“Probably for the best. Who needs the headaches?”
“I know. Not me. Although I’ve been playing with another idea. Some of the girls love it, so I might pursue it, at least on a small scale.”
Black was almost afraid to ask. “Another idea?”
“Sure. You know, all the kids these days, with their clothes and hair, the sixties and seventies nostalgia…”
“Uh, that’s just Berkeley, I’m pretty sure.”
“No, I went with my friend Ruby to San Francisco yesterday, and you should see it. The Haight is almost exactly like it was in the Summer of Love!”
“Uh…right. That’s because it’s in suspended animation. It’s been like that for forty years.”
“Well, anyway, I got to thinking, and you know how fixated I can get.”
The customer left the tattoo parlor, and Black watched him strolling down the street. Black took a sip of coffee and tried to figure out how best to terminate the call.
“What’s your idea? I’m sort of running out of time here. My phone’s beeping. Battery’s dying.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s only on my end.”
“Oh. What will they think of next?”
“The question is, what have you thought of?”
“Then I’ll let you go, honey. Call me back when you have more time.”
“I will. But what’s your idea?”
“We love you. Take care of yourself.” He heard her calling out in a controlled scream. “Chakra! Artemus was in New Mexico and his girlfriend was killed!”
“No, Mom. I was in Mexico, and some other woman was killed.”
“What? I didn’t get that.”
“Never mind. Bye, Mom.”
The call left him feeling dead inside, as most conversations with his mother usually did. Something about his parents’ complete lack of self-awareness coupled with their insane financial success could stoke the flames of anger in him like few other things. They acted like the world was a playground, where they could pursue any idiotic daydreams they cooked up and turn them into viable projects. And what was the most frustrating for him was that, more often than not, they’d been successful at it – always as a result of luck versus acumen.
He contrasted that to his own reality, where he was clawing for business every day, wading into a swamp filled with hungry crocodiles, and shook his head. Life wasn’t fair.
The day stretched on, and he discovered that the café served a pretty good turkey and Swiss croissant, which accounted for it getting crowded at lunch. But nobody had any problem with him sitting and tapping away on his computer as long as he kept ordering every hour or so, which he continued to do until he was floating in a sea of coffee. The caffeine gave him a jittery feeling, and he made a mental note to switch to decaf for the rest of the day, or he’d be bouncing off the walls that night, unable to sleep.
His rumination was cut off by an attractive blonde wearing tight jeans and a colorful top walking toward the tattoo parlor. Eric was outside, taping a poster in the window. She stopped near him, the shop apparently her destination. Black’s pulse quickened. From where he sat she looked like the sort Eric would be putting the moves on – young, hot, curvy, and judging by her walk, not the least bit shy. The tattoos on her arms reminded him of Roxie, but that was where the similarities ended.
Watching their body language, it was obvious both that Eric knew her and that he was flirting, as was she. He finished with the poster and stood, hands in his front pants pockets, his black tank top displaying his full sleeve tattoos, a flat brim Dodgers baseball hat cocked at a rakish angle, grinning at whatever the girl was saying. She was flipping her hair with her hand, shifting from foot to foot, occasionally reaching out to touch his arm. He pointed to the poster, and Black could see him laugh.
A young man approached from down the street, and all three entered the shop. Black squinted to better make out what was going on inside, and after a few minutes, realized that the woman was operating the tattoo gun while Eric watched her performance. Black didn’t know that Eric had someone working with him, but then again, he didn’t know much besides that he didn’t like the guy.
An hour later the customer left, a gauze square on his arm, and a few minutes afterward Eric and the young lady exited. They stood on the sidewalk for a few moments, and then she leaned in to Eric and kissed him on the cheek before turning and strolling slowly back from wherever she’d come.
Black felt a prickle of excitement. While the kiss could have been a chaste goodbye, something about how she’d lingered and how his hands had found her waist said it might be more than that. The problem was that one goodbye mwah wasn’t proof of anything. He needed more.
Eric returned to the shop and spent the remainder of the afternoon inside. Only one more customer, a heavyset biker type, stopped by. If that was any indication of his typical traffic, Black could understand why he was jumping at the chance to start anew somewhere more promising. Los Angeles probably had more tattoo parlors than any other city in the U.S., so competition was fierce. And a couple or three customers a day would barely pay the rent, if that.
Daylight was fading and he was getting ready to pack it in when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen but didn’t recognize the number.
“Black.”
“Mr. Black. Nice to hear your voice again.”
Black thought for a second. “Tasha?”
“I like that I made enough of an impression so you remembered my name.”
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I want to meet.”
“When, and why?”
“I’ve been thinking about what’s been going on. I have a theory, or at least some facts you might want to know if you’re going to get to the bottom of things.”
“Facts?”
“Right. Inside dirt.”
“Okay, Tasha. I’m on a stakeout, but I can meet you tomorrow.”
“No. I want to meet now. I might run out of courage by tomorrow.”
“Why do you need to be courageous to tell me your theory?”
“You’ll know when you hear it.”
Black checked his watch. “Where are you?”
“I’m at a little Russian restaurant near Beverly Hills. It’s called St. Petersburg. Do you know it?”
“Nope. What’s the address?”
She rattled off the information, and as Black scribbled it down, he could hear Russian music in the background.
“It could be a while with rush hour.”
“I’m not going anywhere. But don’t take too long. I might chicken out.”
“Something tells me you haven’t chickened out of anything in a long time, Tasha.”
“You don’t know me that well. Just hurry. I was going to have dinner. You can buy it for me, and I’ll confess everything, Mr. Black. You’ll have your way with me. There won’t be any secrets left.”
Black hesitated for a split second, and then nodded to himself. “With an offer like that, how can I refuse? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Chapter 11
Traffic was a snarl, stop and go in many places, and Black was restless from all the coffee as he inched toward Beverly Hills. He punched the stereo on and tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. The driving dual guitar assault of The Four Horsemen’s Rockin’ is Ma’ Business cheered him as it always did. The early November weather was balmy and dry, a residual effect of the Santa Ana winds, so he dropped the top, trying to enjoy sitting in an unending line of cars.
The restaurant was between Century City and Beverly Hills, tucked away on a smaller street. Black circled the block twice hoping to find a parking place, but wound up leaving his keys with the valet, resigned to having to fork over five bucks at the end of the meal in addition to buying dinner – which, judging by the red velvet of the walls and the upscale look of the patrons, wouldn’t be cheap. Thankfully, this would be a legitimate business expense, so it was coming out of D
aniel’s ample pockets, not Black’s.
Tasha sat at a quiet booth near the back of the restaurant, a tumbler of vodka in front of her on the white tablecloth along with an untouched silver bowl with three bread rolls. Her face lit up when she saw him, and he felt like she was undressing him with her eyes.
“Why, Mr. Black. I’d just about given up on you,” she said, rising as he neared. Her obviously expensive peach dress was perfectly tailored to her form. She leaned across the table to give him a courtesy peck on his cheek, and he smelled alcohol and expensive perfume.
“I said I’d come. I’m a man of my word.”
“So you are. Another admirable trait among many. And what a wonderful outfit. Very…classy,” she said, taking in his suit and hat.
“Thanks,” he said, removing the fedora and taking the seat across from her.
“Have you ever been here before? The food is magnificent. Makes me homesick.”
“No, this is another first for me. What are you drinking there?”
“Russian vodka, what else? You can’t eat here without washing the meal down with vodka.”
“I may stick to beer.”
“Nonsense. You’re now on Russian soil. When in Russia…”
Black eyed her drink with trepidation, but it was too late – she was ordering in Russian from the waiter who’d appeared next to her as if by magic. He listened with a dour expression on his thin, gray face, the overhead lights reflecting off his round steel-rimmed glasses, and then he nodded curtly and marched off to fetch their drinks.
“I’m not a huge vodka fan,” Black said.
“That’s because you’ve never had good Russian vodka with a Russian. Trust me, there are few experiences quite like it.”
“What part of Russia are you from, Tasha?”
“Moscow. It’s been many years since I left, but I still get homesick.”
“You mentioned that you left when you were young?”
“Yes. And I’ve been back a number of times. But nothing’s like it was. Anywhere, I suppose, but I see it there more than here. So different.”
The waiter returned with two more tumblers of straight vodka. Tasha downed the last inch in her original drink like it was water and handed it to the waiter as he departed. She raised her new glass in a toast. “To better days, Mr. Black,” she said, and took a large sip. Black did the same, and winced at the burn as liquid fire slid down his throat.
“That’s…strong,” he sputtered.
“Like the margaritas, the first taste is the worst. You’ll get used to it. This is very good vodka, by the way. Beluga. One of my favorite unflavored vodkas.”
“Are the flavored ones popular in Russia?”
“Oh, they’re huge. You have no idea how many different types there are.” She reached into her purse, removed a manila folder, and handed it to Black. “Before I forget, here’s the list of everyone I can remember being at the three shoots.”
“That’s awesome. I appreciate it. I’ve been having a tough time getting my head around all this. It’ll help a lot.”
“So will more vodka, Mr. Black.”
They both swallowed another gulp, and Black was surprised to find that the second dose indeed went down easier. Warmth blossomed in his stomach, and he decided that maybe a drink or two was just the thing he needed to counteract all the caffeine.
“Okay, Tasha, I’m here, as requested. You have something special you want to share with me?”
She batted her eyes and smiled seductively. “Very perceptive, Mr. Black. But let’s order dinner. The kitchen can be slow when it’s crowded.”
“I don’t have a menu.”
“You don’t need one. You have me.”
“Ah. Then do your worst. Only I’ll warn you – I don’t eat any parts of an animal that McDees wouldn’t serve.”
“That leaves you open, but I’ll be gentle with you.”
She flagged the waiter down and he returned with an expression like he’d just cleaned out a septic tank. Tasha rattled off a string of requests, and he nodded before repeating the dishes back to her. He gave Black a look that bordered on insulting, then pushed his way through twin stainless steel doors to the kitchen.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Black commented.
“That’s because he doesn’t know you. How could anyone dislike you, Mr. Black? You’re a perfect gentleman.”
They made small talk until the first course arrived, which Black was disappointed to see was a cold soup that looked like something he normally would have put down the garbage disposal. Tasha ordered more vodka for them both, and seeing Black’s puzzlement at his dish, offered an explanation.
“This is okroshka. It’s a staple in Russia. I think you’ll like it,” Tasha said, holding up her spoon. “It’s served cold, but it’s quite good.”
“Stupid question, but what’s in it?”
“There are no stupid questions. It’s mainly cucumbers, green onion, beef, and spices. Try it.”
Black did as instructed, and did his best not to gag at the unfamiliar taste and texture. He finished his vodka just as the second glass was being set down before him, and took a cautious sip before nodding.
“It’s…different.”
“Yes. But do you like it?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Don’t worry. The next course will be pirozhki, which are pastries with a meat filling. More accessible for American palates, I think. You’ll find that the vodka makes the soup more satisfying. Actually, it makes everything more satisfying.”
“You’re the expert,” Black said, and took another gulp of Beluga, which he now found didn’t have nearly the searing quality of the first glass.
Black waited until the pirozhki arrived before raising the subject of why Tasha had called.
“So what’s this theory you wanted to tell me about?” he asked, his second glass of vodka drained.
“More a collection of facts that you’ll find interesting. First is that Demille’s agency is basically broke.”
Black stared at her, dumfounded. “How can that be? He’s the biggest on the coast.”
“Simple. Tom lives large, and he’s lousy with money. He’s got a huge home in the hills, drives Italian sports cars, and likes to fly on private jets. If he makes five million, he spends six. He’s always been irresponsible, but as he’s gotten older, he’s gotten worse. It’s like he thinks he can turn back the clock if he behaves like a child. His parties alone cost as much as you or I would make in a year, if not more.”
“I wonder why Daniel’s accountants didn’t tip to that?”
“Because he keeps enough in the company so that it can pay its expenses. And frankly, because its real asset isn’t its cash – it’s the talent roster and its reputation. But trust me, Tom doesn’t want to sell. He’s a control freak. If there was any other way for him to dig himself out of the hole he’s in, he’d keep the company. Daniel must be handing him a big slug of cash with a hell of a profit share, because otherwise, why sell? For the up-front money, obviously.”
“Interesting. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Few would. He’s an icon on the social scene, and donates lavishly to a variety of hip charities. But he’s in trouble. Which explains why he’s screwing all of his agents for a quick buck,” she said bitterly.
“How so? Won’t this be good for you? A bigger organization, more clients…”
“Right. An organization that already has an installed base of seasoned agents in New York. The rumor going around is that once the deal’s done, half of us are going to be let go. It’s a classic way of instantly juicing profits from an acquisition. Use your existing infrastructure to handle the workload – especially if it’s underused right now.”
“But you’ve been with Demille for a long time. Surely…”
“I’ll be fine. But a lot of the more junior agents are getting nervous, as they should be. I don’t trust Daniel. Not that I trust Tom, but at least I know wh
at I’m dealing with – or I thought I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“This announcement came out of the blue. No warning. He didn’t discuss it with anyone. Which has also made the talent nervous. Models are a flighty bunch, and their agency is their meal ticket. If they think there’s trouble in paradise, they’ll go elsewhere. And a sale out of left field hints at trouble. Which is why he’s already seeing some faces going to competitors.”
“Like Costa.”
“Right. And Elizabeth Warren’s outfit. Mirror Image Associates. She’s been actively recruiting from his models, too. Although you’re correct that Gabriel’s gotten most of them.”
“Interesting. And yet Demille and Gabriel seemed to be on good terms.”
“Oh, more than just good. They were an item for a while. But like all Tom’s dalliances that didn’t last long.”
“Right. I remember Sima alluding to Demille being…liking the fellas.”
“Tom likes anything that moves. Boys, girls, whatever. Depends on his mood. It feeds his ego. And like the spending, that’s gotten more desperate as he’s gotten older,” she said, a touch of rancor in her tone.
“Wait. Did you and he…?”
“Oh, Mr. Black, you’re so conventional. I love that about you. And your look of shock is priceless. To answer your question, yes, when I was very young, I fell under his spell for a while. But that was back when cell phones were the size of a brick. It’s been strictly business for more than coming up on twenty years.” She downed half her latest glass of vodka – number four or five – Black had lost count somewhere after the pirozhkis had arrived. “Not that I missed anything, I don’t think. For him, it was the novelty more than anything back then. I was just eighteen, and he…well, he wasn’t. It’s not the first time that youth has been a powerful aphrodisiac, Mr. Black.”
“I guess not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t worry. It was ages ago. My skin is thick. And coming from a handsome, charming man, your interest is endearing.”
The entrée arrived on cue, and looked to Black like the shish kabob you could get at any of the hundreds of Persian restaurants in town.
BLACK Is the New Black Page 10