BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  Black lifted his and tasted it. His eyes widened and welled with moisture. “Good Christ. What is that? Diesel fuel?”

  She took a sip and smiled. “Mmmm. That’s really good. The man definitely knows his margaritas.”

  “What happened to the ingredients that aren’t alcohol?”

  “I tasted a little lime.”

  “And maybe some heroin.”

  “I think there might be some orange juice, too. Not much.” She took another taste. “It’s better the second time around.”

  Black gave it another try and realized she was right. What had been a raw burn now was a smooth warmth as it glided down his throat, and he almost instantly felt relaxation seep into his muscles. “Wow. He does know how to make a drink, I’ll give him that.”

  Tasha was looking across the pool area. “Tom looks bored. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They crossed to where Demille was sitting with the VP of Marketing at a table, and Tasha sat next to him and whispered in his ear. Demille straightened and offered Black a neutral expression.

  “Mr. Black. Pleasure to meet you. Daniel sent you?”

  “Nice to meet you, too. Yes, he asked me to look in on the shoot and familiarize myself with everyone.”

  “This is Richard. He’s footing the bill for all this.”

  Richard shook Black’s hand with the professional aplomb of a career politician.

  “Quite a spread. You should try one of the bartender’s special margaritas. They’re pretty spectacular,” Black said.

  “I did. Last night. I was afraid I’d need to go to the hospital this morning after three of them.”

  “The first words of advice I received when I got here were, ‘respect tequila.’ Seems like that’s a theme.”

  “So, Mr. Black, what exactly does Daniel have in mind? Why are you here?” Demille asked.

  “I’m helping look out for his interests. After the acid incident and the suicide, he’s nervous.”

  Demille gave Richard an insincere smile and stood. “Would you excuse us for a second?”

  Richard nodded. “Sure. I need to make a call anyway. Nice meeting you, Mr. Black.”

  When he’d left, Demille turned back to Black and glowered as he took his seat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s the client. Your suspicions about our dirty laundry shouldn’t ever be discussed in front of the client.”

  Tasha stood. “Time to find the little girl’s room.”

  Black waited until she’d gone before answering evenly. “Mr. Demille, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t work for you. I’m not one of your models. I work for, and report to, Daniel. You asked me what I was doing here. I told you. If you don’t want certain things discussed in front of others, don’t ask.”

  Black could see the color rise in Demille’s face, but to his credit, the modeling mogul swallowed his anger and assumed a relaxed tone. “Daria’s regrettable decision to end it all is hardly connected to the acid assault…”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because, Mr. Black, the NYPD determined that it was a suicide. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  “I understand what the cops put in their report. But Daniel’s not comfortable with the talent loss you’re seeing, and he wants to stop the bleeding. I’m his insurance policy.”

  Demille shrugged. “It’s his ball game, so I suppose he can do whatever he wants. That said, I think you’re wasting your time.”

  “Maybe so. But it’s Daniel’s call. So here I am.”

  “Fine. What do you need from me?”

  “Nothing, really. He wants me to familiarize myself with your organization. And spend some time picking your brain.”

  “You mean interrogating me.”

  “Not exactly. But I’ll need an hour with you.”

  “It’s not going to happen tonight after cocktails and dinner. Tomorrow’s the soonest I could fit you in. Late morning, before I fly out of here, work for you?”

  “Sure. I’m easy.”

  Tasha returned, crossing the deck with the fluid stride of a cat. She sat down and took a long pull on her margarita. “That’s much better. What a beautiful night. Look at all the stars. We never see stars in L.A. Too much pollution and ambient light.”

  Demille’s drink arrived, and he gave it an approving taste and held it up in a toast. “Another day, another wrap. Tonight we party like it’s 2099.”

  Tasha nodded. “It did go rather well, didn’t it?” She glanced at Black. “There are never any guarantees, especially on a big shoot like this in a foreign country with multiple agencies involved. I don’t have to tell you the complications that can arise.”

  Demille stood. “I see some people I need to talk to. I’ll leave you in Tasha’s capable hands, Mr. Black. If we don’t speak again, let’s get together at ten tomorrow morning, shall we?”

  “Perfect.”

  Demille strode to where the young bikini model was standing. The older woman hovered around her protectively, and greeted them with refined good humor.

  “Who’s that with the model?”

  “Oh, that’s Trish. The model’s name is Hailey. One of our biggest stars. Trish is her mother. Kind of a nightmare stage mom, if you want the truth. But Hailey’s fifteen, so you get one, you get the other. A necessary evil.”

  “Fifteen! Wow. That seems awfully young to be doing this kind of shoot…”

  “Why, Mr. Black. How charmingly old-fashioned. But young women are among the biggest consumers of swimwear, so it makes perfect sense that the models reflect that sensibility. Hailey’s very popular not just because of her age but because of her look. She’s very much in demand for all styles of shoots, not just swimwear. She’s got a unique presence on camera. What they call star quality.”

  “She does seem to radiate something.”

  “So does Trish, but unfortunately, it’s more annoying than anything else. But we do what we must to make the shoot go smoothly.” Tasha took another gulp of her margarita, half done with it already, though Black’s was barely touched.

  “And who are they?” Black gestured at two raven-haired beauties who’d just arrived, attired in short shorts and halter tops, acres of flawless tanned skin on display.

  “Ah. Lana and Sarah. Twins. They do a lot of swimsuit stuff together – it’s gimmicky, but some clients like it. They feel that it stops the customer on the page and has them do a double take, pun intended. Solid earners, good portfolio, but they’re not New York quality. Which isn’t to say they don’t have lucrative careers. Rather, the type of work they do is different from the highest end of the range. Hailey, on the other hand, has a very New York look. Years ahead of her age. And it shows in her billings.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with the twins. They’re gorgeous.”

  “Yes, Mr. Black, but all of our models are beautiful. That goes with the territory. It’s that special something that separates the rank and file from the stars, though. Whatever that quality is, they don’t have it.”

  “But Hailey does.”

  “Yes. More importantly, it comes through the camera and shows on the page. Look at any of the biggest names in the business, and they all have a radiance that the average model doesn’t. That’s what we look for as agents. And that’s what clients will pay almost anything for. Thank God.”

  Another female model arrived in a skirt so short it would have been illegal in most states. “Wow. Now she’s got that quality,” Black blurted.

  “Yes. Good eye. That’s Clarissa. She specializes in what I call low-rent Kate Moss. A waif quality, but very popular.”

  “She can’t be much older than Hailey.”

  “Clarissa just turned nineteen. She’s in her peak earning years, and we’re happy to have her. She’s one of our top producers. Really making a name for herself. Dumb as a bag of rocks, but very sweet.”

  The mariachis switched to an up-tempo number amid whoops and whistles from the
guests, most of whom had the bartender’s specialty in their hands. Black was struck by the number of models who were smoking, feeling the tug of his old vice returning with each swallow of tequila.

  It seemed like he’d just gotten there when Demille silenced the band and announced that dinner was ready. Tasha polished off her second margarita as Black finished his first, and she clutched his arm for support as they moved with the crowd to the restaurant, which was situated beneath a three-story-tall palapa that fronted onto the beach. A jazz group was already warmed up when they took their seats at a long table with colorful Mexican tablecloths draped across it, easily twenty chairs on either side. Tasha signaled for another drink for them both as Black watched the phosphorescent surf pound the outcropping of rocks below. More stunning specimens of physical perfection joined them and inebriated introductions were made, nobody questioning who Black was or why he was there, the celebratory mood of the evening making all cats gray in the dark.

  Tasha kept up a running commentary of snark as appetizers arrived and continued through the entrée, whispering about this model’s sexual peccadilloes and that one’s eating disorder. After his second margarita Black’s head was spinning, but he felt like he’d learned more from Tasha than he could have in a week on his own. From what he could gather, the modeling game was fiercely cutthroat, filled with envy, bitterness, and recriminations, the stakes high and the careers short. He watched as the talent pushed their food around their plates, pretending to eat while avoiding most of the meal, and wondered at a business where anorexia could be the norm rather than an affliction.

  “What’s your story?” Black asked Tasha as the waiter cleared the table in preparation for dessert.

  “Oh, nothing too special. I was discovered by Tom on a trip to Russia. He took me under his wing, I had a wonderful twelve-year run of it, and then the calls came less and less, until it became obvious to everyone that I needed another line of work. Thankfully, he gave me a shot as an agent, and that’s what I’ve been doing for the last six years.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It pays the bills. Mostly it’s dealing with prima donnas with oversized egos and brains the size of walnuts, but I’m used to that. And what about you, Mr. Black? How did you wind up as a private eye?”

  “I tried everything else and failed at it. This was the only thing left,” he replied, surprised at his own honesty.

  “I have a hard time believing that. You seem very…seasoned. Worldly. I’m sure you have a story.”

  “Everyone’s got one, don’t they? Some just aren’t very interesting. What’s important is that I’m here, now, enjoying a margarita at my very first wrap party. What happens from here?” Black asked.

  “Oh, everyone will hit the hotel disco later, drink too much, stay up way too late, misbehave. It’s always the same.”

  “Sounds like a young man’s game.”

  “It can be. Depends on the man. I’m guessing you could go the distance,” Tasha said, her words beginning to slur as she touched his arm again, her hand lingering longer each time.

  Black couldn’t understand why she was coming on to him, but decided it didn’t matter – he was a big boy and didn’t have to swing at every pitch thrown his way. He begged off on having a final margarita, switching to beer, but Tasha seemed unrepentant and instructed the waiter to put some booze in hers this time. Dessert came and went, and Black suspected he was the only one who had actually gotten any into his mouth.

  As predicted, the crew drifted off once the dinner was over, and soon it was just Tasha, Demille, Gabriel, Richard and a few others left at the table, everyone else gone in search of more stimulating fare.

  Tasha leaned into him and whispered in his ear like a lover sharing a secret. “Mr. Black. May I impose upon you to escort a lady to the disco?”

  Black was tired and half drunk, but couldn’t see any graceful way of extracting himself from the situation. They rose unsteadily and moved slowly to the entrance, where they could hear the booming of a dance beat from the far side of the pool area. Tasha stopped halfway across, lit another cigarette, and offered Black one again. This time, in spite of his best intentions, he took it, and soon was watching the surf, smoking, as he’d sworn to never do again. The sober part of him was disgusted at his weakness, and he stubbed it out halfway through, ignoring how good it tasted to him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I quit smoking about six months ago. This is my first since then.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not the end of the world. It doesn’t mean you’ll start back up. Besides, you know what they say.”

  “No. What?”

  She gave him a long look. “What happens in Cabo, stays in Cabo.”

  The nightclub was already full with models and crew. The obnoxiously loud music and the mindless droning beat vibrated his fillings as they took a seat at a table near the dance floor. More drinks were ordered and consumed, and before long an hour had gone by and Black was dizzy and tired. He left Tasha dancing with two of the female models and found his unsteady way back to his room. The hotel seemed far bigger after dark with its empty corridors. He barely got his clothes off before he collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily, exhausted and drunk, and was asleep in a minute, the dull hum of the air conditioning his gentle lullaby.

  Chapter 7

  A shriek split the silence and Black bolted upright, his heart jackhammering as he struggled to remember where he was. The room was dark, a tribute to the quality of the blackout curtains. He glanced around for the source of the noise. The phone screamed again like a startled seagull, and Black fumbled for the cursed instrument as pain throbbed in his frontal lobes. He got the handset to his ear and cleared his throat.

  “Hello?” he croaked, his voice dry and harsh.

  “Mr. Black. It’s Tasha. Did you hear what happened?”

  Black’s splitting headache made it hard to think. “What? What happened?”

  “It’s…Clarissa. She was found dead early this morning by room service.”

  Black struggled to process what he was hearing. “Clarissa? Dead? Of what?” His words sounded hoarse to his ear, and his regret at his tequila intake doubled.

  “Looks like an overdose. But the police aren’t talking. They’re all over the place. Were you awake?”

  “No. What time is it?”

  “Nine.”

  “Damn. I need to get moving. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the beach restaurant having breakfast. Everyone’s freaked out. It’s all they’re talking about.”

  “I can understand why. Let me get into the shower. I’ll join you for a cup of coffee before I talk to Demille.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Tasha sounded like she’d drunk nothing but spring water the night before, whereas Black was as rough as he could remember. He groped around for the wall switch and winced when the room flooded with light. After a few deep breaths to steel himself, he stood, and his head swam. A wave of nausea hit and his mouth filled with saliva. He barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up, the toilet rank with partially digested margarita and beer.

  A hot shower rinsed away the worst of the fumes seeping from his pores, although it did nothing for the anvil chorus pounding in his head. Black stepped out of the stall and stared with dismay at his reflection in the partially fogged mirror. His face seemed to be hanging off his skull like a mastiff’s, his eyes bleary, his color jaundiced. He coughed, half expecting to see blood. His lungs felt tight from the cigarette, and his headache intensified as he took stock. It wasn’t good.

  He pulled a comb through his wet hair and debated shaving, but decided not to risk his face to a razor. His hands trembled as he buttoned his shirt, and a momentary blood sugar dip left him weak. Jeanie’s words came back to haunt him, each of the five syllables like the pounding of a coffin nail.

  “Respect tequila.”

  Black stepped out of his room to find himself facing a throng of blue u
niforms – stern police with automatic rifles hung from straps around their necks and bulletproof vests, dressed for a terrorist compound assault. His anxiety intensified as he brushed by them, their stern gazes weighing on him like a parent’s disapproving scowl. The bright sunlight was blinding, and it took all of his concentration to fish his Ray Bans out of his pocket and shield his eyes from the worst of it.

  Tasha was waiting for him at a table near the water. She looked fresh as a schoolgirl, and her skin exuded vitality and good health. Black collapsed into a chair opposite her and tried not to vomit again.

  “Good morning, Mr. Black. You look…well rested.”

  “I must not have slept very well last night. I don’t feel well.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps you caught the tequila flu. There’s a lot of that going around Cabo, I hear.”

  “How late did you stay up?”

  “Oh, not too late. I went into town with Demille and the girls around midnight. I only stayed until…about 2:45. Apparently some of them shut the place down.”

  “You were up till 2:45 in the morning?”

  “Well, when you’re only in Cabo for a short time it seems a shame not to see the sights.”

  “Was Clarissa with you?”

  “She was part of the group. I took off before she did, though. Poor thing…”

  Nausea rose in Black’s throat as he got a whiff of a lobster omelet at another table. He fought it to a standstill, but the color drained from his face. “Do you see a waiter? I need some coffee.”

  Tasha waved their server over and fired off a snare roll of Spanish. The man nodded and gave Black a knowing smile, then disappeared.

  “I took the liberty of ordering you a Mexican Coffee. I don’t think you’re going to make it otherwise.”

  “Mexican Coffee? Should I ask what’s in it?”

  “Better not to. But it should fix your head, at least a little.”

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Not to me. But if you’re going to go toe to toe with Demille in” – Tasha checked the time – “fifteen minutes, best if you’re not having a seizure.”