BLACK Is Back

by Russell Blake

  “They say that variation in your diet is the key to healthy living.”

  “Everything tastes like chicken to me. So anyway, the father comes over after work, which as far as I can tell means a hard day of pimping and dealing, and she has a surprise feast waiting for him.”

  “That had to be a strained dessert discussion.”

  “I hear it’s all in the presentation.” Stan gave Black a grim smile. “The neighbors called when he started screaming and pulled a gun on her. By the time we got there, she’d bolted herself in the bathroom and he’d fired four shots through the door, then turned the gun on himself and blown his own head off.”

  Black sighed. “Christ. Wrong day for you to quit drinking.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” The second round arrived, and Black ordered two shots of Jack Daniels. Stan had a hunted look in his eyes he knew all too well. Every day, Stan dealt with the unimaginable, usually life’s losers brutalizing each other in ways even the most rapacious animal never would. As a homicide detective it was his job to mop up after evil had triumphed over good, but some days were worse than others. Today sounded like one of the bad ones.

  Stan looked up when the Jack came and downed it in one swallow, then chased it with the beer. Black did the same.

  “But enough about me. You asked about the roadie that got fried at the Hollywood Bowl. Not my case, but I read through the file, and there’s not a lot there. Nobody saw nuthin’. It was definitely deliberately rigged, so no question that it was murder. Problem was, as always, who did it? Still an open question.”

  “My new client’s the rapper who was supposed to be using the mike.”

  “I put two and two together on that. I’m good that way sometimes.”

  “Like I told you on the phone, same kid who had to cancel his show at Staples due to a poisoning. A groupie got the worst of it instead of him. Whoever’s got a hard-on for him isn’t giving up.”

  “Then it’s simple. Wait until the killer is successful, catch him, and game over.”

  “Not so great if I want to continue getting paid. And really bad for referrals. ‘How did your last job turn out? Um, not so good…’ You can see my quandary.”

  “I always miss the obvious. Maybe another shot would clear it up for me.”

  “I’d say you earned it.” Black swiveled and held up his shot glass, then set it down and gave the bartender the peace sign.

  “What kind of sick bitch would cook her own baby?” Stan asked softly.

  “Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

  Stan shook his head. “Some days I want to hose the city down with gas and toss a match, you know? I don’t believe in God, but it’s hard not to believe the devil’s real when you see evil like that.”

  “Amen.”

  They sat in silence, Stan morose, lost in his thoughts, until the second set of shots arrived. Both men repeated the consumption ritual, and then Stan’s eyes began to well with moisture. He wiped it away with the back of a hardened hand, and Black found something fascinating on the old television the bartender was watching. Stan cleared his throat and spoke, his voice thick.

  “This rotgut’s strong. Eye-watering.”

  “Only to pussies,” Black said, still entranced by the TV.

  “Color me pink.” Stan cleared his throat. “But enough about me.” His tone had changed back to more like the normal Stan, and Black returned his attention to his friend.

  “You ever hear of a rapper called Blunt?” Black asked.

  “No. Why? You pirating his stuff to make a little pocket money?”

  “He was killed in a gun battle in Jamaica. About ten months ago. It was apparently a big deal.”

  “We have enough murders here every day that we don’t have to import them to keep things busy.”

  “I know. I was just wondering what, if any, reach you might have with international cases.”

  “As in what I could dig up from Jamaica?”

  “Something like that.”

  Stan shrugged. “If you weren’t such a pretty face, I could deny you. But as it is, I’m powerless.”

  “That’s what I was hoping. I also doped your drink to make you more pliable.”

  “Should have made it a double.”

  “Too pricey. Drugs are expensive. And I need to save some for Sylvia tonight.”

  “How’s that going, by the way? Wedding bells? Twins? Maybe a threesome?”

  “Just staying the course. All good so far. Frankly, I don’t see how she tolerates me.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t get out much? Or she’s working through a father/daughter thing?”

  “We’re not buying furniture yet, but it’s looking promising.”

  “Ikea’s having a sale next month.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Will you nose around on the Jamaica shooting? I’m specifically interested in whether there was any kind of forensics done, and whether they were able to definitively identify the body. There are a lot of rumors that Blunt didn’t die. I’m not sure what it means to my case, but I personally like the dead to stay dead. Less complicated.”

  “Sure. Not like I have fifty other open cases or anything.”

  “That’s what I figured. Spring’s slow season. Love in the air. Bees pollinating flowers and all.”

  Stan pounded the remainder of his beer. “F-ing bees have all the luck.”

  Chapter 10

  The following morning, Black placed a call on his way in to work. Genesis answered with a purr, her voice oozing sexy, which he supposed was as authentic as B-Side’s gangster street talk.

  “This is Genesis.”

  “Genesis. Black. We met at the hospital. I had a little meeting with B-Side?”

  “Yes, of course. The white guy with the hat.”

  “Guilty. Listen, Sam Rothstein said to contact you for anything I needed.”

  “For anything? That’s good to know.”

  “Related to B-Side.”

  “Ah.”

  “Here’s a question for you, but I need it kept confidential. I’ve been investigating the incidents with B-Side, and a record mogul named Moet keeps coming up. The L.A. rap world has to be a small one. How could I get to see him and ask him some questions?”

  “Wow. Moet? Why would he want to talk to you?”

  “Maybe so I can hear his side of the story.”

  She paused. “What have you heard so far?”

  “That he’s got a hard-on for B-Side because he didn’t sign with Moet’s label. And that Moet should be at the top of the list of suspicious persons who might have a reason to want B-Side to meet with an ugly accident.”

  She went silent for a few moments. “I can ask around. My girlfriend works at his label. Maybe she can get an in for you. But Black – he’s one of the most powerful men in the game. Not somebody you want to try to play, or cross.”

  “Yeah, his rep precedes him. I understand he’s a scorpion, so handle with care.”

  “You don’t sound impressed.”

  “I don’t impress easily.”

  “My advice? Start. Moet isn’t someone you approach without doing your homework.”

  “Noted.”

  “Let me make some calls. Is this a good number to reach you at?”

  “Twenty-four seven.”

  “Also good to know.”

  Black disconnected and questioned his instinct to take the direct approach with Moet. If the man was really as dangerous as Sam said, he might also be volatile and take Black’s reaching out to him as an act of war. Black’s problem was that he couldn’t think of any other way to deal with him. There was no pretense to see him he could invent that would be realistic. He’d considered posing as a journalist, but that could unravel with one phone call, and he didn’t want to chance it. That left him with no alternatives. It was a frontal assault or nothing. And given Sam’s warning, he couldn’t just ignore him. Black needed to get him to talk. That was the only chance he had, because if Moet was rich and s
mart, it was unlikely he would make any mistakes in the short term. So Black was back to a good old-fashioned interview, and hoping that Moet might slip up or that his answers would be contradictory.

  When he arrived at his building Roxie wasn’t in, but the voice mail message light was blinking. He lifted her headset to his ear and entered the code. There was one new message. From Roxie.

  “Hey, boss. Late night. I won’t be in until around eleven or so. I’m taking an hour or two this morning to put up more Mugsy flyers.”

  She would exact revenge for his lack of concern over Mugsy, one way or another. Why she appeared to be holding him responsible for the cat’s disappearance was a different story – it wasn’t like he’d driven the fat bastard to Reno and left him in a rest stop bathroom. Although Black was now secretly worried about Mugsy as well, in spite of his supposed indifference.

  He sighed and replaced her headset after deleting the message. So it would be just him this morning. Fortunately the phones hadn’t been ringing off the hook, which sucked from a business standpoint but made for an easy workload. He’d manage.

  At his desk, he powered up his computer and began searching the web for information on Moet. An hour and a half later, he’d arrived at the conclusion that Roxie was worth her weight in gold for her research skills, because he was hopeless. Other than a few trade publication articles on Moet’s business empire and a slew of fawning media lotion jobs, he’d come up with zip useable data, and knew about as much as he had before he started.

  The outer office door slammed shut and a moment later Roxie’s shocking red mane appeared in his doorway.

  “I’m back.”

  “How did it go?”

  “I got three indecent proposals, but no Mugsy.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah. What’s going on? You need me to do anything?”

  “Actually, yes. I could use everything you can find on Laughing Dead Productions and its president, Maurice ‘Moet’ Quantrel.”

  “I know them. They’re big players. A lot of clout. But shady. That’s their rep on the street, anyway.”

  “All of which I know. But I need more solid info.”

  “I’m on it. Probably take a while.”

  “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  Black’s cell rang, and he checked the screen: Genesis. Black held up a finger to Roxie and answered.

  “Black.”

  “Genesis. It’s your lucky day. I got you a meeting with Moet. Over at his studio. In East L.A.” She gave him the address. “He’s there now.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Is that a complaint, or are you impressed?”

  “What was that last one?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I appreciate it,” he said, but he was talking to a dead line. Roxie regarded him without comment.

  “Should I just stand here, or what?”

  “Sorry. Yes. I mean, no.”

  “Started on happy hour early today?”

  “Why are you always implying that I’m drunk, Roxie?”

  “Never mind.” Her head disappeared, ending the discussion. He stared at the doorway in frustration, and then took a deep breath and shrugged it off. He would not get annoyed. Roxie was just worried about Mugsy. It was understandable.

  He stood, put on his jacket and hat, and moved out to Roxie’s desk. “I’ve got to get going. Be back in a while.”

  She studied his black suit and fedora, and then her eyes flicked back to her screen. “Costume party?”

  “No, I’m meeting Moet.”

  “You. Meeting Moet.” She blinked. Once. “You got your gun?”

  “Why? Do you think I’ll need it?”

  “Might want to make sure it’s loaded. You ever fire it?”

  “I’m actually a pretty good shot.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I am.”

  “I believe you. Cough cough not cough.”

  “I’m pretty sure that the head of a big-time record label isn’t going to get into a gun battle with me at his studio.”

  “I’ll start working on a eulogy.”

  “Thanks. That’s very reassuring.”

  “Try to stand sideways at all times. Present a smaller target. I saw that on TV.”

  “Good advice. You do realize that TV isn’t real, right?”

  She affected a look of shock. “It isn’t? What about Animal Planet? CNN? Sixty Minutes?”

  “Maybe those are.”

  “I thought you just said they weren’t.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You never answered my question about the boozing. But never mind.”

  “I didn’t answer it because it was ridiculous,” Black said.

  “Hic.”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “The bullets come out the end of the gun with the hole in it.”

  “That’s priceless. Thanks. Email me with anything you find on Moet. It’ll take me a while to find the studio.”

  “You realize that most cars built in the last fifteen years have a GPS in them, right? Just a thought.”

  “I don’t need any GPS. I know this city like the back of my…what’s that thing connected to my arm?”

  She returned her focus to the screen. “Do you have any preference for headstones?” she asked.

  “Good bye, Roxie.”

  Chapter 11

  The streets leading to the freeway were congested, midday traffic clogging the arteries with overloaded semi-rigs and workers trying to slip out early for lunch. Eventually he took the I-5 south, then got off near Olympic Boulevard and worked his way east, the neighborhood degrading with each passing block. Low-rider cars in neon hues prowled the streets with Latino thugs inside, their shaved, tattooed heads announcing their criminal affiliations as clearly as signed confessions. Storefront signage segued from English to bilingual and then finally to Spanish only, as the pavement deteriorated along with the air quality.

  Black knew the area well enough to stay out of it, but circumstances had dragged him there and he was determined to put on a brave face. Still, he wasn’t insane, and he kept the top and his windows up, the doors locked, and a sharp eye out at each stoplight for potential carjackers.

  He circled the block where the studio was located and rolled to a stop in front of a dilapidated iron gate with razor wire strung in loops across its top; the gleaming wire continued along the top of the ten-foot-high walls that encircled it. A solitary steel pole with a keypad and intercom stood at the side of the driveway, and Black was just able to reach it and press the black communication button.

  “Who’s there?” a baritone voice boomed from the speaker.

  “Black. I have a meeting.”

  The box clicked off and the gate lurched to the side, sliding on a lubricated track to allow his car in. A man stood with his hands in the pockets of his baggy leather jacket near the other vehicles – a black Bentley coupe, a Land Rover, and an Audi Q7 SUV. The moment Black’s Cadillac was across the track, the gate began sliding shut again, and Black noted that the man’s eyes didn’t leave the opening until it had closed with a heavy thunk. Discretion seemed the prudent course, and Black took his time shutting down the engine and unbuckling his seatbelt, allowing the man sufficient opportunity to scrutinize him before he got out of the car.

  “You heah for Moet?” the security man asked with a Caribbean lilt once Black opened the door and slid from behind the wheel.

  “Yeah.”

  “In deh, mon,” the man said, pointing at a heavy steel door in the brick façade. “You packing?”

  “Nah. Left it in church.”

  Black walked to the door and pulled it open, only to find himself facing another door eight feet beyond. Framed gold and platinum records lined the walls of the small foyer. A blinking red light attracted his attention over the door and he found himself looking at a micro-security camera. The second door buzzed like an angry hornet and he pulled on t
he handle. He was immediately assaulted by a pungent aroma of marijuana smoke and a muffled shuddering caused by a bass drum amplified at ear-crushing volume in the recording studio at the far end of the waiting area, which he could make out through a massive double-paned glass window. Two young men sat on a ratty sofa near the entry door, glowering at Black as if they planned to attack him.

  The heavier of the pair stood and wordlessly pushed the recording studio door open, and the volume increased to deafening. A few seconds later the thumping stopped, and the man returned and scowled at Black before motioning to the door.

  “You up, whitebread.”

  Black nodded in what he hoped was a neutral manner and slowly approached the entry. Inside, the lights were dimmed to near darkness, and he could just make out two men sitting in front of a console large enough to host a soccer game. Behind them, near a bank of two-inch reel-to-reel tape machines, a completely bald man with coal-black skin sat with arms folded across his Versace shirt, staring at him. Black recognized Moet instantly.

  “Calvin, Jay, take ten. And tell 2Bad to take a break,” Moet said to the engineers, and the one on the right activated a microphone and spoke into it while the other stood and made his way out of the room. The door to the recording chamber opened, and a lanky young man wearing a yellow Lakers jersey and a black flat-brimmed baseball cap emerged, his baggy jeans unsuccessfully battling gravity as he gripped the waist with his left hand.

  “Who he? DEA?” the rapper asked, and Moet, the second engineer, and he all laughed.

  “Nah. Got some business to deal with. Go take a load off. Won’t be long,” Moet said, and the second engineer exited, followed by the youth, whom Black presumed was Moet’s newest discovery, 2Bad.

  “Nice studio. SSL console, Neve pre-amps, Neumann mikes, digital workstation…but tracking to tape,” Black said. Moet’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.