggressive cosmic minuet, a stylized choreography more intricate than a ceremonial kabuki dance, this ordering of coffee and desire to create a designer-beverage experience, the instructions as precise as the assembly of a thermonuclear warhead or the splicing of DNA.

  “How much, sir?”

  Black had lost the thread. The people behind him shuffled impatiently. He was now guilty of the most despised offense: the wasting of other people’s time, important people with places to go.

  “I’m sorry…”

  This time the barista couldn’t help himself, and allowed one eyebrow to cock a quarter inch, signaling that he understood he was dealing with someone of sub-custodial intellect, or perhaps an unfortunate who’d suffered a childhood brain trauma that prevented him from processing normally.

  “How much room, sir? For cream. Or milk, if you like.”

  The elevated eyebrow had aroused within Black an irresistible urge to make the young man’s life more difficult. The beverage-ordering equivalent of meeting his ante and raising him two seemed an appropriate gambit.

  “Do you have soy milk?” Black asked, not the slightest trace of mockery evident in either his tone or his inflection.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Because I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “I also suffer from low-level celiac issues,” he confessed, as though sharing an intimacy with a lover.

  “So you’d like soy milk, sir? In your drip coffee?” the server asked, spitting out the final two words like a curse, Black’s frugality now established for all to despise in a land of abundant plenty.

  “It’s not that vanilla or flavored soy milk, is it? I’m not inclined that way, if you know what I mean. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Black resisted the urge to wink.

  “No, sir. It’s just soy milk.”

  “Well then. I’ll take it with soy milk, but I’d like you to warm it up if possible.”

  “Warm…” The young man repeated the request without a hint of disbelief.

  “Yes, but not hot. Just warm. Like in a toddler’s sippy cup.” Black’s countenance could have been carved from alabaster, his brow’s ability to convey emotion botoxed away, his expression that of an inscrutable Easter Island monolith, l
acking the capacity for humor, much less duplicity.

  The barista understood it was game, set, and match, and merely nodded before calling the order to the next employee in a staccato jargon that sounded like a foreign language or a technical description of impossible complexity.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Do you accept traveler’s checks?”

  “Mmm, no sir. I’m afraid not.”

  “Personal checks with no ID?”

  “Only cash or credit cards.”

  “Not debit cards?” Black asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, sir. Of course. And debit cards.”

  “Because you only said credit cards.”

  “I realize that could be confusing, sir. That’s why I amended it.”

  “Well, how much is it, then? I’m in a hurry, if you don’t mind.”

  “Six twenty-five, sir. You pay over there, at the register.”

  “Remember. Warm like mother’s milk. Not scalding. I break out in hives if you burn the soy milk.”

  “We’ll be very careful, sir.”

  Black detected a final flicker of rebellion in the young man’s studied stoicism, and went in for the kill.

  “Can I get a complimentary glass of water?”

  The barista’s gaze hardened, his eyes black as a shark’s as he realized he’d been bested; spanked like a bitch by a master.

  “Certainly, sir. Paper or plastic?” For all the scuffling, Cliff was resilient – Black would give him that.

  “I don’t want to do anything harmful for the environment. Is the paper recycled?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Never mind, then. Recycling consumes far more energy than milling new cardboard,” Black announced in triumph, having played not only the politically correct card, but also swooping to snatch the young man’s ability to snipe further interrogatives from him with the alacrity of a rocket-fueled hawk.

  The line behind him exhaled an audible groan of relief when Black moved to the next register and paid the perky and always friendly Asian cashier with a ten-dollar bill. The drinks arrived without delay, and he juggled them as he moved to one of the overstuffed seating areas to savor his victory drink.

  As he replayed the discussion with Stan in his mind, mulling over the ramifications, a small kernel of anxiety tickled his gut. He was missing something. Stan was puzzled, which was a rarity; the man ate bullets for breakfast and tackled the most brutal killers for dessert, and Black had never seen him confused. But the shooting had him rattled – that’s what he’d heard in his voice. Something was off. Wrong.