Black

by Russell Blake

  “Black, I’ve been patient. I’ve listened to this rant, and extended you incredible courtesy because of the help you gave my husband, and then me. I think you’re a good and honest man in an imperfect world, and maybe the events of the last week have been too much for you. You want possibilities? Here’s one that’s more plausible: maybe you want to get into my pants, and that’s twisted you in some fundamental way. Gotten you to invent nonsensical scenarios. When you realized I wasn’t interested in you, I became the villain in your little imaginary melodrama. Black. I’m sorry. But you’re way off base with this.”

  “You mean you don’t think I can prove it. Did you tell the cops you knew Seth from before?”

  “I told you. I don’t remember anything from that period. It was a different era. Lots of drugs. Lots of booze. Plenty of all-nighters. Hunter had a reputation. I was no angel. Everyone was equally guilty of excess.” She stopped. “I’m sorry about your friend Colleen. Sorry her trailer blew up.”

  “Sure you are. I wonder where Seth got the idea that she needed to go? Or that I did? Was that another phone call once you knew we’d found the blood?” Realization slowly dawned on Black and his eyes widened. “Seth wasn’t trying to break in, was he? You told him to come, to be together again like you’d promised. To bring his gun so you could dispose of it, and come spend the rest of his life in your arms…And then you shot him. Like a dog, in cold blood. The trail ends there, with the crazy guy trying to finish his rampage by killing the star’s wife. Who defends herself after calling everyone she knows to say she’s terrified the killer’s back for her. Was that how it happened, Meagan?” Black asked, ending in a whisper.

  She rose and walked around the desk. “Black. Go get some sleep. You’re out of it. Cash your check, take some time off, get some perspective. You’re chasing ghosts. This is all a pure flight of fancy.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I take the photo,” he threatened, reaching for it. She moved like a coiled snake, so fast it startled him, and grabbed the frame before he could get his hands on it.

  “Black, get out of my house. Now. Esmerelda! Esmerelda!” Meagan yelled, holding the photograph behind her, daring Black to try to get it without a fight. One where it would be her story against his – Black came, wanted to try to blackmail her out of more money with some crazy story, and then went berserk. Or maybe tried to have his way with her. Her word against his. In her own home. With the housekeeper coming.

  They both heard hurried footsteps approaching down the long hall.

  “What’s it going to be, Black? We do this the easy way, or the hard way?” Her tone was calm, her eyes flashing with anger, but also quiet confidence. She had him. And she knew it.

  Esmerelda appeared in the doorway with a worried expression. Meagan studied Black, and then nodded. “Esmerelda, Señor Black was just leaving. Would you show him out?”

  Black shook his head and threw her a look of disgust. “You’re not going to get away with this.”

  “Mr. Black, thanks so much for your dedicated service to both my husband and me. I’ll be happy to provide you a good reference, if you need one.”

  “Señor?” Esmerelda asked, unsure of what was happening, the tension thick as a toxic fog in the room.

  “You haven’t heard the end of this, Meagan,” Black said, but his words rang hollow, even to his tuned ear.

  “It’s Mrs. Hunter. Please, have a little respect,” Meagan said, a small, playful smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Good bye, Mr. Black. Take care of yourself.”

  The trip back to town was a blur, his mind reeling at the supernova of information that had fallen into place. Seth couldn’t have been working alone. Black knew it. Was sure of it. As sure as he had been of anything in his life.

  He withdrew the check from his pocket and looked at it as he sat at a red light. Twenty thousand dollars. A little going away present. Have a few crumbs, she was saying, I won this round, the insurance will pay out big time and I’m rich again, my fool husband’s blunders a bad memory. Rich, the house in Bel Air paid off, and the tax lien cleared… He wondered how much a guy like Hunter would have in life insurance. Ten million? Fifty? Whatever it was, it would be enough. Better than being divorced, left with nothing – or even worse, stuck with Hunter in an apartment down the street from Black.

  Some things were worse than death.

  He knew.

  Black stopped at Hunter’s bank and cashed the check, insisting on two neat stacks of hundred dollar bills. He didn’t want to give Meagan any time to reconsider. Which she would.

  As he drove back to the office, he activated his phone and waited as the familiar ring sounded in his ear piece.

  “Hey, big dog,” Stan boomed, obviously in a better mood than of late.

  “Hey. What are you doing later?”

  “Rihanna’s coming over to lap dance for me. What do you think?”

  “You wanna get together and have a few pops after work?” Black asked.

  “You buying?”

  “Cheap bastard.”

  “Drunkard.”

  “Degenerate. I’m thinking The Salty Dog, say…seven?”

  “Can Rihanna come?”

  “You have to buy her drinks. I’m only buying yours. And tell her no entourage,” Black warned.

  “Cheapskate.”

  Chapter 34

  The Salty Dog’s interior was dark hardwood with a nautical theme, sextants and rope and pulleys and ancient barometers mounted to walls stained the color of dried blood from the decades of cigarette smoke before the citywide ban forced smokers onto the sidewalks. A tired jukebox crooned Chris Isaak’s “Baja Sessions” over sub-par speakers, the singer’s velvet voice lamenting lost love and heartbreak down Mexico way. A spectral bartender with an oil slick comb-over, who more resembled a mortician than drink server, stood behind the bar gazing at the entry with a vacant stare, the door a thick slab of mahogany with a porthole mounted on it. Behind him a sign warning that checks were not accepted and that no credit would be extended to patrons regardless of the circumstances hung crookedly over a blotchy mirror that had been ancient in the forties.

  Stan sat at one of the crate-top tables nursing a Rolling Rock beer while Black sipped at his Red Hook pale ale and told him his theory. When he finished, Stan sat back and shook his head.

  “Welcome to my life, Black. Bad people do bad things every day. A lot of the time, they get away with it. If I can catch seventy to eighty percent of the most obvious miscreants, I’m a rock star. But that means that twenty percent, at least, get away with it. Remember, in that number are the gang bangers who are caught shooting each other on security cams, domestic murders where there are witnesses, obvious drug deals gone wrong where everyone involved is so addled that they leave evidence everywhere…”

  “I know. This is more sophisticated. But there’s got to be a way to prove it.”

  “Sure. Get her to confess on camera. That would be a good start. Or have her sign and date a confession while her lawyer’s present. Or better yet, have her be a complete dumbshit like her husband and carry out the crime in full view of every phone cam in L.A. Barring that, I’m just trying to tell you, there’s not a lot of chance the D.A. is going to want to move forward with this – and I wouldn’t blame him. What’s your evidence?”

  “Maybe Seth’s phone has some calls from her?”

  “Sure. Maybe the mastermind of the perfect crime didn’t think about getting a burner for the critical calls. I’ll check his records, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “Can’t you triangulate where the calls came from if you have the number?”

  “You been watching 24 again? Wake up, Black. We live in an imperfect world.”

  “You saying you can’t?”

  “I’m saying that even if there’s a cell tower that shows a call or two to Seth from Bel Air, that’s not enough to bring a case. Not hardly. She’ll just say that she has no idea what we’re talking about. We make the case that she lur
ed him there, and then her attorney trots out that the victim is a mass-murderer who killed her husband two days before. You want to pitch that one to a jury? I’m just telling you that no Los Angeles prosecuting attorney in his right mind wants another celebrity murder trial gone wrong. And if we came down on her for this, it would be front page. It’s a tough case to make at the best of times. You throw in a gorgeous widow who was a victim…no, thanks.”

  “But she’s not a victim. There’s the photo.”

  “No, there was the photo. That baby caught fire before you were out of the driveway. And even if it was still there, where’s its twin? Blown to kingdom come in Riverside County white trash a-go-go. Face it. You got nothing.”

  “I’ll admit, it’s circumstantial. But it’s compelling. There’s the pre-nup that Roxie came up with, the motive of the insurance…maybe we can find someone who knew her back in the day who would swear that she knew Seth. Maybe she was at Sundance with him. There might be photos…”

  “You heard her defense. ‘I don’t remember any of that, it’s all a blur.’ By the time this went to trial, it would be fourteen or fifteen years in the past. All she has to do is say that she’s slept with over a hundred men since then, and there goes your motive. I’m just telling you, it’s iffy at best.”

  “Will you at least look into it? Do some digging?”

  “I’ll do it for you, Buttercup. Because you got a real purty little mouf.”

  “Those prison marriages never last.”

  “Can’t we just enjoy it for what it is?”

  “Why won’t the world just let us be?”

  They finished their beers, their third each, and Stan shook his head. “Dude. Don’t let this define you. I know you. You’re going to let it gnaw your guts out, inch by inch. That’s a mistake. You’ve done everything that you could. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.”

  “It wasn’t good enough for Cesar, was it?”

  “But it was for your friend Colleen. You can’t make the world perfect, Black. It’s always been a messy bowl of crap, and always will be. Take it from a guy who’s spent his life scooping it up after the fan sprays it everywhere. Take the wins when you get ’em, because you’re gonna have more losses than wins in the end. If you aren’t losing, you aren’t trying.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Because I don’t have a cleft palate.” Stan pushed his empty beer away. “Go home, Black. Find someone to kiss and hug, and make them feel special. Barring that, get a dog. But don’t dwell on this. I’ll do what I can. I promise. But don’t expect too much. This isn’t a winning lottery ticket by any means.”

  “I have a stray cat that hates my guts and is going to have to be buried in a piano crate, he’s so fat.”

  “So go hug him.”

  “He’d probably claw me. Fat little bastard.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Cats are weird that way.”

  “I didn’t know you liked cats.”

  “Of course. Especially deep fat fried.”

  Black paid the bill and they went their separate ways, the Mercedes ambling at its customary leisurely pace, which he was getting used to. What was everyone in such a hurry for? The ride always ended in the same destination. Why not slow down and try to enjoy it?

  Stan’s fatalistic attitude annoyed him, but he hadn’t been expecting much more. He knew how things worked, and close wasn’t the same as crossing the finish line – or as Seth had discovered, there was a world of difference between first and second place. But maybe Stan would turn something up. Black would have Roxie continue to dig as well, and between them, they might get lucky.

  Although Lady Luck hadn’t been dancing the fandango with him lately. But that might just mean that he was overdue.

  The thought pulled him in the direction of Preacher’s apartment, and twelve minutes later he was parked and walking up the sidewalk, approaching the grim little complex. The Vietnamese sentry had called it a day, and the scumbag’s apartment was dark. Strike three, he thought bitterly. Still, he was already there, so he ascended the stairs and knocked on the door. Predictably, there was no answer, and he tried one last time before calling it a night.

  The door to the apartment next to Preacher’s popped open and a young woman, maybe early thirties, with a shaggy mop of blonde hair tied back with a bandana, stuck her head out and looked Black over.

  “Nobody living there anymore,” she said with a pronounced accent. Maybe German, Black thought.

  “Really? When did he move?”

  “Yesterday. He was only here for an hour.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding address, do you know?”

  She reappraised him. “What are you, a bill collector?”

  “Kind of.”

  “What does kind of mean?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Really? Like on TV?”

  “Not exactly like on TV, but close enough. I don’t have a car chase every episode or slug it out with the bad guy. More like this kind of thing.”

  “Trying to find people?”

  “Yeah. Like that. Listen, I know this is a lot to ask, but could I give you a card, and if he comes back, would you call me? There’s a reward in it.”

  She frowned. “A reward? What did he do?”

  “Took some money from the wrong guy.”

  “How much is the reward?”

  Black thought quickly. “Two hundred dollars.”

  She sized him up. She had beautiful blue eyes, he noticed, and the accent was…exotic.

  “Big spender. Sure. Give me your card. He was a jerk, anyway. Always hitting on me.”

  Which Black could completely understand, though he didn’t say so. He handed her one of his cards and their fingers touched. Black felt a tingle, like a tiny electric charge had passed between them. Their gaze locked for an instant, and then she looked away.

  “Okay, then. I guess that’s it. Thanks. Maybe he’ll come back one more time,” Black said.

  “You never know.”

  “If you don’t mind, where are you from? I don’t recognize the accent.”

  “Switzerland.”

  “Really? What part?” Black asked, realizing he had no inkling of anything about Switzerland beyond that it was in Europe, and famous for money laundering, chocolate, and watches.

  “Basel. It’s really nice there.”

  “What are you doing here? In L.A.?”

  “I’m an artist. I had a show at a gallery in town a few months ago and sold a few paintings, so I decided to stick around for a while and see what I could put together. The owner sponsored me for a temporary visa…”

  “Your English is really good.”

  She smiled shyly. “Thanks. I don’t think so.”

  “No, really. It is. Wow. An artist. Like painting?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sylvia.” She peered at the card. “I see yours is…Jim Black.”

  “Everyone just calls me Black.”

  “Ha. Like a cat. That’s bad luck, right?”

  “Lately it has been.”

  The conversation stuttered to a halt, and Black shifted nervously, preparing to leave. He backed away and was about to say good night when he was seized by an alien impulse. She regarded him, the beginning of a puzzled smile on her face, and he cleared his throat before speaking words that seemed like they were someone else’s.

  “Sylvia, I know this is going to sound weird, and probably really creepy, but here goes anyway. I’ve had a really lousy day, and you’re the best thing...I mean, it’s been a long one, and I don’t want to go home yet. Is there any way I can get you to have a drink with me? Or a cup of coffee?”

  “Are you for real?”

  “I…never mind. It was a dumb idea. I’m sorry,” Black said, realizing how inappropriate he was being. “Please call me if he returns. That’s all I ask. Sorry for disturbing you.”

  He turned and was making his way back to the
stairs when Sylvia called after him.

  “Can you wait ten minutes? I need to put some fresh clothes on.”

  Chapter 35

  Black rolled over and glared hatefully at the alarm clock shrieking like a jilted lover two feet from his head. He pawed at it and silenced the infernal contraption, then closed his eyes again, giving himself a few moments to come to. It was eight, another day in Lost Angeles, and he had the mildest trace of a hangover. Not much, and certainly nothing like a few days earlier, but still there – a worthwhile remnant of the four beers he’d had with Sylvia while she told him her story. The promised half hour in a bar a few blocks away had stretched to two, and while they weren’t buying each other jewelry yet, he felt like they’d hit it off. She was smart and had a quirky sense of humor – she didn’t talk a lot, but when she said something, it was usually funny. He liked that. It had been the best couple of hours he’d spent in some time, and they’d agreed to get together on Friday night for dinner.

  All in all, an unexpected end to a lousy episode. He opened his eyes and spotted the two stacks of hundreds on his chest of drawers. Okay, maybe not the worst episode, but not a great one, by any means. Although it had finished on a good note. Maybe not Stan’s hug and I love you, but still, close enough.

  Black threw the sheet off and forced himself upright and into the bathroom for a vigorous shower before heading in to work.

  He stopped at Gracie’s at eight-forty and knocked lightly at the door.

  “Who is it?” her voice called from inside.

  “Black. Trick or treat.”

  The door swung open and she greeted him with a wrinkled smile. “Why, Black. You do look handsome this morning. What a great suit. Nothing like a well-dressed man.”