Black

by Russell Blake

  He held the phone away and thought about throwing it out the window, then took a calming breath. “I think that’s colon.”

  “Oh. Spastic colon. Hey, wouldn’t that be a cool band name?”

  “Roxie…”

  “Oh, here’s one. He…well, looks like he was hot about…oh, wow. Like, the year 2000. I don’t even think they had the internet back then. I was, like, twelve or so.”

  “Too much information.”

  “He was a director. Indie movie. Came in second at Sundance.”

  “Bingo.”

  “And then he…hmm. Then, nothing. That’s it.”

  “Really? Nothing?”

  “Nope. Just came and went.” She paused. “Don’t spastic colons do that?”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

  “I find anything involving colons a little weird. Even semi-colons kind of sound gross. All prolapsy or whatever.”

  “No, that he would rank that high in 2000, and then disappear off the scene.”

  “Goes to show you that winning is everything.”

  “I’m pretty sure coming in second at Sundance is pretty big.”

  “Tell that to colon boy.”

  “Keep digging.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  By the time he took the off-ramp to Colleen’s park, he was midway through the visualization exercises that he’d worked on with Dr. Kelso and had gotten his pulse back to just under trip-hammer speed. He rolled around the corner and up to the gate, which was open, and pulled up to Colleen’s trailer.

  Her old Mitsubishi was parked nearby, but that was the only car. No sign of Seth’s pickup truck. He kept going past her place, parked in front of one of the other trailers, and shut the engine off. His ears strained for any hint of a threat, but he didn’t detect anything.

  Black approached Colleen’s front porch and removed his pistol from the belt holster. He knocked on the door, using his shirt to cover the gun, finger on the trigger.

  Nothing.

  He tried again, and got no response. His hand was a centimeter away from the doorbell when he froze.

  That smell.

  Gas.

  He tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

  He could shoot it open, but that would be the last thing he did before sitting down to discuss his many shortcomings with St. Peter.

  So, what to do?

  He looked around the barren yard and saw nothing helpful. Increasingly frantic, he began pacing, and then a light bulb went on in his head. He ran back to the Mercedes and opened the heavy trunk. Inside was a tire iron – an old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness, five-pound steel tire iron with a long handle. He sprinted back to the trailer, wedged it into the door, and began to pry, working it carefully, wary of doing anything that would create a spark.

  The crummy lightweight door gave and slammed inward. Black winced as it hit the inside wall of the trailer and bounced, but he was still alive and not blown to Judgment Day, so net positive. He held his breath and moved inside, and immediately spotted Colleen lying on the floor, immobile, a long-barreled chrome revolver by her hand.

  Black crossed the room in four large steps and tried hoisting her, but his back twinged a warning at lifting her dead weight and he quickly reconsidered. He reached under her arms and dragged her to the door, keenly aware that the slightest thing could set the trailer off, even the spark of metal brushing metal. He bumped into the bookcase and two of the framed photographs fell to the floor, and he watched, horrified, as they hit the carpet and lay still – one of Colleen in better days, and the one of Seth.

  Gasping once he was at the doorway, he pulled her out of the trailer and down the two stairs and kept going, grateful that she’d kept her petite figure and didn’t weigh 220. Clear of the interior, he lifted her in a modified fireman’s hold and staggered with her to the Mercedes and laid her on the asphalt by the rear bumper. She was cyanotic, her lips blue, and he racked his brains for a few seconds trying to remember the TV shows he’d seen where beach nymphettes gave CPR to handsome studs the sea had gotten the better of.

  He began blowing into her mouth, his fingers clamped hard on her nose, and after a minute she coughed and sputtered, then gasped as her eyes popped wide. She was unfocused for a few breaths and then recognized Black.

  “Wha…where…”

  “The gas was on in the trailer. I carried you outside. You were unconscious,” he said.

  “Out…”

  “Just take it easy. Breathe. Get your wind back.”

  She did, and the color gradually returned to her face. “That bastard. That miserable, lying, crazy bastard.”

  “Seth, you mean.”

  “He hit me. There’s a bump on the back of my head the size of a baseball,” she said, reaching around to dried blood caked in her hair. “Ow.”

  “You’ll live. Why would he do that?”

  “I…I’m not a very good actress, Black. That’s why I went the journalist route. After your call, when I put two and two together, he could tell. I could see it in his eyes. He knew I suspected, so he had to do something.”

  “There’s a gun inside. On the floor.”

  “A gun?” Colleen sounded puzzled.

  “A revolver.”

  “I know he had a couple of guns. Two handguns and a rifle.”

  “What do you want to bet that’s the gun he used to shoot Hunter with?”

  “He was always at the range. He’s a crack shot.”

  “Good to know. Why did you suspect he’d killed Hunter?”

  “He came home that night with a bandage on his arm. Said he’d been moonlighting on a handyman job and had an accident. I was all over him about going to the doctor, but he wouldn’t listen. When you said that they’d found blood at Hunter’s and you thought a ricochet might have hit the shooter…with what I know about Seth’s history, it just clicked.”

  “Seth’s history?”

  “He was a brilliant director. I mean, really gifted, and after he won second at Sundance, he had it made. But he ran crosswise against an industry heavyweight who put the word out, and next thing he knew he couldn’t get a job as a script boy. His fledgling career took a nosedive, and it never recovered.”

  “And?”

  “That heavyweight was Hunter.”

  “What? Why?”

  “All he would say was that it had to do with his girlfriend. I guess Hunter took one look at her at Sundance and had to have her. You don’t know what it’s like with big time actors, Black. Their egos are like overgrown children. When they want a cookie, they act out until someone gets them a cookie. Apparently, Seth called him on it, there was a fight or altercation of some kind, and Seth’s career took the fall. Hunter crushed him and killed his chances. Big fish eats little fish. Typical Hollywood ending.”

  “No wonder Seth hated his guts. But why Freddie? What did he have against him?”

  “That’s where it gets really weird.”

  “Not that being a serial killer who offs movie stars in front of half the LAPD is weird.”

  “When Seth hit rock bottom, he lost everything, not just his career. He was left with nothing. He told me he took up drugs, booze, you name it. And he was really, really bitter about women.”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “One night, I guess he was wasted, at a party that Freddie was at – you know the kind, lots of Hollywood glitz, a few minor celebrities, but mostly third-tier non-players. Anyway, one thing led to another…and Seth wound up with Freddie.”

  Black’s eyes widened. “Seth. With Freddie Sypes.”

  “Hey. It happens. Don’t act so shocked. Tell me you never touched another man’s–”

  “How about we stick to the psycho serial killer?”

  “Boy, you got the psycho part right. Anyway, Seth slept with Freddie...” Colleen paused.

  “…and he was furious. Felt like he’d been duped or tricked into it,” Black finished.

  “That’s how he explained i
t. Made a huge point of how he wasn’t gay. But…”

  “But?”

  “I think the problem wasn’t that he slept with him. I think the problem was that Seth actually fell hard for Freddie. Bits and pieces, but from what I gathered when I put out feelers, Seth and Freddie were a thing for a short time. So it wasn’t a one night deal. More like weeks.”

  “And…”

  “And I think he fell in love with Freddie, whereas for Freddie it was just another conquest. A straight, handsome, macho heterosexual bunch of yum to amuse himself with. But the thrill didn’t last very long, so Freddie moved on. That’s the way it sounded to me. Remember that thirteen years ago, Freddie was handsome, powerful, rich, sexy…he knew everybody, and was on all the A-lists. He was also a miserable prick and a backstabbing user, but he was a seductive one.”

  “So Seth was killing paparazzi…because of unrequited love?”

  “Reading between the lines, that’s my bet.”

  “But…Col. What were you doing with him?”

  “Black. Look at me. I don’t kid myself. He was broken. Had a screw loose, too. But I’m not exactly a catch. And we had some things in common. One of which was that I hated Freddie. Another one was that I was understanding of Seth’s need to prove that…that he wasn’t gay. That Freddie made him do it. I played along. I gave him what he wanted and needed. Is that so strange? Two broken people finding each other and sharing each other’s misery?”

  “But you were also friends with Hunter.”

  “Not kissing friends, but he would ask my advice sometimes and suck up to me if he needed a favor – wanted dirt on someone. It was quid pro quo. And I didn’t know about Hunter being the one that destroyed Seth’s chances till after we were already together. But now…now I’m wondering whether that wasn’t another attraction for Seth. That I would share information with him about one of the men he hated more than anything, and the other that I hated as much, or more, than he did. Freddie trashed my career as surely as Hunter trashed Seth’s. In some ways, we were the perfect couple.”

  Just then the telephone rang in Colleen’s trailer, and the gas ignited, blowing a massive fireball into the sky and flinging debris to the heavens. Black and Colleen flinched, and then Black ducked and pulled Colleen so the back of the Mercedes protected them from falling chunks of flaming mobile home. They both watched with open mouths as debris rained around them, and Black saw tears streaming down Colleen’s face as she lay on the road, bruised and battered, her future gone in one terrible instant.

  Chapter 32

  Colleen’s neighbors came running from their trailers as the smoldering carcass burned, and Black was struck by the similarity to his car only an hour earlier. If he’d had any doubts before, they were gone now. Seth was out of his mind, killing anyone he thought could connect him to Freddie and Hunter. He knew that Black and Colleen were friends, so if he’d caught on to Colleen’s suspicions about him…then Black would have to go, too.

  Black dialed 911 and got a different operator. This time there was no disagreement that it was an emergency.

  A husky man in his sixties with black suspenders holding his pants up spotted Colleen and trotted over to them.

  “Col. Are you okay?”

  “Not really, Stu. I think I’m in real trouble.”

  The expression on his face as he took in what was left of the burning trailer was akin to a bush baby caught by a nighttime flash. “Well, don’t you worry about a thing. You have insurance, right?”

  “Yeah. But not enough to replace the miserable pile of crap.” Colleen sobbed, and Stu knelt to comfort her just as Black’s phone rang.

  He looked at the screen and his heart caught in his throat.

  Meagan Hunter.

  “Black,” he answered.

  “You’ve got to come over. Please. I think someone’s trying to get in the house.”

  Black’s mind raced. “Call the cops.”

  “I did. Then I called your office and your girl said your car blew up.”

  Good old Roxie.

  “Where are you?” she asked. “Are you anywhere nearby?”

  “No. Are you alone in the house?”

  “Yes. It’s the housekeeper’s day off.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “I…Andrew had one in his office, I think.”

  “Get the gun and call the police again. I think you’re in danger. I know whose blood that was at your house. He just tried to kill my friend.”

  “Oh God. Someone’s trying to open the back door.”

  The line died just as Black was going to tell her to run.

  Colleen looked up at him from her position on the ground and struggled to sit up.

  “No. You stay and wait for the ambulance. I’ve got to go. I think Seth is trying to kill Meagan. He’s gone back to finish the job.”

  Black bolted to the Mercedes and started the engine, then roared off with the impetus of a Greyhound bus climbing a steep mountain pass.

  He dialed Stan again as he was getting onto the freeway and left another frantic message before calling 911 for the third time and alerting them to the situation at Hunter’s house. While he was on the line with the operator, his phone beeped.

  Stan.

  “Stan. Listen. You need to get everything you’ve got up to Hunter’s, now.”

  “Why?”

  “I know who killed Hunter. And Freddie. And the paparazzi. A guy named Seth Avery. He used to be a director. Holds a grudge against both of them. Nutty as a Christmas fruitcake, and a marksman.”

  “Whoa. What happened to your friend that you left the messages about?”

  “Seth’s her boyfriend. He tried to kill her. Left her for dead in a trailer full of gas. The trailer’s history.”

  “Holy... Is she okay?”

  “She will be. Medics are on the way. I’m headed to Hunter’s. I think Seth rigged my car, too.”

  “I’m not going to ask why you think that.”

  Black’s phone gave a warning tone, indicating his battery was almost dead. “I’ll explain later. Just get someone up to Hunter’s, now. He’s armed and dangerous. You can take that–”

  His phone went dead in his hand.

  “…to the bank.”

  And his car charger had gone to cellular heaven that morning along with his red leather interior.

  And Cesar.

  He mashed the accelerator to the floor, which produced a sound much like playing cards stuck in bicycle spokes as the heavy car inched past seventy-five on the speedo. Black diesel exhaust belched from the back of the car, but eighty wasn’t going to happen in this lifetime. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he got to Hunter’s in less than forty-five minutes – by which time Meagan could have died of boredom or hunger or a glacier crushing her.

  He pounded the dash in frustration, then began his visualizations again, trying to calm himself as a VW Westphalia with Canadian plates passed him in the slow lane.

  If nothing else, La Bomba would teach him patience.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Black arrived at Hunter’s, it was a familiar scene: police cars, an ambulance, Stan’s cruiser all stationed out front, with the forensics van in the driveway next to the coroner’s van. Black was stopped as he approached the gate, but one mention of Stan’s name and title and he was escorted up the drive and into the house, where at least twenty uniforms were milling around while the forensics technicians did their thing.

  Black caught Stan’s eye and then relief flooded through him when he saw Meagan, sitting, crying, obviously in shock as a police officer tried to comfort her. Stan detached himself from her entourage and walked over to Black.

  “What happened – didn’t pay your phone bill? I tried calling back,” Stan asked.

  “I had a really important call from my astrologist.”

  “You might want to see about a refund if she didn’t predict this.”

  “Don’t make it all ugly, Stan. What happened? Is she okay?”

  �
�She’ll live. She blew a hole the size of Cleveland through this Seth chump’s chest, and then blew half his head off with her second shot.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Buddy boy picked the wrong house – a .357 magnum with hollow points doesn’t leave a lot of negotiating room. His little 9mm Ruger never stood a chance.”

  “DOA, I presume.”

  “He was history when he hit the ground.”

  Black shook his head. “How many did he kill?”

  “Boy. Not that I’m counting, but…eight? Does that sound right?”

  “Give or take. Either way, quite a losing streak.”

  “Yup. Now it’s all over but the shouting.”

  “How’s she holding up?”

  “Like I said – she’ll be okay. Probably need a year in therapy, but hey, that’s most of L.A.”

  Black looked over Stan’s shoulder at Meagan and caught her eye again, but she was listening to the officer’s questions, giving him a statement. He realized that his hangover was still pulsing like a demon seed in his skull, but for all he’d been through, it wasn’t as bad as some he’d endured.

  “I’m hung over,” he announced.

  “You look kind of like a guy whose car blew up and who slept in his own vomit.”

  “Close enough on both counts.” He shook his head. “Nothing left for me to do here, is there? You need anything from me? Statement?”

  “Nah. Get out of here. Call me later when your phone’s charged and we can have a beer or something.”

  “After I sleep for about thirty-six hours.”

  “Man’s got a dream. I like that. Nice shirt.”

  “Thanks. I won it in a raffle in Koreatown.”

  “Worth every penny, too.”

  He took a final look at Meagan and gave her a small salute. Her face lit up for just a fraction of a second, and then fell again as she registered another in a long list of questions.

  Black found his way back down the stairs and pushed past the uniforms. The Mercedes sat like a wart at the curb. Black glared at it and was reminded of Mugsy for some reason. Both were homely and terrible in their own way, and Black was stuck with them. And grateful for it, truth be told.

  The two police officers by the gate watched him bent over nearly double, laughing his ass off, and shook their heads.