Black

by Russell Blake

  “Thanks, Gracie. I’m giddy from the flattery.”

  “You look good, babe. Really good. If I was a hundred years younger…”

  “Is Jared here?”

  “He’s just getting ready for work.”

  “Can I come in for a second? I need to talk to him.”

  “Sure. Mi casa and all. You want an eye opener?”

  “Not today, Gracie. Duty calls.”

  Gracie turned from him, obviously disappointed, and called out to the walls, “Jared. Jar-red, honey, Black’s here.”

  Jared appeared from the spare bedroom, his unruly hair still wet, and glared dully at Black. “Hey. What’s up?” he asked.

  “I found your guy.”

  “You did?” Jared perked up, and then like a battered spouse expecting the next punch, flinched at the expected bad news. “Let me guess. The money’s gone. I knew it.”

  “Not so fast. I got your money back. I’ve got it right here. What was the deal? Five grand, minus twenty percent. You already gave me two hundred, so that means I owe you forty-two hundred bucks. Which I have…here,” Black said, and then pulled a small roll of hundreds from his jacket pocket, bound with a red rubber band, and tossed it to him.

  Jared’s face lit up, and he stared at the money unbelievingly.

  Gracie hugged him, and clapped him on the back. “Oh, Black! You did it. This calls for a celebration!”

  “Not for me, Gracie.”

  Jared fidgeted, counting the money, and then looked up. “Mr. Black. Thanks so much. I figured I was screwed.”

  “I wouldn’t quit your job just yet, and I think you’ve learned you have to be more careful – even if the opportunity seems impossible to turn down. Or is wearing a mini-skirt. Am I right?”

  Jared nodded, clenching the bills tightly in his hand.

  Black looked around. “All right. I have to run. Gracie, be good. Don’t celebrate too much.”

  “How’s La Bomba treating you?”

  “Perfect. I appreciate you lending her to me.”

  “When are you getting a new car?”

  “Should be any day.” The insurance company owed him twenty grand for his Cadillac, which wouldn’t buy a replacement, but might come close. Well worth the premiums he’d been making for years. If they ever cut a check. Tight-fisted bastards. Everyone was trying to get an edge, usually on his dime. “I’ll have La Bomba back to you in no time. Thanks again. She’s been great.”

  “Now I know you’re lying to me. But since it’s you, you can get away with it. You in that suit. I can’t believe some lucky girl hasn’t snapped you up,” Gracie said.

  “I’m working on it,” Black said, and grinned sheepishly. “Now I have to get out of here.”

  “Thanks again, Mr. Black,” Jared called, and Black noted how it was suddenly Mr. Black now that he’d performed.

  Maybe that was the trick in all of it. Execution.

  Gracie waved good-bye to him as he walked down the concrete path to the rear of the building where the old Mercedes was parked, and he continued past it to the street.

  His knock on Cesar’s door was answered by a middle-aged Latina woman who looked like she’d fought her share of battles, and was fighting them still.

  “Yes?” she asked distrustfully.

  “Are you Cesar’s girlfriend?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m a friend of his. Jim.”

  “I don’t know no Jim.”

  “Haven’t seen him in a while. Are you his girlfriend?”

  “I am. What’s it to you?” she asked, defiance and a hint of apprehension in her tone.

  “I owe Cesar some money. I heard about what happened, and I figured maybe you could use it. I’m sorry, by the way.”

  “How much?”

  “By now, it’s got to be five grand. The interest’s the killer. I may be a little high, but I rounded up. Here,” he said, and handed her the money he’d counted out on the way there.

  Her eyes got big as softballs at the unexpected windfall – a small fortune in their neighborhood. “Wha – thank you. Thank you so much. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get by this month…”

  “No need to thank me. I owed him the money. He would have done the same. He was a good man.”

  Black was whistling as he returned to the Paradise Palms and approached the Mercedes. Doing good deeds seemed to agree with him.

  When he arrived at the office, only three minutes late, Roxie wasn’t there yet, and Mugsy greeted him by rubbing cat hair all over the leg of his freshly cleaned suit. Black kneeled down and spent some time petting him, marveling at his girth, and then after scratching the porky feline behind the ears, entered his office. Mugsy followed him in and managed a vault onto one of his guest chairs before curling up and promptly nodding off.

  Black counted out eight banknotes from the second stack of hundreds, then folded the bills and stuffed the rest into his pocket. He was waiting for his computer to finish booting up when Roxie shuffled in.

  “You here this early? What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s Christmas every day in Black country.”

  Her head poked into the doorway, her mascara a little lighter than usual. “Hit the eggnog this morning?” she asked.

  “Not yet. Didn’t you have a show last night?”

  “Yeah. But we were middle bill, so I got out earlier than when we’re the headliner.”

  “How did it go?”

  “We rocked. We rolled. And the crowd went wild.”

  “So not bad?”

  “It was a good night. Why are you in such a good mood?”

  “I just am. Is that against the law?”

  “No, boss. I’m just worried that you may be having a stroke or something. It’s…unexpected. Although I see you trotted out the Victorian clothing, so you must be okay.”

  “It’s a perfectly acceptable suit, Roxie.”

  “You live in L.A. Even the suits don’t wear suits.”

  “I do. I prefer a little formality sometimes. Is that a problem?”

  “Nope. Always ready for a funeral.”

  “I’ve got that going for me,” he conceded.

  “What’s with the money?” she asked, her gaze settling on the eight hundred bucks on his desk.

  “I need you to find the address of the humane society and take this to them and donate it. Get a receipt for the taxes.”

  She didn’t blink. “You’re drunk. I knew it.”

  “I’m stone cold sober.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with an elderly gentleman softening life’s blows with a morning tumbler of Ballerina vodka, or anything.”

  “I’m not elderly.”

  “And no gentleman,” Roxie observed.

  “We agree on something. Just take the money in and put the receipt on my desk.”

  “But I’ll have to leave the office. You hate when I’m not in the office.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  “What about all the phone calls?”

  “I’ll risk them going to voicemail.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, Mr. Moneybags. Your wish is my command.” She spotted Mugsy on his chair. “What’s he doing in there? You hate when he goes into your office.”

  “I’m making an exception today. On account of it’s Christmas and all. In March.”

  “Now I really am worried about you. I’m not kidding.”

  “Worry not. I’m strong like a bull.”

  She stared at him and then snapped her fingers. Her eyebrows raised with dawning awareness. “Wait. Did you get lucky last night?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t have to answer that.”

  “I knew it.”

  “I didn’t get lucky.”

  “Sure.”

  “Really.”

  “Actually, not if you were wearing that outfit, you didn’t. I believe you.”

  “You do?”
>
  “Not.”

  Traffic out to Colleen’s trailer park was typical morning congestion, but Black found that it didn’t bother him as much as it normally did. Even the Mercedes’ recalcitrant performance couldn’t mar his good humor, and when he arrived at the Oasis, he was whistling again.

  Colleen was staying at Stu’s place, and she met him at the door with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “How are you managing?” he asked, and their eyes drifted to her lot, where the charred remains of her home were all that was left to show for a life’s work.

  “Could be worse. Stu’s been a doll.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Like I said on the phone, I’m waiting on the insurance company to pay out on the trailer,” she said.

  “How much do you have coming to you?”

  “Fifteen grand. It’s hard to find a trailer with furniture for that nowadays. I’ll be looking for something from the sixties, I guess.”

  “Don’t people die all the time in these places? No offense. But they’re retirement communities. What happens to their trailers?”

  “Usually the kids want to unload them, or a broker gets involved. But even so, they cost more than you’d think.”

  “What would a decent one run?”

  “Twenty. Twenty-five. For a single-wide on a fire sale. I’ve been looking. I mean, they can go all the way to a hundred or more, but I’m not picky.”

  “Well, I want to make a contribution.” Black withdrew a thick white envelope and handed it to her. “That’s ten grand. With the insurance, you should be able to do okay.”

  She took the envelope from him with a look of shock. “Is this…did you rob a bank?”

  “Nah. All part of the Black philanthropic foundation’s good work. But be careful with those. I just printed them.”

  Colleen weighed the envelope and then set her coffee cup down on a nearby outdoor table and hugged him tight. “You’re an angel. How can I ever thank you enough?”

  “Find me some clients. Somebody’s gotta pay for me being Santa Claus.”

  Black stayed for fifteen minutes – just long enough to tour the wreckage and wish her well, and then he got back into the Mercedes, having begged off any further visiting with the legitimate excuse of having to get back to town and try to earn his keep. He watched Colleen in his rearview mirror as he rolled slowly away, standing next to Stu, who was hovering near her protectively outside of his trailer, and a grin played across Black’s face.

  “You’ll do just fine,” he said to himself, and then twisted the knob of the old radio and began searching for a decent station for the long ride back to Hollywood.

  Chapter 36

  Black was surprised three weeks later when Stan rang him on a Saturday. Their occasional cocktail soirées typically took place on weekdays, to keep them both from staying out all night on a bender. If they had to work the next morning, at least there was an external imposition of discipline and order into their chaotic inner workings. Left to their own devices, they would egg each other on, and soon it would be three a.m. in an illegal after-hours casino in Chinatown drinking ten dollar paper cups of Ballentine’s.

  It had been a while since he’d heard from Stan. Time had flown by, and Black had been otherwise occupied with several new cases – and with Sylvia, which was developing into a good thing.

  “Hey, wild man. Where you been hiding?” Black asked, upon seeing the caller ID on his cell.

  “You seen the news today?”

  “Why would I want to ruin my day with the news? Why, did the zombie apocalypse start and nobody told me?”

  “You got time for lunch?” Stan asked.

  “You buying?”

  “Sure. Mickey D’s or Carl’s?”

  “Easy one. Carl’s. Up by your building?”

  “Yup. Half an hour?”

  “Be still my beating heart.”

  Stan was already there when Black arrived in La Bomba, wolfing down a double burger with extra everything. Black ordered the same and then carried the heaping tray to the table and unwrapped his lunch with relish.

  “You haven’t called. I thought it was me,” Black said between bites.

  “So you didn’t hear about Meagan?”

  “Nope. What about her? She kill anyone else lately?”

  “Only herself. Yesterday. Hit a tree doing eighty in the Valley at four a.m.”

  Black stopped eating. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. She’s gone to her just reward.”

  “Shed her mortal coil.”

  “Been called to heaven.”

  “You going to eat all your fries?” Black asked.

  “That’s a good way to lose a finger. Or a hand.” Stan took another greasy bite.

  “Wonder what happened with her?”

  “Her blood alcohol was .35. Nearly blacked out. Had some valium in her system, too. And a little coke,” Stan said. “Unofficially, of course.”

  “Sounds like someone should sue the airbag company.”

  “Or the tree.”

  “Damned trees are ruining everything. Drugs don’t kill people. Trees do.”

  “Frigging menace, they are.”

  Black finished his burger and belched softly.

  “Classy,” Stan said.

  “In China, that would be a compliment. Or maybe that’s New York.”

  “To answer your question, she was in the Valley because she moved there. The daughter kicked her ass out of the house after the will was read.”

  “Really? How’d that happen?”

  “Daughter got half the house, and Meagan got the other. But all that meant was that Meagan inherited the debt.”

  “What about the insurance?”

  “Fifteen million – all to the daughter. Meagan went nuts when she found out. Hunter had changed the policy a couple of months ago without telling her. Looks like maybe your theory about a divorce was right.”

  “So Meagan didn’t have the money to settle the liens or the debt…”

  “And the daughter did. Actually, the daughter said she was selling the house. Hates it there. But in the short term, she bought Meagan’s share of the debt for fifty grand – which was generous.”

  “Who would buy an obligation like that?”

  “Someone who’d pay fifty grand to kick her stepmom’s ass out of the house.”

  “Ah.”

  “So she was living in Woodland Hills. Affluent area, but not Bel Air. Wrong side of the hill. And fifty grand’s nothing to a dame like that.”

  “She had a big rock on her finger.”

  “Fine. Call it a hundred. Still, a big letdown if you’ve been expecting fifteen million.”

  “She had to have other jewelry.”

  “Point is, it wasn’t enough. No way. What would it buy her, with her lifestyle and expectations? A year?”

  “Sounds like she had no plan B.”

  “Nope.”

  “So she was out, smashed, probably trying to find another meal ticket…and buh-bye, baby?”

  “Either that or the tree looked like the easy way out. We’ll never really know.”

  They sat quietly, and then Stan finished his fries and slurped the last of his full tilt Coke before standing. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln…”

  “Wow. All that. For nothing.”

  “As are all our petty schemes.”

  “Too true, Socrates.”

  “Please. Call me Nietzsche if you want a piece of this.” Stan pointed at his considerable waist and did a little waddle.

  “Wiggle wiggle wiggle it. I heard that on the radio last week. Who buys this shit?” Black complained.

  “I actually like that song. Although you’re dating yourself.”

  “That little belly dancing routine was a horrifying display, by the way. Those kids are going to need counseling.” Black indicated three gang-bangers at a table across the dining area.

  “Poor things. Probably won’t be able to hold their Desert Eagl
es steady tonight.”

  “It’s all about the children, you selfish prick,” Black confirmed.

  “As it should be.”

  They exited the restaurant together and stood blinking in the midday glare.

  “Anything else going on?” Stan asked.

  “Got a girl.”

  Stan poked him in the ribs with his elbow. “Get out of here.”

  “It’s true. From Switzerland. She’s an ahhhtist.”

  “Very highbrow. You go to museums together?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Discuss Fauvism and Impressionism and argue over the merits of Degas versus Dali?” Stan asked.

  “Look at you. Mister sophisticate, speaking Latin or whatever that was.”

  “You like her?”

  Black watched a Toyota Tacoma with a couple of surfer girls in it pull into the lot, laughing uproariously as they drove by, living the worry-free California dreamin’ life that would only last the blink of an eye.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Then so do I.”

  “We should go out sometime.”

  “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I can tell crime scene jokes and show her my snapshots. The ladies love those.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Black. This is your movie. I’d just be a third wheel. Enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll still be around.”

  Black made his way back to the car and paused before starting it. The insurance company had been promising a check for weeks now. Any day, the adjuster would lie, when he called. Fortunately, Gracie was good natured and hated to drive, so in exchange for the continued use of the La Bomba, Black had taken to doing a Driving Miss Daisy with her twice a week to replenish her alcohol and food stocks. For now, it worked for them both, but he was ready to move on and get his own ride again. He had his eye on a car in Nevada that only had eighty-five thousand miles on it, being sold by a little old lady, and he thought he could snag it for under twenty. If the damned insurance would ever pay out.

  The engine coughed to life, polluting the surroundings with the usual black cloud of doom, and he settled back into the uncomfortable seat and belted in before swinging out onto Rampart and stomping on the throttle like he was driving a getaway car, mostly just to hear the motor clatter like microwave popcorn going off under the hood. He eased past a new AMG Mercedes driven by an immaculately groomed young man wearing a Robert Graham silk shirt, and checked his reflection in the mirror to confirm how he felt.