Black

by Russell Blake

  He looked happy.

  Chapter 37

  Dr. Kelso’s eyes appeared to be glazing over, their time dwindling like a losing gambler’s chips as Black finished describing his discussion with Stan and his reaction to Meagan’s come-uppance.

  “The thing is, I was glad when he told me. I mean, not glad that she’d killed herself. More glad in a karmic justice kind of way. It was like the universe had fallen into balance, and everything was right again. Does that make sense?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Are you listening? Or did you fall asleep?”

  “I’m listening. I just don’t have an observation.”

  “I express satisfaction that a young, beautiful woman died, and you have no comment?”

  “You mentioned that you were attracted to her.”

  “I did. I was. But she was married.”

  “Were you angry that she was married?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “But you’re glad she’s dead. Serves her right, is that it?”

  “Did you miss the part where she plotted her husband’s murder, as well as my friend’s, before killing her accomplice?”

  “I understand that’s what you believe. But you also mentioned there was no proof.”

  “True. But I know I was right.”

  “It’s probably not useful to debate that.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But I’d like to explore the idea that you might have been angry because you wanted her and couldn’t have her.”

  “That’s not what happened. Of course I could have had her. I took the high road on that.”

  “Of course. But how did that make you feel?”

  “Morally superior.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Maybe a little frustrated.”

  “Yes. Now we’re getting somewhere. So you were frustrated, and maybe that made you angry.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t find it strange that the first woman you’ll readily admit being attracted to in a long time frustrated you, and now you’re glad she’s dead?”

  “That’s distorting what I’m saying.”

  “You weren’t attracted to her?”

  “Well, yes. I said so.”

  “And she frustrated you? Or rather, you were frustrated at not having sex with her?”

  “I chose not to. And I felt physically frustrated. Not frustrated with her.”

  “Your distinction, not mine. And you’re glad she’s dead?”

  “Glad is a strong word.”

  “Really? Your word, not mine.”

  “I modified that. I’m not glad she’s dead…” Black said.

  Kelso sighed. “Are you unhappy she’s dead?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you neutral on her being dead?”

  “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing here.”

  “That’s a deflection.”

  The chime sounded, indicating that the session was over. Kelso looked up, and Black could have sworn that he wore a fleeting expression of relief before his masklike demeanor returned.

  “We didn’t even touch on my new relationship, which is with a woman, by the way, who I’m not angry with in any way, and who doesn’t make me angry or frustrated.”

  “It’s really a shame we don’t have time for that. But you know what the chime means.”

  “It’s time to pay you.”

  “I see that you’re still angry about that part of our relationship, too.”

  “Ah, so you can discuss things after the chime, like my anger over paying you for what feels like a total waste of my time.”

  “I also appreciate how you are trying to cheapen our interaction by discounting the progress you’ve made.”

  Black stood and smiled at Kelso. “I’m sorry. I’d love to discuss that, but our time’s up. Maybe we can explore it next time?”

  Kelso bristled, and then resumed the detached air that was his professional norm. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  On the way to the parking lot, Black realized that he actually did feel better for having told Kelso about the whole experience. It made no sense, but there it was. Like a weight he’d been carrying had lifted, and he was in danger of floating off into space.

  Once in traffic he called a number from his speed dial and listened to it ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom. It’s Black.”

  “Hello?”

  “Mom. Fiddle with your headset. Turn up the volume.”

  “Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you fine. You need to turn up your volume.”

  “I’m sorry. Whoever this is, you need to call back. We have a bad connection.”

  Black stared at the disconnected phone in disbelief, then pressed redial.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “Hello…”

  Third try was a charm after she hung up on him again.

  “Mom.”

  “Artemus! I just had the two strangest calls. I’m glad you could get through.”

  “That was me, Mom.”

  “Please. Spring. Remember?”

  “Right. Spring. How are you and…Chakra?”

  “I’m so happy to hear from you. We’re good. Everything’s wonderful. How about you?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Still got all my teeth,” Black said.

  “I’m so glad you find time to go to the dentist, honey.”

  He veered around a truck double parked in front of a bakery and received a horn toot from the Miata behind him. Suck on it, he thought, then continued talking.

  “How did things turn out with your candle deal?”

  “Oh, you know. It felt like such a relief to get rid of it. Although I miss being busy.”

  “What do you mean, you got rid of it? You shut it down?”

  “No, silly. I sold it. To the nice people Trader Nick’s put us in touch with.”

  “You sold another company?”

  “Yes. I mean, sort of.”

  “Ah. So you didn’t sell it.”

  “Well, I guess technically we didn’t. We swapped our shares for a bunch of shares of their parent company. It’s so exciting watching the price change on the exchange every day. That’s my new hobby.”

  “You did a stock swap with a publicly traded company for your candle business? What’s the name of the company?”

  “I guess that’s right. All I know is that it sounds like Berkeley. That seemed like a fortuitous omen. Oh, right. You father says it’s Berkshire Amway.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, but we have to hold onto them for a while. That was part of the deal.”

  “Did you mean Berkshire Hathaway?”

  “That sounds right. Anyway, everyone was so nice, it felt like the perfect thing to do.”

  Black cleared his throat. “I’m sure it was.”

  “Have you talked to Nina lately?”

  “No. I’m kind of dating someone.”

  “Really! Why honey, that’s marvelous!” she said, a question imbedded in her response.

  “A woman. From Switzerland.”

  “How nice. How did you meet her?”

  “I just did. Sort of one of those things.”

  Spring called out to her husband. “Chakra! Artemus is dating a woman! From Swaziland!”

  “Switzerland, Mom. I’m pretty sure Swaziland is in Africa. Switzerland is in Europe.”

  “Even better. I’m so happy for you.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “Spring. And I love you too, Artemus.”

  When Black disengaged he felt drained, but he was inexplicably still in a good mood. His airhead hippy mother, who dismissed material goods and money as unimportant, had managed to sell a hobby business to Berkshire while he was struggling to make ends meet, in a great cosmic F-you, and it didn’t bother him. He wondered for an instant whether he might have a tumor or something growing in his brain, then
shook it off. As his mom would say, negative vibes. He considered calling Sylvia, but he was going to see her in six hours, and he didn’t want to seem too clingy, so instead he turned on the radio and hummed along to Shakira’s latest, which normally would have had him clawing his eardrums out.

  Roxie was immersed in a video game when he entered the office, and only glanced up for a second before returning to it, at least having the decency to turn the sound down on the speakers so he didn’t have to listen to the blasts and tortured screams as she fought her way to whatever the next level was. He sorted through the incoming mail and tossed the bills into her in-basket, then tore open the final one and removed a form with a check attached.

  “Any calls?” he asked, eyeing Mugsy, who had struggled to lift his big fat head to look at Black before returning to his daily siesta, which lasted approximately sixteen hours, from what Black could tell.

  “What’s that?” she asked, annoyed at the interruption.

  “Calls. Anyone call for me?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Well then. Carry on.”

  She appeared to register that he was actually standing there, and paused the game.

  “Oh. Wait. Somebody from the IRS called. Wanted to confirm the physical address for service.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I didn’t realize the IRS did service. On what? The office equipment? All we have is the copier. I thought that Ted dude came over and handled that once a month.”

  “Roxie. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Anyway, I told them you were out.”

  “Did they leave a number?”

  “You really will believe anything I say, won’t you?”

  “So it’s a joke?” he asked, his heart having resumed beating.

  She batted her big eyes at him. “Isn’t everything?”

  He nodded and returned the smile. “Well played. But you can’t ruin my day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m headed out again.”

  “Really? You just got here.”

  “Yes, I did. And now I’m leaving.”

  She looked confused, and like a trout surging to the surface to bite at a spinning lure, she was compelled to ask the obvious question. He waited, watching the internal battle, and then she caved.

  “Where are you going?”

  He twisted the front door lever and threw Mugsy a beauty queen wave. Mugsy didn’t notice. Black held the check aloft in triumph as he pulled the door open, a gleam in his eye and a spring in his step.

  “Probably to hell, in the end. In the meantime, I’m buying a car.”

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  Excerpt from BLACK is Back

  Russell Blake

  ©2013

  Chapter 1

  Ten months before, Montego Bay, Jamaica

  The platinum Chevrolet Suburban’s wheels crunched on loose gravel as it pulled out of the exclusive villa’s long private drive and onto the main road leading across the island. Brooding bass beats thumped from its speakers, clearly audible from outside the SUV. The driver gunned the gas and the rear wheels spun for a second before the oversized all-terrain tires gripped and the vehicle lurched forward onto the two-lane highway that led overland to Kingston and the airport beyond, where a private jet sat on the sweltering runway waiting for the vehicle’s passengers to arrive.

  Lamar Reese, better known by his stage name, Blunt, was a rap superstar by any measure, his career’s trajectory that of a rocket. His seminal first album had caught the world by surprise with its combination of infectious grooves and unexpected lyrical depth, and he’d been compared to icons like Ice Cube and Dr. Dre for the profundity of his offerings. That first record had ultimately been certified triple platinum, and Blunt, a resident of South Central Los Angeles’ worst neighborhood, suddenly found himself on tour for a year, heralded as the future of rap, staying in five star hotels with an entourage of gorgeous and willing young companions, supporting a publicist, a manager, and a host of non-specific hangers-on who were his obligatory posse – none of which could make a dent in his newfound wealth, which had surpassed seven figures at month number two of release.

  Now, a year and a half later, he’d finally taken a well-deserved break in anticipation of returning to the studio and recording his follow-up smash, which would receive the push normally associated with a Led Zeppelin or Beatles reunion. Blunt was young money, and the combination of his gangsta street cred, replete with a rap sheet for drug busts and felony weapons possession, and an unerring ear for contagious hooks, ensured that his star was only beginning to rise in a business where a sensation’s income could rival that of film stars and bankers.

  After a week at the private beach villa on the north side of the island, he was relaxed. The nation’s sultry, easy rhythm had seeped into him – the polar opposite of his flashy lifestyle of celebrity in L.A. Dense jungle flashed by as the large SUV picked up speed on the two-lane road, passing dilapidated shacks that spoke to the grim default poverty for all but the wealthiest Jamaican inhabitants. Blunt barely registered any of it as he squinted and took another massive toke on a joint the size of a Cohiba.

  The passenger side window lowered halfway with a hum, and a cloud of cannabis smoke belched from the interior. Blunt left the window down and held his free hand outside, his fingers slicing at the air like an airplane wing, heavy platinum and diamond rings studding every digit, bling glinting in the morning sun.

  “Yo, Blunt, gimme some a that love, dawg. Yo’ boy be needin’ some back here,” Tyrese called from the rear seat.

  Blunt grunted assent and held the spliff up to his best friend and DJ.

  Tyrese reached forward and took it from him.

  “Ganja’s crazy, bro. Got that ju ju island magic in it. Fa real,” Blunt offered by way of affirmation.

  A new track came on the stereo. Blunt let out a whoop and increased the already deafening volume to the point where the speakers began distorting. The driver, Calvin, another long time friend of Blunt’s, smiled at the familiar, ominous synth weaving over the beat: one of Blunt’s first, biggest hits, “Suckah Bait.” The hypnotic lyrics began as a classic blues guitar riff, sampled, wailed in the background – a signature flourish Blunt had taken to a whole new level.

  Nobody noticed the big Ford Expedition gaining on them until it had latched on their tail. Calvin slowed, annoyed at the bullying way the Ford was sticking to his bumper, and then the Expedition swung around to pass them just as they were coming up on a small town – little more than a gas station and a market, with some hovels surrounding the central structures, which stretched back into the dense green vegetation.

  “Wha’s up?” Blunt asked, seeing Calvin’s eyes glued to the rearview mirror, and then the world disintegrated in a shower of shattered glass as automatic weapon fire burped from the Ford, followed by the baritone boom of a shotgun as the charging SUV pulled alongside the Suburban. A slug caught Calvin in the throat. His expression changed from fear to shock, and he stiffened as blood seeped down his neck. He spasmodically floored the accelerator and the Suburban surged forward, buying Blunt and Tyrese time to free their pistols – Blunt a Desert Eagle .45, Tyrese a Glock .40 caliber.

  A bullet blew through the passenger door and hit Blunt in the abdomen, but he ignored the searing agony and fired at the Ford through the window while trying to control the steering with his left hand. More slugs peppered the side of the Suburban, and then a shotgun blast took Tyrese’s head off as he was emptying his Glock at the attackers.

  The deep sound of a truck horn announced a flatbed carrying bananas rounding the bend, on the attacker’s side of the road – bad news with the Ford traveling at fifty miles per hour and the banana truck grinding along at thirty. The next few seconds slowed to an hour as the Ford’s driver, who’d sustained a chest wound from one of Blunt’s rounds, saw the oncoming truck even as more bullets slammed into his vehicle. The gunmen in the rear seat were ob
livious to the approaching threat as they unloaded their weapons at the Suburban, the AK-47’s full-auto rattle deafening in the confined space, the shotgun’s boom even more so. The driver’s processing was slower than normal from the shock of having half a lung shredded, and the critical moments where he could have stomped on the brakes came and went as he struggled for breath.

  The collision crushed the front of the Ford like a Coke can, ending the shooting with startling finality. The Suburban was knocked sideways as it accelerated and jumped the low concrete curb that ringed the gas station before plowing into the two pumps, continuing on until the concrete building arrested its forward movement. Fuel sprayed skyward in a geyser, creating a small lake beneath the Suburban’s wheels, and then a flicker of flame from the SUV ignited the gas with a whoosh, instantly immolating the vehicle.

  The passenger door swung open as a fireball erupted from the pumps. Blunt, wounded and ablaze, tried to get clear and escape incineration. The blast caught him before he made it completely out, and he was blown back inside, his flesh melting from the heat.

  The Suburban’s fuel tank caught and a second fireball blew into the air, the vehicle destroyed, its occupants vaporized in an instant.

  By the time the authorities made it to the rural area, a black plume of smoke having signaled the tragedy to the entire island, the Chevrolet was a molten glob, little left but the skeleton of the chassis. The gas station’s main fuel storage tank had ignited shortly after the Suburban’s, destroying everything in its proximity.

  The three Ford passengers were dead on arrival, as was the owner of the gas station, who had been trapped inside the building when the Suburban slammed into it. The lone survivor was the driver of the banana truck, who escaped with a fractured pelvis and a slew of contusions.

  News of Blunt’s passing sent a wave of shock through the rap world. Another stellar talent lost to senseless violence, in the tradition of Biggie Smalls and Tupac Shakur. Blunt’s rivals, with whom he’d fought publicly in an increasingly ugly spiral of accusations and disrespect, denied any involvement, but nobody believed them. Just as a certain segment refused to believe the beloved rapper was actually dead – the body was never recovered, the Jamaicans’ approach to forensic police work leaving much to be desired.