“Okay, maybe not worse.”
“That’s what I thought. You’re seriously lucky you aren’t fish food right now. I saw the playback. If the deck hadn’t blown forward like that…”
“Yeah, I know. And if the explosion hadn’t stopped the boat in its tracks, the props might have gotten us. I heard it all already.”
“Fine. Then why did you want to see me? To have a well-dressed friend to commiserate with?”
B-Side raised his eyebrows. “Well-dressed?”
“Why do you want to see me?”
“I saw another voodoo sign. When I got on the boat. There was a feather stuck in the steering wheel. Just one. Captain said it probably blew there from a seagull or a pelican or something, but now I know better. It was a sign. Meant for me. So I’d understand in that split second before I died that it was…revenge.”
“A feather?”
“It’s true. If you know about voodoo, you know all that shit symbolizes stuff. Chicken blood, feathers, chicken claws…”
“Sounds like chickens get the raw end of the voodoo stick.”
“But it all means something.”
“Fine. What does a feather mean?”
“I just told you. Revenge.”
“For what?”
B-Side glared at him, then dropped his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“B-Side, all due respect, but people generally don’t go around trying to kill other people because of I don’t know. It’s usually over a woman, or money, or a drug deal gone wrong.”
“Or disrespecting them.”
“Whatever. The point is that nobody’s confused about why the perp did it.”
“I told you, I don’t know what this is about. But it’s revenge. That much I know.”
“All right. I’ll play along. How do you know so much about voodoo? Let’s start there.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you. You got to go see my aunt.”
“Your aunt.”
“That’s right. She lives in South Central. Hyde Park. Little ways from Crenshaw.” B-Side gave him the address. “I called her and told her you’d come by today.”
Black’s tone changed to disbelief. “Today. In South Central. Near Crenshaw.”
“It isn’t as bad as you make it sound.”
“Uh huh.”
“Anyway, my aunt, she’s big on voodoo. But not New Orleans style. Haitian. The real thing. She’s what they call a Mambo. Kind of like a priestess.”
“You want me to go see a voodoo priestess in South Central.”
“That’s right. Everyone calls her Mama Fajah.”
“Mama Fajah.” Black was beginning to feel like an echo.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.”
“I’m not looking at you in any particular way.”
“Yes, you are. Like I’m crazy.”
“Well, you did get hit in the head. Looks like it might have broken your nose.”
“Go talk to her. She’ll tell you. You need to understand this. Whoever is after me is using voodoo.”
“I’m pretty sure voodoo didn’t blow that boat up or fry your roadie.”
“Talk to her.”
“Fine. Mama Fajah. Who lives in gun town.”
“Nobody messes with her house.”
“That’s reassuring. What about cars parked in front of her house? Or white folks who stop by for a powwow?”
“You’ll be fine. What are you, a racist?”
“If you were afraid to go into a town run by the KKK, would that make you a racist?”
“Just go see her and stop being a chicken.”
“I said I would. And I’m not a racist.”
“You gonna start telling me about all your black friends now? How you voted for Obama?”
Black sighed. “I better get going.”
“Mama Fajah.”
“Anything else? Got any new ideas on who might be trying to off you?”
“You’d be the first person to hear about it.”
“You want my number?”
“I already got it from Sam.”
“I’ll let you know if I have any breakthroughs. In the meantime, if you see any more voodoo signs, consider that fair warning something bad’s going to happen, and get the hell out of there.”
“Good advice.”
Black took another taxi to Sylvia’s, and after filling her in on the errand he had to run, he collected the keys to his car and pointed it south. The area known as South Central L.A., made famous by rappers – as well as race riots and gang warfare – had been renamed South L.A., as if calling an area something different would make it less dangerous. Crime had been steadily declining for two decades, but the Hyde Park area was still considered one of the most violent in the city, and for good reason. Gunfire was common, and the police routinely lost men in the neighborhood to the gang activity, which ebbed and flowed as older members went to prison or the morgue, only to be replaced by younger, more vicious versions.
Black didn’t waste any time sightseeing on the way there, and when he turned on Mama Fajah’s street he almost did a U-turn and drove home. Graffiti marred every surface, declaring turf, and brooding youths sat on porches watching him drive by, clearly impressed by his pimping ’73 Eldo, presumably coveting it for their own.
He eased to a stop in front of a small wooden home with a surprisingly well-maintained front yard. After taking a deep breath and chambering a round in his Glock, he slipped it back into his belt holster and stepped out of the car. The front door of the house opened, and a portly woman in her fifties wearing a bright pink track suit watched him open the gate and approach the porch.
“Mama Fajah?” he asked.
“That right, boy. You bes’ come in before one a them locos gets it into his head to pop you,” she said, her Caribbean accent strong. “Come on, den. Don’ worry. I ain’t gonna bite.”
“Thanks,” Black said, and ducked into the house, grateful to be off the street. “Is my car going to be okay there?”
“Nobody gonna mess wit you when you wit Fajah. Don’ trouble your head wit dat,” she assured him with the conviction of a warlord in firm control of her territory. She motioned for him to follow her into the tiny living room, which was appointed differently from how he’d expected. There were no skulls, no black candles, no bookshelves with arcane tomes, no chickens running around the house, just Sears furniture several decades old.
A black furry shape ran across his path as he moved to the sofa where Mama Fajah had indicated he should sit, and he reconsidered his assessment – she did have a black cat. Score one for the Mama.
“Willie said I need to school you on some tings,” she said as she lowered herself into an easy chair across from him, a cup of something hot sitting on the side table beside her. “You wan’ some tea?”
“No thanks.” Black said, anxious to move the discussion forward before it got dark out. “So…Willie?”
“Tha’s his name, innit? William. Willie.”
“I think he prefers B-Side.”
“He always be Willie to me.”
“Fair enough. He’s convinced that whoever is trying to kill him is using voodoo, or is somehow involved in voodoo. He said you know about that kind of thing.”
“I know enough dat he full of superstitious fool talk. Ain’t no voodoo bein’ used.”
“You seem certain.”
“I am. Voodoo got a bad rap. It used mainly for good. What Willie talkin’ is trash. Maybe whoever tryin’ to kill him wanna freak him out some, but it ain’t no genuine ting he workin’.”
“How do you know?”
“Because real voodoo don’ use no doll wit no pins. Dat’s from da movies. More like charms. Gris-gris.”
“Gris-gris?”
“Yup. To heal. So whoever usin’ dolls and feathers ain’t no voodoo mon. Jus someone tryin’ to jerk Willie’s chain.”
“It seems to be working.”
“Don’ mean it real voodoo.”
Mama Fajah laughed good-naturedly. “Mambo. A Mambo do tings like spells, healing, all dat. Work fo good, not fo evil. An contact da spirit world.”
“The spirit world.”
“Laugh all you wanna, white bread. Spirit world’s as real as dis one. I know.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Dat othah one. Lamar? He there now. An’ he troubled. Don’ know why, but he be.”
“Lamar.” Black took a guess. “Blunt?”
“They you go again. Lamar always plain Lamar to me.”
“And he’s not happy?”
“That ain’t your never mind. Point is, spirit world’s real.”
“Can you think of anything about this situation that could help me catch the killer before he gets to Willie?”
“Don’ let him set you off on da wrong road with his fool talk. Tha’s the bes’ I can do. Willie jus’ a boy.”
“A boy who’s had three attempts on his life so far.”
“Be happy da killa ain’t very good. Take him tree times an’ still no cigar.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?”
“Boy makin’ waves. Big money. Always be some fool wanna take your wallet when you fat. Or someone tink it ain’t fair. Or maybe Willie piss da wrong man off. Lots of reasons crazy fools kill each othah.”
The drive back to Black’s apartment was uneasy, Mama Fajah’s words resonating in his head as he navigated rush hour traffic, which clogged both the highways and surface streets for three solid hours every weekday. Los Angeles became a parking lot under the steadily sinking sun, contributing to the muggy thermal layer of smog that blanketed it.
He inched along, wondering how much stranger the case could get, the conversation sticking in his craw like an undigested meal. Crazy fools. And of course, the salient observation that there had been three attempts. Inept or not, that was a seriously committed killer. And the likelihood was that he or she wouldn’t give up until B-Side was a smudge on the road.
Unless Black could figure out who the killer was and stop it from happening.
No pressure. Just the client’s life hanging in the balance, with the world watching. Another ho-hum day at the office.
He punched his phone on and activated his earpiece.
“Hey, babe. You up for some Italian food tonight?” he asked, when Sylvia answered the call.
“Maybe something light. How did it go?”
“Da spirits is everywhere. I see dead people.”
“So no breakthroughs?”
“Not really.”
“Sorry to hear that. Maybe I can offer a consolation prize?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day. See you in an hour.”
“It’s a date.”
Chapter 16
Roxie looked up at Black as he swung the door open, carrying his breakfast coffee in one hand and a cup of chai for her in the other. He wordlessly set it on her desk and waited for a thank you. That never came.
“Somebody called about Mugsy,” she said.
“Good morning, Mister Black. How are you today, Mister Black? Oh, is that tasty hot chai for me, Mister Black? Thank you so much. Have you recovered from the trauma of watching three men killed in an explosion yesterday? That must have been awful, Mister Black…”
She stared at him, expressionless. “Are the voices telling you to kill, too?”
“Don’t you think it would be nice to express gratitude when your employer brings you chai, which you love?”
“I just finished one.”
“How thoughtless of me.”
“Anyway, this guy called about Mugsy. Wanted to know if there was a reward.”
“A…reward?” Black sputtered.
“I told him there was.”
“You what?”
“Can you guess his next question?”
“What’s the difference between general and specific relativity?”
She blinked. “Are you hitting on me again?”
“I’ve never hit on you.”
“That’s a relief. So he wanted to know how much.”
“You know there are gangs that steal pets and then ransom them?”
“I read about that on Yahoo, too.”
“The trick is to find a pet that belongs to someone with a lot of money, who loves the pet more than life itself, and would do anything to get it back.”
Roxie turned to her monitor without comment. “By the way, happy birthday. Is it the big 5-0?”
“Thanks. No, it’s not, as you well know. I’m forty-three.”
“Not much difference, then.”
“A world of difference.”
“Sure there is.”
“Seven years.”
“What is that, two thousand days? Not a lot. Practically already there.”
“Like being practically pregnant. You either are, or you aren’t. A key distinction.”
“If you say so.” She paused, appearing to think. “Oh, you got a call this morning.”
“I did? From who?”
“I left the message slip on your desk.”
“Thanks. How much did you tell the caller the reward was?” Black asked, taking a sip of dark roast.
“Five hundred dollars.”
Black almost blew coffee through his nose. “Are you insane?”
Roxie swiveled her chair to face him again. “Depends on whether you refer to the DSM III or IV. It’s confusing.”
“Five hundred dollars to get Mugsy back? What, is he made out of platinum? Did he swallow a diamond?”
“I told him he’d get the money when we got Mugsy back. That seemed to throw him. He wanted the money to tell us where we could find him. Jerkoff. Thought I was born yesterday.”
“Please don’t tell people that we’ll pay five hundred dollars to get Mugsy back, Roxie.”
“You think that’s not enough? Maybe we should offer a grand?”
Black sighed. “No. Not that I don’t miss him, but I’d miss the grand more. Maybe we can get a bird for the office and call it a day? A canary?”
“You have no heart. I’m working for a sociopath.”
“Actually, I believe that’s an antiquated term. If you look in the DSM IV it’s now referred to as antisocial personality disorder.”
“I’m not going to ask how you know that.”
“You’ve never met any of my exes.”
Roxie kept staring at him in her usual deadpan way, without blinking, her heavy mascara ringing her violet eyes, and Black was again struck by how attractive she could be, if she’d lose the pseudo-Goth thing. She cleared her throat theatrically. “Was there something else?”
“Yeah. Any progress on the Todd Porter thing?”
“Who?”
“Roxie.”
“Kidding. I’ll shoot you what I’ve got. Let’s just say that your boy isn’t an angel.”
“Really. Like, as in, doesn’t pay his parking tickets, or was busted with his wife’s head in his trunk?”
“Somewhere in between.”
“What does that mean? Can’t you just tell me, Roxie?”
“And spoil the anticipation? I bet you read the ends of books before you’re even halfway through. Am I right?”
“I don’t do a lot of reading.”
“Total deflection. But fine. It’ll be on your screen in a few minutes.”
That seemed to end the matter for Roxie, and she returned to her monitor again, ignoring Black. He wondered when she’d stop punishing him for his imagined role in Mugsy’s disappearance. Hopefully the wayward cat would return soon. Or Roxie would see that Black wasn’t to blame for his disappearance.
The call was from Genesis. Misspelled by Roxie. Jeanasass. Probably her twisted sense of humor, or some kind of a dig. He could never tell. He dialed Genesis’ number.
Genesis answered, sounding out of breath. “Oh, I’m glad you called. I wanted to see if you’
re available for lunch today.”
Black was immediately suspicious. “I could be. Why?”
“Does there have to be a reason besides me buying you lunch? How about it’s your birthday?”
Black wished hellfire upon Roxie. “I see you and my assistant got acquainted.”
“She’s funny. So how about it? Besides it being the big day, I want to compare notes, since we’re both working on the same side.”
“Where are you thinking?”
She named a trendy restaurant near Beverly Hills. “At noon? I’ll make a reservation.”
“Okay. See you then,” Black agreed.
It was going to be a long, food-filled day. Sylvia had told him to expect to go to a celebratory dinner with her at eight, and that under no circumstances was he to allow anything to derail it, upon pain of death. And now the beautiful Genesis was going to lavish him with high-priced dining for lunch.
At least today wasn’t the day he’d starve. Not that he’d had many of those lately. But still. Anything was theoretically possible, even in a land of impossible plenty saturated with corn syrup.
Black checked his messages and opened Roxie’s, and then took five minutes to digest the documents she’d forwarded. “So he has a sheet. Pot the first time. Possession. Which is akin to spitting on the sidewalk.”
Roxie looked up when he spoke, annoyed, her browsing of undergarments thoughtlessly interrupted by his constant clamoring for her to do actual work. “Could have been pled down from possession with intent to sell, because it was a first offense,” she pointed out.
“True. All he got was probation, which is about right. And he was only eighteen.”
“During his experimental phase.”
“Exactly.”
“Which is still underway, and has expanded to include nineteen-year-old yum.”
Black ignored that. “The second arrest is more disconcerting. Another possession charge, this time for ecstasy. Sentenced to six months, served thirty days due to overcrowding in jail. Which, depending on how loose the case was and how lazy the third-string D.A. who pled it down felt that day, might also have been an intent charge, reduced to possession.”
“Or he could have pled out with a wrist slap if he rolled on someone.”
“Again, always a possibility. What are the odds you can get more on these?”
BLACK Is Back Page 9