“It must have made you angry when Demille fired you.”
“Oh, quite the opposite. When I saw the footage on the web I knew he wouldn’t have a choice. I’m not stupid. I looked like some kind of psycho. I know the business well enough to know I’d just killed my deal. I don’t blame Tom for what he did. I would have done the same thing. I mean, even my close friends didn’t want to know me after that. And then when some of the talent gave Tom an ultimatum…Hailey, one of his hottest faces, and Trish, her mom” – Zane pronounced Trish’s name like a curse – “threatened to leave the agency if I stayed…In the end, he didn’t have much choice.” Zane ran manicured fingers through his thick hair. “Which is just as well. Everyone in the life uses and abuses. I’d have a lot harder time staying straight if I was still hanging out with my old crew.”
Black grunted noncommittally. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Demille’s models? Someone with a grudge? Or maybe a crazy?”
“Hurt them? Why would anyone want to hurt them? They’re just bodies to hang clothes on. Mood setting for the garment manufacturers. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt them.”
“Did you hear the news about the model who had half her face burned off with acid? One of Demille’s people?”
“I saw it on TV. Poor thing. It must have been horrible.”
Black’s cell phone rang. His eyebrows raised when he saw the caller ID, and he gave Zane an apologetic look.
“Excuse me for a second.”
“Sure. No problem. I need to go hang this thing up, anyway,” Zane said, and carried the teenager’s new mink coat into the back with a look of annoyance.
“Black.”
“Mr. Black. It’s Daniel. We just hired you?”
“Yes, Daniel. What can I do for you?”
“I just spoke with Demille’s assistant. He’s out of town on a shoot today and tomorrow, but it’s not that far from Los Angeles, so if you hurry, you can get a flight this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? A flight? To where?”
“Cabo San Lucas. In Mexico. It’s a beach shoot. A large one for a new swimsuit company that’s pulling out all the stops. Gunther checked, and there’s a flight out of LAX at three-fifty. It’ll put you in at a little past seven local time – they’re an hour ahead of us.”
“That’ll be tight, but I can probably make it. Did Gunther already book a ticket?”
“Not yet. If you want to try to catch it, I’ll have him do so. Say the word.”
“How important is it that I meet with him ASAP?”
“Every hour we don’t know what’s going on is another hour something disastrous can happen. Since you’re on the payroll now, I think it would be a good idea if you were there. A lot of our people are at that shoot. I want you at any of the big events between now and when we consummate the merger – you have a professional eye. Watch for anything suspicious. If you can prevent a tragedy, it’ll be well worth the effort.”
Black sighed. “All right. I’ll do my best. Can you get me full access once I’m down there?”
“Of course. I’ll tell Demille’s assistant you’re on your way. You’ll have whatever you ask for.”
“Fair enough. I’ll head to the airport now.”
Black hung up as Zane returned.
“Zane, thank you for your time. Unless you can think of anything relevant, I don’t have any more questions just now,” Black said.
“No problem. I really don’t have any hard feelings. It was a great run while it lasted. But it’s over, so it’s time to move on. Besides, I would have been too old in another three or four years anyway, so maybe it was all for the best.”
“I’ll touch base if anything else comes to mind.”
“You know where to find me. Every day except Sunday.”
Black hurried down the street. He’d have just enough time to stop at his place, grab his passport and a change of clothes, and shoot to the airport. It would be tight, but if the traffic gods favored him, he could make it.
Once on the road, he dialed Sylvia and explained what had happened. When he finished, she didn’t sound thrilled.
“That’s exciting. But are you sure you’ll be able to make it back in time for my event tomorrow night?” she asked.
“Absolutely. I’ll spend this evening and tomorrow morning nosing around, and catch an afternoon flight back. I’ll be at the gallery no later than seven.”
“That’ll be perfect. It starts at six. Safe travels. Don’t drink the water.”
“Thanks. I’ll stick to tequila and beer.”
“That’s my boy.”
At his apartment he stuffed a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts into his bag along with his passport. He stripped off his suit and traded it for a silk cocktail shirt and a pair of linen pants. The entire exercise took four minutes, and he was on the freeway heading west in record time.
The security line at the airport was annoying but short. His ticket was waiting for him when he arrived at the airline counter, and he was pleasantly surprised to find himself booked in business class. He settled into the wide, comfortable seat and gratefully accepted a bourbon and soda to calm his nerves for takeoff. Within minutes the plane was accelerating down the runway and pulling up into the afternoon sky, banking over Santa Monica Bay before heading south. Black’s eyelids grew heavy as he watched the earth drop away, and he was snoring by the time the plane hit cruising altitude somewhere over Ensenada, the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean stretching to the horizon.
Chapter 6
The jet shuddered on approach before lurching drunkenly, updrafts of hot air rising from the brown scrub of the desert batting it around like a leaf in an autumn wind. To the west, the Sierra de La Laguna Mountains jutted into the sky, cotton puffs of clouds hovering over the peaks. Black blinked as the pilot’s voice over the public address system roused him from his slumber, and a smiling stewardess warned him to raise his seat back lest the plane crash from his thoughtless lack of compliance with airline rules.
He peered out his window at the turquoise water of the Sea of Cortez glittering in the late afternoon sun. A thin brown strip of mainland Mexico was barely visible in the distance, a mirage of land on the far side of an inland ocean. The plane bounced as an ominous grinding emanated from the wings, and then its wheels smoked on the tarmac and the passengers applauded, their vacations in Baja about to begin.
Black had noticed that the crowd had been singularly jovial in the departure lounge, the men sporting loud Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, the women in lightweight resort wear. Even in November the weather would be warm, since the thousand miles between Los Angeles and Cabo placed the popular vacation destination squarely in the tropical sun belt.
When Black stepped out of the plane, the heat struck him in the face. The hot wind gusted with the force of a hair dryer across the baking concrete, from where scores of private jets shimmered at the far end of the runway.
The customs and immigration line moved mercifully fast. He was waved through with hardly a glance, his passport stamped by an official more interested in continuing his running conversation with his colleague than giving Black the third degree. When he stepped into the arrivals area, a swarm of drivers holding tour company signs thronged near the exit. Off to the right, a squat man with mocha skin in a pith helmet and a white shirt and trousers clutched a cardboard square with “Black” scrawled on it in felt pen. Black introduced himself, and the driver, who informed him in accented English that his name was Juan Ramon, led him outside to where a silver Chevrolet Suburban waited in a full lot.
“So, Señor Black. I take you to the hotel, si?”
“Sure. But do you know where the photo shoot is happening?”
“Of course. On the beach in front of the hotel. It’s been closed off all day. Police cars at the gates. It’s a really big deal.”
“Is the hotel in town?”
“No. It’s on the highway that runs between San Jose del Cabo, whi
ch is where we are right now, and Cabo San Lucas.”
“How far outside of Cabo is it?”
“Maybe fifteen kilometers. Very exclusive. Very nice. Beautiful.”
Juan Ramon had a lead foot and cheerfully ignored the speed limit signs on the toll road from the airport, preferring to barrel along at double anything sane. Once through the tollbooth he also demonstrated a remarkable lack of interest in stop signs, as well as any claim to the right of way that other vehicles might have had. Black cringed at five near misses to which Juan Ramon seemed oblivious, taking each as a test of his manhood. Fortunately for them both, his nerves were forged from steel, and they arrived at the hotel within twenty minutes of departing the airport.
Black checked in, dropped his bag in his oceanfront suite, and made his way down to the beach, where a crowd of modeling shoot personnel scurried over the sand. Sunset was now only moments away, and tiki torches blazed as the photographer worked to get the perfect shot. A stunning young woman with legs that ran to her chin stood with her hip cocked precociously. The tiny fabric strips of her salmon-colored bikini could have been painted on. She tossed her hair to one side, a smoldering look in her eyes, and Black felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched her performance. Shutters clicked feverishly as the sky shifted through purples and reds and oranges.
A security guard stopped him, but relented when it became obvious that Black didn’t speak a word of Spanish and probably wasn’t a party crasher. House music thumped from large speakers as he neared the shoot, and he could barely hear the photographer’s instructions to the model over the seductive groove. Three young men with perfectly sculpted physiques and heavy makeup sat in robes nearby, and glanced at Black with disinterest. A tall woman in a white straw fedora approached Black carrying a clipboard. She stopped in front of him, a Mont Blanc pen gripped in her free hand like a weapon.
“Who’re you?” she asked, her tone all business.
“Name’s Black. Daniel Novick from DNA sent me.”
She looked puzzled and consulted her pad. “One second. Nobody told me anything about this.”
“Take your time.”
She thumbed a two-way radio on and murmured into it, and then they both waited, watching the shoot as the sun sank into the sea, its blinding glare fading into a red ember on the horizon. Her radio crackled and a male voice barked unintelligibly, but she seemed to understand, because her posture relaxed and her tone softened.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Black. It was an oversight. My name’s Jeanie. I’m head of logistics for the shoot.”
“Nice to meet you, Jeanie. Looks like I got here too late, huh?”
She gave him a long, appraising look. “Depends on why you’re here. Shoot’s over, but the party’s about to start.” She turned and walked back down the beach to where the crew had begun breaking down equipment and rolling up cables. The swimsuit model had moved to a nearby older woman, who handed her a terrycloth robe while an assistant jogged toward her with sandals and a towel. The music abruptly stopped, leaving the beach silent except for the low hum of voices and the periodic crashing of waves.
Black meandered to a table where a group of well-groomed men was gathered, sipping drinks out of polystyrene cups, talking in subdued tones. They ignored him, and he was preparing to introduce himself when Jeanie returned, looking harried.
“I have to apologize. I shouldn’t have just left you to fend for yourself like that. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where the wrap dinner will be held after cocktails. We’ve got quite a spread laid out. You’re in luck. Hope you’re hungry and thirsty.”
“I’m parched. Are those lights off in the distance Cabo?”
“What? Oh, yes. Have you ever been down here before?”
“No. It’s my first time.”
“Ah, a virgin. Well, the best advice I can give you is watch the margaritas. The natives respect tequila, and as you’ll find out quickly, it’s for a good reason.”
“That’s it? Respect tequila? That’s all you have for me?”
“What more do you need to know?”
Black shrugged. “If I knew what I needed to know, I’d kind of already know it, right?”
“Come on. Let me show you around. We’ve got the entire pool area for the next hour, and the beach restaurant for the night.” Jeanie led him up the sand to the hotel. Black followed her, noting that her shorts showcased her long tan legs admirably.
“Sounds nice,” he said. “Where’s Thomas Demille?”
“Tom? You were standing right next to him.”
“Was I? And who were the other two?”
“The tall, younger one? That’s Gabriel Costa. He’s got a bunch of models in the shoot, too.”
“Costa? They seemed pretty friendly for competitors.”
“Costa used to model for Tom. They have a history. My sense is their competition’s friendly.”
“Huh. And the other guy?”
“Richard Engle. He’s the VP of Marketing for the swimsuit company. He’s here representing their interests.”
“Not a bad gig.”
“I imagine there are worse ones.”
They climbed up a wide row of white stone stairs to where a mariachi band was strumming slightly out-of-tune guitars while a singer in full regalia crooned a haunting lament into the night. More torches flamed around the perimeter, lending a festive air to the proceedings. A bartender with a bright orange shirt and gleaming black hair grinned from his position behind the bar, flanked by tequila bottles and waiting glasses.
“Looks like quite a shindig,” Black said, taking in the area. Four women in bright traditional garb, dazzling white smiles on their faces, carried trays of appetizers to the arriving guests. Off to the side, an older woman made corn tortillas by hand, forming them before using a roller and tossing the disks onto a portable grill.
“The modeling crowd knows how to let their hair down. Have you ever been to a wrap party before?” Jeanie asked.
“Not that I remember.”
“Good answer.”
A lithe woman with a dancer’s body whose sequined dress clung to her like a second skin moved across the oversized flagstone decking to the bar, where she had a short discussion with the bartender. He nodded and selected a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka from the display behind him, poured three inches of the clear fluid into a tumbler, dropped in two ice cubes, and slid it to her. Black watched as she lifted the glass to her lips and drained half of it in a single gulp, and then closed her eyes and smiled to herself. His attention was pulled away by Demille and his entourage mounting the steps, trailed by at least a dozen incredibly beautiful women and handsome men.
“Looks like the models are in the house,” Black commented, but Jeanie had already moved away to tend to other duties. He returned his attention to the woman at the bar, only to find her standing five feet away, studying him with a frank gaze. He could see that she was older than she’d looked at first glance, perhaps mid-thirties, and in incredible physical shape. Her eyes glinted in the torchlight as she took two steps toward him.
“Well, hello there. I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, and Black immediately placed her accent as Russian.
“No. I’m a new arrival. I flew in for the party.”
“Interesting. I’m Tasha Pushkin. And you are…?”
“Black.”
“Just Black? Like your singer Prince, before he became just a symbol?”
“Kind of like that. But without the jumpsuit or the hair.”
“Ah. You must be the investigator who DNA sent. Of course. Demille’s assistant told me to expect you. And told me that I was to ensure you got whatever you wanted,” she said, her eyes never straying from his.
“That’s very…hospitable of you.”
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them as Black wondered whether Tasha was coming on to him. She gestured to the palapa bar.
“Well, come on, mysterious Mr. Black. Let me buy you a drink, and then I’ll
show you around and introduce you to everyone who matters.”
“Perfect. What’s your poison?”
“I normally stick to vodka, but since we’re in Mexico, I’m thinking I should make an exception. That young man was telling me that he makes the world’s best margarita. I don’t know whether to believe him, but he’s certainly got a convincing way about him.”
“How could you turn down an offer like that?”
“My thinking exactly.” Tasha finished her vodka and set the glass on a nearby table, then slipped her arm through Black’s and led him to the bar. She rattled off instructions in Spanish, and the man practically genuflected. He selected two bottles of Añejo tequila and poured an inch of each into the waiting glasses, and then poured another inch of Controy and a quarter inch of Grand Marnier.
“I’m not sure I want to watch this. That seems like enough booze to bury me,” Black said.
Tasha studied his profile. “Oh, I think you might be able to handle it. You look like you have…experience. I like that in a man.”
Black watched another inch of Controy go into the glasses and turned to Tasha. “So what do you do with this group?”
She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “The question is, what don’t I do?” She dug in her sequined purse and extracted a cigarette and a lighter. “You want one?”
“Not right now, thanks.”
She lit the cigarette and dropped the lighter back into her purse. “I’m an agent with Demille. I started as a model and worked my way down when I got put out to pasture.”
“Oh, so you’re going to be part of DNA. That’s got to be exciting.”
“Be still my beating heart.”
Black was preparing to ask her why she seemed so unenthusiastic when the bartender set the two glasses in front of them, a crush of ice cubes floating in an amber sea. Tasha slid a five-dollar tip to the man and raised her glass in a toast. “To new friends, Mr. Black.”
BLACK Is the New Black Page 5