BLACK Is Back (7 page)

Black sat forward. “How long were you with Blunt, Sam?”

Sam stared out the window and then returned his gaze to Black. “Boy, probably…two years? Maybe a little longer? But a great run, even if it was short.”

“And how would you compare the two – B-Side and Blunt? They’re cousins, right?”

“Correct. I’d say that B-Side’s more of an entertainer. More rounded. Better sense of showmanship. Blunt was old school, just walk up to the mike and start rapping. B-Side’s got more of the whole package. Sizzle. He’s going to go a long way. I don’t see how anything can stop him. He’s that good.”

“I know the album’s selling well.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. It’s crossed the four million mark just in the U.S. That’s insane for the amount of time it’s been out. And it’s just getting started. It could see ten million before it’s over. It’s a great record. Iconic.”

“I’ve heard some tracks. They’re impressive. And I’m not exactly the target audience.”

“You’d be surprised. The audience for rap is way more diverse than most people think. It cuts across racial and economic lines. It’s big in the suburbs, big in white America, big in the inner cities. So the audience is really anyone you see on the street. The cab driver, the attorney, the waitress, the truck driver. It’s a whole new world, Black, and there are no color lines when it comes to music.”

“So your theory is that Moet wants B-Side dead for retribution?”

“For going against him. To teach anyone with big ideas a lesson. You don’t buck Moet. Not and live to tell about it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Now, I’m going to need B-Side’s itinerary for the week emailed to me, as well as that check so I can hit the road. I’ve got a lot to do, and whoever’s trying to kill your star isn’t napping. The sooner I get started, the better his odds.”

“No problem. I told my assistant to cut it. Who do you want it made out to?”

“Black Investigations.”

Sam activated his intercom and issued terse instructions, then stood and stretched. “It’ll be waiting for you on the way out. You got a contract or something I need to sign?”

Black rose. “I’ll email it tomorrow. Can I get your contact information?”

Sam produced an expensive linen business card with tasteful small print on it, identifying Sam as the President of R-cubed Management. Black programmed the number into his phone, pocketed it, and fished out one of his cheaper cards to hand to Sam.

“I told B-Side the basic terms. I work alone. No oversight. I report when I have something to tell you, not to set everyone’s minds at ease. And I need full access. Nothing’s off-limits.”

“You come highly recommended, so I’ll agree. Do whatever you have to do, but put a stop to this before anything else happens. B-Side’s got a tour that’s critical to his career, and he’s working on a new album. I don’t need him distracted, or afraid to eat or drink anything. Oh, and here’s Genesis’ info – she’s B-Side’s PR person, but she also acts as his gofer. Anything he wants, she’s in charge of getting – cars, houses, entertainment. Call her for whatever you need on the day-to-day.” Sam handed him another card, which he pocketed.

“We met at the hospital.” Black nodded. “I’ll get to work. Let’s hope that this is an easy one.”

“You get many of those?”

“Not so far. But you never know. There’s always a first time.”

Chapter 9

When Black arrived at the Salty Dog, Stan was already there, his half-empty bottle of Anchor Steam beer sweating on the table. Black signaled the bartender for one more and then sat across from Stan in one of the battered wooden chairs, scarred by generations of drinkers celebrating petty victories or commiserating over life’s hardships. An old country and western song played on the ancient jukebox – a Garth Brooks favorite,
Friends in Low Places
– and Black appreciated the irony of the choice in what could only be described as an armpit of a bar.

“Hey, big man. I was wondering whether you were going to show,” Stan said.

“And miss a free beer? In what lifetime?”

“Oh, is the bar giving away free beers? Damn. I’ll take a dozen.”

“I thought you were buying,” Black said as the bartender arrived with his selection.

“Sure. I’ll buy the beer and you pay me for my information. Sounds like a deal to me.”

“Perhaps I got my wires crossed.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“We do what we can.”

“Imperfect clay, and all.” They took pulls on their beers and then Stan sat back. “Why the sudden interest in rappers? You thinking about restarting your musical career? I hate to break it to you, but a paunchy middle-aged white guy ain’t such a hot commodity.”

“And the world’s the poorer for it.”

They toasted solemnly and Stan waved for two more beers. Black gulped another big swallow, hoping to catch up with Stan before the next ones arrived.

Black leaned on the table. “Nah, I got a new client. Rap kid. Big deal on the charts right now. Thinks he’s being stalked by a killer, but claims he has no idea why, or who.”

“Until you discover that he’s been a member of the Bloods since he was a toddler.”

“It occurred to me that he might not have been completely forthcoming about his gang affiliations. Call that a hunch.”

“Who knew that people lie? I mean, I do, all the time, but who knew anyone else did? It’s always a disappointment for me. Confronting the ugly side of human nature.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to be exposed to that sort of thing. I hope it hasn’t scarred you.”

Stan gave him a dark look. “That, and having to listen to a woman who cooked her baby in the oven and fed it to its father for dinner today insist that she hadn’t really meant to hurt it. That’s a true story. It’s been a hellish day. She got baked on crack, kid was screaming because she hadn’t fed it – busy with her pipe, after all – and suddenly she got a great idea for a main course.”

“They say that variation in your diet is the key to healthy living.”

“Everything tastes like chicken to me. So anyway, the father comes over after work, which as far as I can tell means a hard day of pimping and dealing, and she has a surprise feast waiting for him.”

“That had to be a strained dessert discussion.”

“I hear it’s all in the presentation.” Stan gave Black a grim smile. “The neighbors called when he started screaming and pulled a gun on her. By the time we got there, she’d bolted herself in the bathroom and he’d fired four shots through the door, then turned the gun on himself and blown his own head off.”

Black sighed. “Christ. Wrong day for you to quit drinking.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” The second round arrived, and Black ordered two shots of Jack Daniels. Stan had a hunted look in his eyes he knew all too well. Every day, Stan dealt with the unimaginable, usually life’s losers brutalizing each other in ways even the most rapacious animal never would. As a homicide detective it was his job to mop up after evil had triumphed over good, but some days were worse than others. Today sounded like one of the bad ones.

Stan looked up when the Jack came and downed it in one swallow, then chased it with the beer. Black did the same.

“But enough about me. You asked about the roadie that got fried at the Hollywood Bowl. Not my case, but I read through the file, and there’s not a lot there. Nobody saw nuthin’. It was definitely deliberately rigged, so no question that it was murder. Problem was, as always, who did it? Still an open question.”

“My new client’s the rapper who was supposed to be using the mike.”

“I put two and two together on that. I’m good that way sometimes.”

“Like I told you on the phone, same kid who had to cancel his show at Staples due to a poisoning. A groupie got the worst of it instead of him. Whoever’s got a hard-on for him isn’t giving up.”

“Then it’s simple. Wait until the killer is successful, catch him, and game over.”

“Not so great if I want to continue getting paid. And really bad for referrals. ‘How did your last job turn out? Um, not so good…’ You can see my quandary.”

“I always miss the obvious. Maybe another shot would clear it up for me.”

“I’d say you earned it.” Black swiveled and held up his shot glass, then set it down and gave the bartender the peace sign.

“What kind of sick bitch would cook her own baby?” Stan asked softly.

“Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

Stan shook his head. “Some days I want to hose the city down with gas and toss a match, you know? I don’t believe in God, but it’s hard not to believe the devil’s real when you see evil like that.”

“Amen.”

They sat in silence, Stan morose, lost in his thoughts, until the second set of shots arrived. Both men repeated the consumption ritual, and then Stan’s eyes began to well with moisture. He wiped it away with the back of a hardened hand, and Black found something fascinating on the old television the bartender was watching. Stan cleared his throat and spoke, his voice thick.

“This rotgut’s strong. Eye-watering.”

“Only to pussies,” Black said, still entranced by the TV.

“Color me pink.” Stan cleared his throat. “But enough about me.” His tone had changed back to more like the normal Stan, and Black returned his attention to his friend.

“You ever hear of a rapper called Blunt?” Black asked.

“No. Why? You pirating his stuff to make a little pocket money?”

“He was killed in a gun battle in Jamaica. About ten months ago. It was apparently a big deal.”

“We have enough murders here every day that we don’t have to import them to keep things busy.”

“I know. I was just wondering what, if any, reach you might have with international cases.”

“As in what I could dig up from Jamaica?”

“Something like that.”

Stan shrugged. “If you weren’t such a pretty face, I could deny you. But as it is, I’m powerless.”

“That’s what I was hoping. I also doped your drink to make you more pliable.”

“Should have made it a double.”

“Too pricey. Drugs are expensive. And I need to save some for Sylvia tonight.”

“How’s that going, by the way? Wedding bells? Twins? Maybe a threesome?”

“Just staying the course. All good so far. Frankly, I don’t see how she tolerates me.”

“Maybe she doesn’t get out much? Or she’s working through a father/daughter thing?”

“We’re not buying furniture yet, but it’s looking promising.”

“Ikea’s having a sale next month.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Will you nose around on the Jamaica shooting? I’m specifically interested in whether there was any kind of forensics done, and whether they were able to definitively identify the body. There are a lot of rumors that Blunt didn’t die. I’m not sure what it means to my case, but I personally like the dead to stay dead. Less complicated.”

“Sure. Not like I have fifty other open cases or anything.”

“That’s what I figured. Spring’s slow season. Love in the air. Bees pollinating flowers and all.”

Stan pounded the remainder of his beer. “F-ing bees have all the luck.”

Chapter 10

The following morning, Black placed a call on his way in to work. Genesis answered with a purr, her voice oozing sexy, which he supposed was as authentic as B-Side’s gangster street talk.

“This is Genesis.”

“Genesis. Black. We met at the hospital. I had a little meeting with B-Side?”

“Yes, of course. The white guy with the hat.”

“Guilty. Listen, Sam Rothstein said to contact you for anything I needed.”

“For
anything
? That’s good to know.”

“Related to B-Side.”

“Ah.”

“Here’s a question for you, but I need it kept confidential. I’ve been investigating the incidents with B-Side, and a record mogul named Moet keeps coming up. The L.A. rap world has to be a small one. How could I get to see him and ask him some questions?”

“Wow. Moet? Why would he want to talk to you?”

“Maybe so I can hear his side of the story.”

She paused. “What have you heard so far?”

“That he’s got a hard-on for B-Side because he didn’t sign with Moet’s label. And that Moet should be at the top of the list of suspicious persons who might have a reason to want B-Side to meet with an ugly accident.”

She went silent for a few moments. “I can ask around. My girlfriend works at his label. Maybe she can get an in for you. But Black – he’s one of the most powerful men in the game. Not somebody you want to try to play, or cross.”

“Yeah, his rep precedes him. I understand he’s a scorpion, so handle with care.”

“You don’t sound impressed.”

“I don’t impress easily.”

“My advice? Start. Moet isn’t someone you approach without doing your homework.”

“Noted.”

“Let me make some calls. Is this a good number to reach you at?”

“Twenty-four seven.”

“Also good to know.”

Black disconnected and questioned his instinct to take the direct approach with Moet. If the man was really as dangerous as Sam said, he might also be volatile and take Black’s reaching out to him as an act of war. Black’s problem was that he couldn’t think of any other way to deal with him. There was no pretense to see him he could invent that would be realistic. He’d considered posing as a journalist, but that could unravel with one phone call, and he didn’t want to chance it. That left him with no alternatives. It was a frontal assault or nothing. And given Sam’s warning, he couldn’t just ignore him. Black needed to get him to talk. That was the only chance he had, because if Moet was rich and smart, it was unlikely he would make any mistakes in the short term. So Black was back to a good old-fashioned interview, and hoping that Moet might slip up or that his answers would be contradictory.

When he arrived at his building Roxie wasn’t in, but the voice mail message light was blinking. He lifted her headset to his ear and entered the code. There was one new message. From Roxie.

“Hey, boss. Late night. I won’t be in until around eleven or so. I’m taking an hour or two this morning to put up more Mugsy flyers.”