Black

by Russell Blake

  The only good news was that he had no work, no clients, and no prospects, so his phone wouldn’t be ringing. He exhaled as if confirming that his pulmonary system was still functioning, then willed himself off the carpet and back into the bedroom.

  He was just composing the text message to Roxie alerting her that he had an offsite meeting that day when his windows rattled from a concussive blast out on the street. Stunned, he staggered back to his front door and threw it open, stumbled out onto the second story walkway, and looked toward the front of the complex. A pillar of black smoke was pouring from a point down the block. Black barely registered the rough concrete stairs on his bare feet as he descended to the ground level. Once there he increased his pace, the whirring in his head receding as adrenaline flooded his compromised system, and by the time he passed Gracie’s door, which was swinging wide as she emerged to investigate the commotion, his heart was thudding like he’d run a four-minute mile.

  The Cadillac was barely recognizable, the doors blown off, flames belching from the interior and from under the hood. It looked like a giant hand had swatted it, causing the body to distend like a pregnant beetle. There was no trace of Cesar. The force of the detonation had obliterated him as though he’d never existed, vaporized in a fireball.

  Other residents were slowly shuffling to the street, and Black felt Gracie’s clawlike hand on his arm as he surveyed the burning remnants of his beloved vehicle.

  “Oh, my sweet lord…was that your car, Black?”

  He didn’t respond, so she asked the question again, her voice like the grating of metal wheels on a railroad track. He couldn’t do anything but nod, and then his wits gradually returned and he raised his cell phone to his ear to call Stan.

  Sirens keened in the distance while he waited on hold, and the fire department and police were rolling up when he finally reached him and explained what had happened.

  Stan told him to stay put, and that he would be there in twenty minutes. Black nodded, grunting assent, and then hung up, watching his pride and joy burn to the frame. The one surviving tire popped like a rifle shot and the chassis shuddered as it dropped, the hangover now the least of his problems. Gracie eyed the car with a kind of rapt fascination as the flames licked at the branches over it, and then a powerful torrent of water streamed at the inferno and firemen were screaming instructions to one another. Black turned toward the shattered windows facing the street and dialed Colleen’s number, unsure of who else to call and tell. Roxie wouldn’t be in yet – she was usually at least ten minutes late most mornings, and Cesar had been early.

  Cesar.

  Poor bastard. Never knew what hit him. One second he’d been there, of this world, and the next, nada. A wave of sickness hit him and he staggered back as though he’d been gut-punched, then straightened up when Colleen’s voice answered.

  “Hey, babe.”

  “Hey.”

  “You don’t sound so great. What are all those sirens? Black? Are you all right? Have you been in an accident?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess I am. And yes, something happened. My car just blew up.”

  “What?”

  “Exploded.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I am. My mechanic, though…I think he’s dead, Colleen.”

  “Good God. I’m so sorry…”

  “Yeah. So am I.” Black realized that he sounded like an automaton; like he was in a daze. He forced himself to focus. “But that wasn’t the reason I called…” He fought for clarity, and then remembered. “That’s right. Hunter.”

  “What about him?”

  “I was out at his place yesterday evening, and found blood.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t hard, given the number of bullets he took.”

  “No, what I mean is, I found blood of someone besides Hunter.”

  Colleen’s voice changed, quieted, a chill in her tone. “What do you mean?”

  Black was momentarily distracted by Gracie, who was pointing to him and talking to a uniform who had arrived thirty seconds earlier.

  “We…the police think there was a shooter there. Who maybe got hit by a stray. A ricochet. They’ve got a decent amount of blood, and they’re working on it…”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  Colleen sounded strangled. He could relate.

  “Positive. It looks like Hunter was murdered. Oh, shit–” He slapped himself in the head, grimacing at the pain. “How could I forget? Freddie was murdered, too.”

  “Black–”

  “No, listen. I don’t mean by Hunter. He was murdered by someone else. The cops found poison in his system. Somebody got to him in the hospital–”

  Black was interrupted by two LAPD officers, one of whom was carrying a clipboard and a pen.

  “Hey, buddy. That your car?”

  Black lowered the phone. “Yeah. I mean, yes, officer. It is.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “Damn. Hang on a second.” He returned the phone to his ear. “Col, listen, I’ve got to call you back.” He hung up and looked over the cop’s shoulder at his burning car, now mostly extinguished.

  “My mechanic was going to take it into the shop today…”

  Fifteen minutes later, the police had filled out the incident report. Stan called in the middle of it to apologize for not being able to get away from the office, and Black told him not to worry about it, that the police were already there.

  “You were lucky that you didn’t start it this morning, buddy,” Stan said.

  “No kidding. But Cesar…not so lucky.”

  There wasn’t much to say to that.

  “It could have happened at any time. It’s a miracle you’re still alive, Black.”

  “Doesn’t feel like one.”

  “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

  “Put that way, I can’t argue.”

  “You need anything? I have to be here for another half hour, at least. Maybe an hour. Impromptu staff meeting. No calls, and no excuses. Completely blows.”

  “No. I…damn. I can’t believe this. It’s…”

  “Just another day in La La Land. Dude. It sucks. I’m sorry your mechanic’s dead. But you’re not. That’s the good news. I’ll break away from this as soon as I can. Don’t worry. Things will work out.”

  “My car…Cesar.”

  “Right. Okay. Hang in there, buddy. Keep your phone on.”

  Black punched the call off and found himself facing Gracie.

  “You want a bracer, Black? Of any day, this would be the one,” she said. He knew she was trying to be generous, her solution to everything to have another belt, but the thought of a drink made him gag.

  “Um, no thanks, Gracie. Not now. I have to…I need to go find my insurance papers and deal with this.”

  “Offer’s open, darling. Oh, and don’t worry about a car. You got La Bomba. You can use it as much as you need.”

  He softened, touched by her simple words. “Thanks, Gracie. Looks like I’ll take you up on that.”

  He followed her to her unit and waited outside while she got him the keys. The old Mercedes was parked in one of the few stalls in the rear of the building, off a driveway that was more an afterthought than an access point. He thanked her again and returned to his apartment, and had just texted Roxie with the news about the explosion when his phone vibrated, indicating he’d received a text.

  Black thumbed the scroll button and opened the message, and then all the blood drained from his face as he read. He blinked to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating.

  He wasn’t.

  He slipped his shoes on, grabbed his belt holster and wallet, slammed the door behind him, and tore down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him, dialing Stan’s cell as he ran.

  Chapter 31

  The sixties-era Mercedes sulked under a bird-dropping-splattered car cover so old it had probably been woven out of papyrus. Black hurriedly unrolled it and tossed it aside, then slipped behind the wheel and fe
lt for the seat adjustment lever – his knees were about to collide with his chin. The ancient throne slid back with a clunk and he went through the process of starting the old beast up. It sputtered, and then a billowing cloud of black exhaust issued from the rusted tail pipe before the engine settled into a steady rhythm that to Black sounded like a dozen monkeys banging on an oil drum with sticks.

  He jerked the transmission into gear and eased out of the slot, then guided the car down the drive, only to find it blocked by a police cruiser. At least La Bomba’s horn sounded impressive, he thought as he honked to get the squad car to move while he tried his phone, frantic to reach either Stan or Colleen again.

  Colleen didn’t pick up and the call went directly to voicemail. Black hung up and dialed Stan again, with the same result. The police vehicle moved back just enough to allow Black to clear, and he floored the accelerator as he turned into the street. Which had approximately the same effect as flogging a sloth. The beleaguered diesel engine gave all it had, which wasn’t much, and Black slammed his palm against the hard steering wheel, cursing his luck.

  Once on the freeway he was able to get his speed up to seventy, which took a little longer than an oil tanker did to reach cruising speed. At that rate he estimated that he’d hit ninety around Palm Springs, or maybe Vegas.

  As he pulled back into the slow lane he replayed the text message from Colleen in his head: Can’t talk. I think Seth may be involved with Hunter and Freddie. I’m in the bathroom and he can hear me. Get out here. Bring your gun.

  He had no idea how or why Seth, her boyfriend-cum-handyman, had anything to do with any of this, or why she suspected him, but it was serious enough to warrant him getting his ass to her trailer sooner than later. She’d never steered him wrong in all the years he’d known her, and he had a hard time believing she was hallucinating now.

  The only problem being that while a text message from Col was enough to send Black running for his Glock, it wouldn’t do much in terms of the police. Any report he filed would get put at the bottom of the pile. As far as he knew, Hunter’s death was still on the books as a police shooting, and Black had no idea whether Freddie’s murder had even been formally classified as such yet. LAPD could be like any other large bureaucracy and took its sweet time about moving, especially in cases where there was no perp standing over the body with an axe. Worse, from what he knew about jurisdictions, Riverside County wouldn’t exactly drop everything to help LAPD.

  Still, he owed it to Col to at least try. He dialed 911 and got put through to an operator almost immediately.

  “Hello. What is the nature of your emergency?” the crisp female voice asked.

  “It’s about a homicide investigation.”

  “Someone’s been murdered?”

  “Well, yes. But not recently. It’s about an open investigation.”

  “So there’s no emergency?” the woman asked, her voice now more annoyed than anything. “What is your name, sir?”

  Black cringed. “Artemus Black. And yes, it’s an emergency.”

  “And what is the emergency, Mr. Black?”

  “I got a text message from a friend who says she thinks her boyfriend is involved in a homicide. She sounded like she thinks she’s in danger.”

  “Has she been threatened?”

  “I…I don’t think so.”

  “What is the nature of your emergency?” the operator asked again, this time robotically uninterested.

  “I told you. I got a text message.”

  “Fine. A text message. Could you read it to me?”

  “I’m driving. Hang on a second.”

  “Sir, I can’t ask you to read a text message while you’re driving. That’s illegal. Please pull over and read it.”

  “I can’t just pull over. I’m on the freeway. The 10, headed east.”

  “Then call 911 back once you’re stationary. There doesn’t seem to be any emergency other than a text message where nobody is in immediate danger. Is that correct?”

  Black deflated, realizing how it must sound. “It was something about she thinks her boyfriend might be involved in a homicide.”

  “Might?”

  “I don’t remember the exact wording. Can’t I just glance at this?”

  “Sir, do not attempt to drive and read. That’s a leading cause of highway fatalities.”

  “She said he could be involved. That she thinks he is.”

  “Is, or could be?”

  “Look…”

  “Sir, this call is being recorded. I gather you can hear the beeps. It’s illegal to place a non-emergency call to 911. Are you aware of that?”

  “I am.”

  “What is the name of the homicide investigation, do you know?”

  “Hunter. The actor.”

  “Sir, again, we are recording this call. I saw the news. Mr. Hunter was killed by LAPD. It’s not a homicide.”

  “It is. Or it will be soon.”

  “I have real emergencies to contend with, sir. I’m going to terminate this call and forward it to my superior.”

  “No. Wait. She also said that he was involved in Freddie Sypes’ death.”

  “Freddie Sypes.”

  “Correct.”

  “The man Hunter beat to death on national television in front of the TCL Chinese Theater.”

  “He didn’t beat him to death. They had a fight. Sypes was poisoned in the hospital.”

  “Sir, have you been drinking or taking any medication?”

  “No, damn it. No. Look, my car just exploded in L.A. You can check that. My mechanic was killed. Not half an hour ago.”

  “I see. Did Hunter or Sypes blow up your car?”

  “No. I just…”

  “Did this boyfriend blow up your car?”

  That stopped Black for a second. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Sir, I would advise you that policy is to prosecute crank calls.”

  “I understand. I tried to reach the homicide detective who’s handling the investigation, but he’s in a meeting.”

  “I see. And did you leave a message?”

  “Yes. But it could be a while.”

  “Sir, there’s nothing I can do for you. You have no emergency. You have a text message that may or may not be genuine from someone claiming her boyfriend may be involved in two homicides that are the most reported events of the last week – neither of which are actually homicides. Am I missing anything?”

  “And my car blew up.”

  “Oh. Right. And the emergency is?”

  “Damn. I knew this was going to happen. Never mind.”

  “I think you can expect the department to follow up on this call, sir. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Fine. Thanks for nothing.”

  By Black’s reckoning, he would be at Colleen’s within fifteen minutes, maybe as few as ten, assuming the Benz didn’t blow a gasket first. He was grateful to Gracie for lending him the car, but it was only slightly more useful than a unicycle with a flat tire, and he was no trained bear. He tried Stan again and got his voicemail. He’d obviously turned his phone off. Which was no surprise; he’d told Black he was going to do so.

  Black felt his anger mounting now at the circumstances. His car gone. His friend – okay, his acquaintance, Cesar – dead. Stan out for the duration. Colleen not answering. Her boyfriend somehow involved in the killings, but nobody willing to listen. The operator threatening him instead of helping.

  His phone rang.

  “Your car blew up?”

  “Roxie. Yes. It did.”

  “So no more pimp daddy mobile.”

  “Correct. But this isn’t a good time.”

  “I can see that. I got your message.”

  “I put that together.” A thought occurred to him. “I want you to pull up everything you can on a guy named Seth…Seth…”

  “Seth. Like ‘Simon Seth’?”

  “Just a second. I’m thinking.”

  “So am I.”

  “Seriously. Give
me a minute.”

  “It was a second a second ago.”

  “Roxie.”

  “You want to call me back when you’re done thinking?”

  “That would be good.”

  “I’m guessing you won’t be in today.”

  “Good bet.”

  “I’ll tell anyone who calls you’re out because your car exploded.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I won’t. But it was fun saying it.”

  “I hate you sometimes, Roxie.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Damn. Now what’s Seth’s last name? Seth…Seth Bird? Something to do with birds. Seth the birdman. Seth Birdman? Birdnest? No, that’s not it.

  His head was pounding like Mr. Satan was stabbing his frontal lobes with a pitchfork. He couldn’t concentrate.

  Think.

  Seth…birds. Seth Bird. Seth Birdhouse. Seth…Aviary! No. Not quite. Sounded like aviary…Avery! Seth Avery!

  He dialed Roxie again.

  “Black’s Exploding Junkers,” Roxie chirped.

  “Not funny.”

  “Mugsy thought it was.”

  “Pull up everything you can on Seth Avery.”

  “Seth you.”

  Black blinked in annoyance. “Roxie.”

  “Sorry. Give me a second.” He heard her fingers flying over the keys, entering in information.

  “Huh. Let’s see. Golfer?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. He’s about forty. Maybe younger.”

  “So an old dude.”

  “No, he’s only mid-to-late thirties.”

  “Mick Jagger said he didn’t want to live to be over thirty.”

  “I think he’s about ninety now. And really rich.”

  “Who?”

  “Mick Jagger.”

  “You want me to look up Mick Jagger? This could take a while.”

  “Roxie.”

  “I’m just trying to be thorough, Black.”

  “Seth Avery.”

  “Okay. Let’s see. Ah. There’s a doctor in Reseda. Hmm. His specialty is spastic color.”