“Could be. But she didn’t strike me as the type.”
A balding white man in a tan sports jacket entered carrying a physician’s bag. Jerome intercepted him and introduced himself, and after one glance at the girl on the floor, the new arrival opened his satchel and crouched by her head.
Sam Rothstein swung the door open and took in the scene in a single glance. He and B-Side exchanged a look, and he sidled up to the rapper, looking completely out of place – a white man in his mid-forties, dark curly receding hair crowning his high forehead, his goatee threaded with gray, his gaunt features cadaverous in the artificial light.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded, regarding first Genesis, then Jerome. The doctor looked up from his position by the girl’s side.
“I’m not sure, but she’s showing all the classic signs of poisoning.”
“What? Poisoning? From what?” Genesis stammered.
“I don’t know. But I’m calling the paramedics. She needs to get her stomach pumped immediately. She’s becoming cyanotic.”
“What’s that mean?” B-Side blurted, his street accent fading with each syllable.
“It means she’s not getting oxygen in her blood. At first I suspected an allergic reaction, but this isn’t it. And look. Her mouth and tongue? It’s blue. That’s probably the agent. What was she eating?” the doctor asked.
B-Side ran to the bathroom, spit the piece of blue filibo he’d been sucking on into the sink, and began rinsing his mouth out. Sam followed him to the bathroom, and after a short discussion, turned, pale as a ghost.
“We’re cancelling the concert. B-Side needs to get to the hospital immediately. Jerome – bar anyone from entering the room until the police get here. And for Christ’s sake, don’t eat anything. Especially the candy. It’s probably poisoned.”
Chapter 5
The following day, Black arrived at Factor’s five minutes early and dutifully stood in line, waiting to get the hostess’s attention. When he was finally able to elbow his way to the front, the frumpy woman met his gaze with all the warmth of an exterminator.
“Did Bobby Sorell arrive yet?” Black asked.
The woman checked her book and nodded. “He’s all the way down, on the left, sweetheart. Booth twenty,” she said in a sandpaper voice seasoned by countless cigarettes and more than the occasional cocktail, judging by her face.
“Right. Booth twenty. Got it.”
Bobby was studying the menu like a bookie with a tip sheet, his professionally tanned face nipped and tucked by the very best surgeons Beverly Hills attorney money could buy. His three-hundred-dollar shirt and equally expensive slacks were impeccably fitted, and a row of hair plugs created a hairline thick enough to make Bon Jovi blush. He looked up at the last minute, sensing Black’s presence. “There you are. Hope you’re hungry,” he said, extending his hand.
Black shook it and sat opposite him. “When you’re buying, I could eat a horse.”
“Which is probably the special. What are you drinking?”
Black nodded to the frothy glass of beer in front of Bobby. “That’ll work.”
“Indeed it will. How you been, buddy? Keeping out of trouble?”
“Yeah, as much as I can. Same ol’. Not much changes in my life. Oh, except I’ve got a girlfriend. Swiss.”
Bobby waved at the server and then returned his attention to Black. “Come again? You’ve got a girlfriend?”
“Yeah. An artist. Ahhteeest. From Switzerland.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Why is everyone so surprised when I tell them I’ve got a girlfriend? Like it’s an impossibility, or I’m the elephant man or something? I’m a player. I’ve got game. It could happen.”
“Oh, absolutely. No, I guess I…dude, that’s great. It’s about time.”
“About time?” Black echoed.
“You know what I mean. You’ve been solo for a while.”
“I was dating. I just didn’t meet anyone I liked very much.”
The server arrived. Bobby pointed to his beer and regarded Black. “You know what you’re going to have?”
“Hot pastrami. Swiss on top. And don’t hold out on me.”
Bobby ordered the turkey and settled back in his seat. “Wow. Look at you. Hotshot PI with the Swiss babe on his arm. How cool is that?”
“Well, I’d be more of a hotshot if I had some clients. Which brings us to the reason for our lunch…”
“One of the reasons. The first is personal. Like I said.”
“Right. Well, here I am. You going to spill the beans, or do I have to guess?”
“It’s my daughter, Avery. You remember Avery…”
“Sure. Cute as a button. But it’s been a few years. What is she now, sixteen?”
“Nineteen. She goes to UCLA.”
“Wow. Nineteen. My, how the time flies. So, what’s the problem?” Black asked.
“She’s got a boyfriend.”
“That’s what the nineteen-year-olds do. Assuming they’re not having their second kid or joining a cult. Consider yourself lucky.”
“Yeah, I know. But this is different. The guy’s older.”
“How much older?” Black asked.
“Says he’s thirty-two.”
“And I take it you’ve met him?”
“We had dinner with him last week. Which is why we’re talking. There’s something wrong with him.”
“All due respect, that wouldn’t be because you’re Avery’s dad and he’s banging your daughter, would it?”
“No. You should know me better than that. I’m telling you that by the time the entrée came, I knew the guy was wrong. Of course, Avery thinks he’s a god, so there’s no talking to her. And I don’t really want to – I’d just come off as the overprotective A-hole father.”
“Which you are.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“What do you want from me, Bobby?”
The beer arrived, followed by a different waiter with their order. The sandwiches were as large as Black’s head, and he reconsidered the size of his stomach as he eyeballed his meal.
“I want you to do some digging. Find out everything you can about him. If he’s legit, super, no harm done. But if I’m right, maybe I can save Avery from some heartache…”
“Fair enough. What’s his name, and what does he do?” Black asked.
“Name’s Todd Porter. He’s a sculptor. Lives in a loft downtown. Good-looking character, in a greasy way.”
Black nearly spit his beer through his nose. “A sculptor? That’s a job?”
“Apparently so. At least, that’s what he tells Avery. Of course she thinks he’s a genius, but what does she know about sculptures, or sculpting, or whatever the term is?”
“Probably more than either of us. That seems like a safe bet.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Bobby said. He raised his glass and drained half in two swallows, then attacked his sandwich like it had stolen his wallet.
“That’s horrifying,” Black observed, and then raised his own sandwich to his mouth, wondering how he was going to get the four-inch-thick slab of beefy goodness into his pie hole. Fortunately, his shark-like jaw distended to accommodate large prey. “Damn. This is good,” he managed, through determined mastication.
“The light eater’s portion,” Bobby agreed as he took a third bite of his sandwich, flecks of turkey stuck to his chin. “I bet this weighs a pound. Easy.”
“Email me whatever you have on him, and I’ll put him through the meat grinder and see what comes out the other end. If he’s dirty, you’ll know within a few days. What you do with that info is up to you.” Black glanced at him. “I don’t envy your position.”
“Tell me about it. I have a feeling no matter how this plays out, she’ll wind up hating me for intruding in her life. But I can’t just stand by and do nothing if he’s a scumbag. She’s my only daughter…”
“Hey, you don’t have to tell me. I’ll get you whate
ver I can. Then it’s in your hands. Unless you want I should break his kneecaps.”
He and Bobby exchanged a look. “Been watching Sopranos reruns again?” Bobby asked.
“You have to admit, the direct approach has a lot of merit.”
“Just find out whether he’s got a past. That’s all I want to know.”
“Fine. Now what about the other thing. A client for me?”
“Oh, yeah. Super high profile. A rapper – goes by the moniker B-Side. I know his manager. A mensch. Good guy to know. Sam Rothstein.”
“A rapper? What’s his deal? Why does he need a PI?”
“There’ve been some suspicious accidents. And now, it’s looking like they aren’t so accidental, you know? Last night he had to cancel his big concert at Staples because someone tried to poison him.”
“That’s hard to pass off as an accident.”
“My firm does his legal work. He’s selling millions. Just a kid, but huge. Problem is that he’s worried – when people start poisoning your food, it’s time to pay attention.”
“I thought in that circle they blasted each other with Mac 10s. Isn’t poison a little Shakespearian?”
“I want you to go talk to him. He’s over at Cedars. They’ve got him in for observation. The girl who was with him barely survived. This is ugly, my friend, and he needs your help. Maybe just as important, he’s made of money, so you can charge whatever you want.”
“Wait. I thought you said he was a kid.”
“He is. A kid with a Maserati, a Bentley, and an offer in on a six-bedroom house in Beverly Hills.”
“My kind of people.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. Here’s the info – everything I have on him. Try to make it over to the hospital after lunch. I think it’ll be worth your while.” Bobby handed him a neatly folded sheet of yellow legal paper. Black dropped it into his jacket pocket and continued working on his meal.
“B-Side, huh? What kind of name is that, anyway?”
“A seven-, going on eight-figure name.”
“I like him already.”
Chapter 6
Black weaved through the clot of post-lunchtime traffic, the top of the Eldorado down, his fedora and suit jacket on the seat beside him, Rhino Bucket’s first album blasting from the stereo – his one concession to the modern era having been the installation of an MP3 player with enough power to fell a tree at a hundred paces. When he stopped at a red light, he turned the volume down and activated his phone. Roxie answered on the third ring.
“Black Investigations.”
Black was struck again by how morose Roxie could sound with just those two words.
“Roxie. It’s me.”
“Great.”
“Listen, I’ve got a lead on a new client. He’s a rapper. How much do you know about that scene?”
“I’m down with the hood, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“I’m not a huge fan.”
“Have you ever heard of a rapper called B-Side?”
Roxie’s computer keyboard clicked like the thrashing mandibles of feeding beetles.
“Here he is.” She paused. “Wow. He’s a big deal. His album’s tracking at number three in the country. That’s a lot of cheddar.” She paused, reading. “Let’s see. Twenty. Born in New Orleans, moved to L.A. when he was nine. Cousins with Blunt, who I’ve heard of. He was also huge. Bigger, actually. The shooting was a major deal.”
“Shooting.”
“Blunt’s. Not B-Side.”
“Where do they get these names?”
“He was shot to death in Jamaica. It was all over the news. Biggest thing to happen in rap since Biggie and Tupac.”
“Are those Indian cities or something?”
“Other rappers who were shot to death.”
“Seems like a dangerous line of work. I don’t think Led Zeppelin or The Who had to worry about gun battles or Glocks.”
“Goes with the territory. I’ll see what else I can dig up on him.”
“Please. Any luck with Mugsy?”
“No. I put word out at all the neighborhood shops, but nobody’s seen him. But I’m working on a project I’ll want your help with whenever you get back.”
“A project?” he asked, immediately suspicious.
“You’ll see. Don’t worry. It doesn’t involve you dressing up in a big cat costume or anything.”
“Or money. Hopefully it doesn’t involve me spending money. I’m already calculating the savings I’ll see on cat food, and I think I can buy a condo by the end of the year on what I save on that and milk alone.”
“Why are you such a downer? Seriously. That cat loves you. You know it.”
“I guess I have a problem with the way he expresses that love. Destroying my office piece by piece, for instance.”
“We’ve talked about that. He’s frustrated by your attitude toward him, and insulted by your calling him fat all the time.”
“A fat bastard, not to be a schoolmarm.”
“Yes. That. How would you feel if I referred to you as one?”
“I’m not fat.”
“Do you own a mirror?”
“I’m hanging up now. On my way to the hospital to see B-Side.”
“Look into gastric bypass surgery while you’re there. Maybe your insurance will cover it.”
“Thanks, Roxie. Always a pleasure.”
She hung up and he checked the time. He’d be at Cedars-Sinai in a few more minutes. Black cranked the volume back up and bobbed his head with the stabby guitar riffs, wondering why anyone would want to listen to anything else. Try as he might to understand it, he’d long ago resigned himself to the idea that there was no accounting for taste. What passed for music these days was as much a foreshadowing of the End of Days as anything he’d seen.
He pulled into the hospital parking lot and took a ticket from an automated system that committed him to paying a small mortgage to leave his car there for an hour, and found a spot close to the main building. After raising the top and locking it in place, he donned his jacket and hat and made his way to the hospital, unsure of what he was walking into.
In the lobby, he paused by the double glass doors to watch a beautiful woman with auburn hair and a body like a centerfold fielding questions from a gaggle of reporters, and quickly realized that the topic was his potential new client, B-Side.
“As I said before, B-Side’s resting and under observation. The police are investigating this vicious attempt to poison him. Beyond that, there’s nothing new to report. I’d direct everyone to LAPD with crime-related inquiries,” she said.
Another hand shot up. “What can you tell us about the girl? Who is she?”
“I’ve told you all I know. B-Side had a number of guests visiting backstage, and she was apparently one of them, and regrettably sampled the food before he did. Which probably saved him – she’s still in critical condition.”
“Is it a girlfriend?”
“No. She’s got no relationship to B-Side other than having been part of the group that was visiting.”
“What about suspects?”
“Talk to LAPD. Other than that, no comment.”
“When will he be released?” another journalist asked.
Black’s eyes locked with the woman’s for a moment, and she hesitated, then returned to the throng. “I don’t have anything more. It’s in the doctors’ hands now. They’re the experts.”
“But he’s okay?”
“Yes, it looks like they got to him in time. They don’t believe there will be any lasting ill effects.” She nodded at the reporters. “Thanks to all of you for coming, and everyone knows my office number if you need anything more – recent photos, whatever.”
A tall man at the back of the group raised his hand. “Genesis. One last question. What about the official start of his tour? Has anything changed?”
“Negative. The Staples appearance will be resche
duled as soon as possible, and the rest of his Pimped Bitch tour will continue as planned.”
The dozen or so reporters dispersed, and Black didn’t wait to see where they went – likely many of them would wait around for the rapper to be released so they could get shots of him being escorted to the exit in a wheelchair. He looked at the paper Bobby had given him a final time, and then moved to the elevators and punched the up button – B-Side was on the fourth floor, room 411. It arrived with a ping and he entered; the doors were just sliding shut when the woman from the press conference stuck her arm into the gap in an effort to stop the brushed steel slabs from closing. Black reached forward to help, and for a moment his hand connected with hers, the skin warm and inviting, as were her eyes.
“Oh, sorry. I’m going up, too,” she said.
“Let me guess. Fourth floor?”
She appraised him. “Right. How did you know?”
Black offered her his hand. “Name’s Black. I’m a friend of Bobby Sorell. He sent me – suggested I have a talk with B-Side.”
She shook his hand, confusion on her face. “About what? His access is restricted right now. I’m Genesis Obrador. His public relations coordinator.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You didn’t say what line you’re in.”
Black tried a smile to soften his stonewalling. “No, I didn’t.”
That obviously didn’t sit well, and he could see from her expression that he’d ruffled her feathers. He considered playing nice, but she beat him to the punch.
“Nobody gets to see B-Side unless I approve it. Sorry.”
Black sighed, annoyed by her dismissive attitude. “Oh. I didn’t realize. Maybe you can call Bobby and explain to him that the guy who came down here to help his client can’t actually see him, and has decided to go home for a nice nap instead. I don’t like hospitals anyway, so you saved me a lot of unease.”
“Look, Mister…”
“Black. With a B. Spelled like it sounds.”
“Mr. Black. I’m not trying to bust your chops. It’s just that the whole world is trying to see my client…”
“Miss Obrador, I never heard of your client until an hour ago, over lunch with Bobby, so I’m pretty sure my world won’t suffer if I don’t get to meet some twenty-year-old rapper. It’s up to you. I could kind of care less.”
BLACK Is Back Page 3