BLACK Is the New Black

by Russell Blake

  “Sure. One of those.”

  “Excellent. Have a nice day.” The plastic smile was patently phony, but there was nothing to fault the barista on. He’d taken the order without drama, and was already looking at the next person shuffling forward in line. Black felt an odd sense of letdown, prepared for another in a long string of scuffles with the punk, and only as he stepped toward the cash register did he realize that this was what it was like to have things go his way – no drama, just his cup of steaming hot coffee delivered quickly and efficiently. He’d become so accustomed to defending himself from the threats in his environment he felt disappointed when they didn’t manifest, and wondered at what his life had become, where even the purchase of a morning beverage was a call to arms.

  Roxie was at her station when he arrived at the office, Mugsy lying on his back on the couch, all four paws in the air, snoring happily. Black set the chai down in front of her like an offering and took in her new hair color – platinum blonde with pink tips. Her outfit was, as usual, completely inappropriate for work: a green leotard top and a pair of ripped jeans with generous expanses of skin showing through the gaps in the fabric, and her beloved knee-high biker boots, the silver side buckles undone, as though purely ornamental.

  “Hey. Look who brought you some tasty chai! How about that?” he asked.

  “How did you know it was my birthday?”

  Black’s eyes betrayed his confusion for a split second – long enough. She snorted and shook her head. “You don’t even remember when it is, do you?”

  “Your birthday?”

  “No, the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor.”

  “I’m pretty sure that was in February.”

  “Uh, December seventh. Even I know that.”

  “Right. I was testing you.”

  “Sure you were.”

  “How about a ‘thanks, boss, you’re the best for bringing me chai this morning’ instead of looking for reasons to bag on me?”

  “If I was looking to bag on you, I’d just go for your outfit.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You look like a low-rent tango dancer or something.”

  “I’ll have you know this suit was expensive.”

  “Maybe in the nineteen twenties.”

  Black sighed. “I suppose it’s silly to ask if anyone called?”

  “Actually, someone did. Gunther, from DNA.”

  Black’s pulse pounded in his ears. He’d been wondering when they’d call to fire him, and had already prepared a final accounting.

  “Ah. Good. Payday’s coming up.”

  Roxie hesitated and her tone softened. “I saw the news about the shooting. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine. No sweat. Just another day in the PI game.”

  “Uh huh. You sure?”

  “Positive. But thanks for asking.”

  “No problem. I’d say if you need to talk, I’m here…but I wouldn’t be able to manage it with a straight face.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you through that. You might pull something and hurt yourself.”

  “And sue you.”

  “Exactly.”

  Roxie handed him a message slip with a phone number scrawled on it. “He called about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Probably thought I’d be working during business hours.”

  “Think he’ll pay you, or am I back to shopping for ramen for dinner?”

  “You like ramen.”

  “Yeah. Rat tail soup with noodles. My favorite.”

  “Don’t talk about food. You’ll wake Mugsy.” Black entered his office, flicked the lights on, shrugged off his jacket, and hung it on the door hook. He went to his chair and noted Mugsy still hadn’t eviscerated it, for which he was grateful every day, and set his half-full coffee cup down after removing the plastic lid. DNA’s receptionist answered the phone on the second ring, sounding constipated as usual, and after a twenty-second wait, Gunther came on the line.

  “Mr. Black.”

  “Gunther.”

  “Daniel would like to have a conference call. Could you hold the line while I get him on the phone?”

  “Sure.”

  Some insipid pop anthem droned in his ear as he waited, and then Daniel’s voice joined the call with a slight echo.

  “Black. I heard about the shooting. Gunther filled me in. It’s a shame about Demille. Must have been an ugly day all around.”

  “It was. Are you still in Argentina?”

  “Yes. I’ll be flying back to New York tonight.”

  “I have news for you about your merger you may find interesting.” Black told him about Demille’s scheme with Gabriel to steal talent.

  “At this point in my life I’m not sure anything surprises me, but that’s all ancient history now. I intend to make Demille’s estate a token offer to purchase the company in light of your revelations and his untimely death, and if they refuse, I’ll wish them well and simply hire his agents away from the firm. It will be out of business in a matter of months if they decline, so I’m not worried. With no viable alternative, I have a feeling the estate will take the offer.”

  “That could well be. I don’t know much about business.”

  “Which brings us to the conclusion of our engagement. I believe we owe you some money?”

  “I’ve prepared a statement. I can shoot it to Gunther in a few minutes. It’ll bring us current, through yesterday afternoon.”

  “Very well. I have to say I’ve been surprised and pleased by your diligence in this matter. I think most would have waited for instructions once Demille was killed. To follow through and pursue the killer, as you did…well, color me impressed.”

  Black didn’t see any point in correcting his misapprehension. “That’s what you hired me for.”

  “Yes, well, you can expect positive referrals from me. Even if we had our differences over your handling of the affair, I have to say that in the end, you delivered.”

  “That’s why I require autonomy when taking a case. I have my own methods, which are usually effective, even if it’s not obvious at the time.”

  “I won’t argue with that. Bobby was right about you.”

  “I’ll send the invoice to Gunther. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Black. Will do.”

  Black punched the line off and returned to Roxie’s station, where she was giggling over a video of funny cat bloopers.

  “Hard at work, I see,” he said. She ignored him. He put the statement on her desk. “I ginned this up at home. Add another grand to it – four more hours. Might as well charge for my time with the cops yesterday.”

  She turned and looked at the sheet and her eyes widened. “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Lots of travel time in that. And interviews.”

  “You didn’t add a zero by mistake?”

  “Nope. We’re fat and happy after they pay this. At least for a while.”

  “I want a raise. A big one.”

  “Because of all the back-breaking work you do around here?”

  “I figured I might as well ask.”

  “I’ll consider it. Take it under advisement.”

  “Sure. I’ll start looking at condos on Melrose.”

  “I don’t see you there.”

  “Not working here, that’s for sure.”

  Black went back into his office. So far the day couldn’t have gone better. He considered buying a few lottery tickets, but thought twice about it. The way things had been going up till then, he’d get hit by a car crossing the street from the market. Better to keep his head down and count his blessings.

  He heard a shredding sound from his office sofa and peered over the desk. Mugsy had waddled in and was tearing at the corner of the black vinyl like there was catnip hidden inside. Black stood abruptly and spilled his coffee all over his desk, drenching the papers and checkbook.

  “Roxie!” he called, surveying the damage as warm fluid drip
ped from the table top. Mugsy, interrupted by the ruckus, sauntered back out to his throne in the outer office, his important work there finished, offering Black his backside in salute before disappearing around the door jamb. Black took in the sopping paperwork and ruined couch and sighed.

  Things had gotten back to normal all too quickly.

  Roxie poked her head in. “What?”

  “The fat bastard tore up my couch.”

  “Oops. Sorry, boss. Maybe he’s upset at you for some reason.”

  “I swear I’ll stick him in the microwave this time. Only he probably won’t fit. That’s the only thing that’s saving him.”

  “Think of this as an opportunity to work on your anger issues. It’s just a sofa.”

  “Keep him out of here.”

  “You left your door open, not me,” she said, and then disappeared. Black stared at the doorway, speechless, and then shook his head as he moved to get a roll of towels from the cabinet in the corner. He heard the phone ring and Roxie answer, and then she called out from her station.

  “It’s your mom. Line one.”

  He stared at the coffee pooled on the table. “Tell her I’m…busy. I’ll call her back.”

  “You never do. I told her you’d be with her in a second. Nothing on your schedule, all the time in the world. She was worried she might be interrupting something. Said she called yesterday and you didn’t answer. She’s worried about you. Don’t be a dick.”

  Black shook his head, and considered saying something nasty, but thought better of it. He moved to his desk, a wad of paper towels in his hand. He felt something warm on his thigh and looked down at his trousers. A brown stain ran from his crotch to his knee from where some of the coffee had gotten him. He studied the damage and shook his head.

  Back to normal.

  <<<<>>>>

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  Bonus Excerpt ~ Upon a Pale Horse

  A controversial, frightening bio-thriller that blurs the line between truth and fiction, Upon A Pale Horse raises disturbing questions about the man-made origin of nightmare epidemics, and posits a conspiracy so plausible that it will linger long after the novel’s shocking conclusion.

  When young attorney Jeffrey Rutherford’s brother is killed in a plane crash minutes after take-off from JFK, his life is turned upside down – especially when he discovers that his brother’s career wasn’t what it seemed. Jeffrey’s staid existence is upended as he races to unravel a Gordian knot of deceit and betrayal, and ultimately must battle an unstoppable adversary bent on systematic global genocide.

  © 2013 Russell Blake

  Upon A Pale Horse

  Russell Blake

  When he opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, “Come!” And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed him. And they were given authority over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by wild beasts of the earth.

  Revelation 6:7-8

  ONE

  Flight

  March 7, New York

  Keith stood in line with his fellow passengers, a procession of humanity that shuffled forward with the torpor of a giant multi-legged organism. At the head of the beast, two women checked boarding passes, studiously ignoring any hint of friendly contact as they scanned bar codes with company-issued courtesy smiles.

  JFK airport was packed to capacity, in its usual state of chaotic frenzy in the early evening as travelers sought to escape New York, some finishing up their business days and flying back home, others just beginning their journeys. If Keith belonged anywhere in the scheme, it was in the latter group. He was tall, with a leonine head atop broad shoulders, brown hair with flecks of gray just beginning to appear at the temples. His piercing blue eyes scanned the backs of the boarding crowd as the jet that would take them to Rome was fueled and readied. If his fellow travelers had cared enough to evaluate Keith, they would have guessed him to be a tired businessman embarking on yet another trip to cut a deal.

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clutching his eel-skin briefcase in one hand as he adjusted the shoulder strap of his carry-on bag with the other, regarding the boarding area with casual precision, scanning the faces of the few seated stragglers for any hint of suspicion. His eyes swept the area, but as far as he could tell, nobody was paying the slightest attention to him. He was anonymous, just another in the throng, unremarkable. Just as he’d hoped he would be. He’d gotten away clean.

  The icy gray deluge continued from the sullen clouds roiling over the city, occasional gusts of wind slamming sheets against the heavy glass of the terminal. The ground crew wore slickers, loading baggage into the bowels of the plane as they hurried to finish their task and get back under shelter. The squall had blown in unexpectedly – yesterday had been sunny and crisp, as springtime in Manhattan could be. But overnight everything had changed, mirroring Keith’s mood, the turbulent front a fitting metaphor for the storm taking place in his brain.

  “Good evening sir. Welcome aboard,” the gate attendant chirped at him with the sincerity of a well-trained parrot.

  Keith didn’t reply. Instead, he nodded and hurried forward – only to be stalled by another line at the end of the jetway as passengers waited to board. Hurry up and wait, he mused, but then his thoughts turned to other, less mundane matters.

  The flight had been booked online with a one-time use debit card drawn on a bank in Bermuda – an operational account he’d kept off the books from a trip five years ago. He’d been negotiating with a financier who’d been instrumental in laundering funds for the Agency, defining the terms of his disappearance just ahead of federal prosecution for bilking his investors out of billions in a Ponzi scheme that had ensnared the wealthy across the U.S. He’d had an oily charm to him, an ease to his manner and a labile fluidity with veracity that was sociopathic, if highly effective. But as much as he’d been useful for financial errands that couldn’t fly by Congress, his flamboyant lifestyle and lavish expenditures had finally caught up with him, and increasing numbers of his trusting investors had been demanding their money back. Keith’s job had been to figure out how to make him vanish, and to evaluate whether he could keep his mouth shut and find a new life in Malaysia, or become another notch on a wet team’s belt.

  The financier hadn’t listened to reason, but the problem had ceased to be a concern when his sport-fishing boat had sunk off Panama, taking all hands with it. Keith didn’t question how that had been achieved – he’d merely done his job, signing off on the report that had sealed the banker’s fate. The details weren’t important, and Keith didn’t feel a trace of responsibility. He was an analyst, and he was paid to analyze, which is what he’d done, rendering a judgment based on experience and his take on the man’s stability, which wasn’t good. What the Agency did with the information wasn’t his problem. His job was to be right. And he was very good at it.

  A stewardess greeted Keith at the jet door and directed him down the closest aisle to his row, just behind the expansive business class section, the exclusive pods roomy and lavish in comparison to his economy slot. He hefted his bags and pushed along, and experienced a momentary sense of unease he shrugged off.

  Nobody was in business class – the area was unoccupied.

  He stashed his carry-on in the overhead compartment and took his window seat, sliding the briefcase forward in front of his feet. Thankfully the flight looked only half full, if that. The online seating map had shown the spot next to him as being vacant on the Boeing 767, so at least he wouldn’t have to contend with a chatty companion for the seven hours it would take to get him to relative safety.

  Safety.

&nb
sp; He wondered at the innocuous word – how benign it sounded, the promise it offered – and wondered whether he’d ever be safe again. He’d covered his tracks as best he could, erasing any traces of his exploration into forbidden areas of the Agency’s database, a tribute to his ability to hack with the best of them – a skill that had been one of the primary reasons he’d been recruited fifteen years earlier. It had only been once his ability to predict had been noted by his superiors that he’d begun his career climb, ultimately becoming a special situations analyst, which was Agency parlance for a troubleshooter, a Jack of all trades. Keith was very smart, able to see things others missed, to assemble seemingly random variables into intelligible patterns, making sense out of the nonsensical. It had served him well, and he’d been a rising star in Langley, his future bright.

  Until he’d poked his nose where it didn’t belong, and began pulling on a thread that led to a discovery so shattering it challenged his reason, and made him question all the comfortable assumptions he’d made about the world – the constructs that explained why things mattered and what his place in the order was.

  Why? Why couldn’t he have just left it alone?

  The question haunted him, but to no useful end. Once on the path, he could no more ignore the pieces falling into place than he could decide whether to be right- or left-handed. It was fundamental to his nature.

  But now he was the man who knew too much. He vaguely recalled a film with that title, though he’d never seen it.

  The body heat from the passengers combined with the high humidity to make the interior atmosphere muggy, and Keith reached up and twisted the air on, a bead of sweat working its way down his forehead. The nozzle hissed its flow at him, and he wiped the perspiration away with the back of his hand as he looked around the cabin.

  Only a few passengers in his section, just in front of the wings. Maybe twenty people, no more, all seated now, in anticipation of what would likely be a rough takeoff. He leaned over and took another glance at business class. Still no passengers. Probably a function of the economy, he mused. For all the statistics, things were still bad and getting worse, and nobody believed the official numbers anymore. Unemployment statistics ignored the legions that had been out of work for over a year, a sizeable number that was growing daily. His back-of-the-napkin calculations put the true number at more like twenty-five plus percent, not the seven or eight touted by the administration. Money was tight and getting tighter, so it didn’t surprise him that the much more expensive seats up front were vacant. Everyone was cutting costs, and most could manage a few hours in a chair rather than a mini-bed for that kind of cash.