BLACK Is Back (8 page)

She would exact revenge for his lack of concern over Mugsy, one way or another. Why she appeared to be holding him responsible for the cat’s disappearance was a different story – it wasn’t like he’d driven the fat bastard to Reno and left him in a rest stop bathroom. Although Black was now secretly worried about Mugsy as well, in spite of his supposed indifference.

He sighed and replaced her headset after deleting the message. So it would be just him this morning. Fortunately the phones hadn’t been ringing off the hook, which sucked from a business standpoint but made for an easy workload. He’d manage.

At his desk, he powered up his computer and began searching the web for information on Moet. An hour and a half later, he’d arrived at the conclusion that Roxie was worth her weight in gold for her research skills, because he was hopeless. Other than a few trade publication articles on Moet’s business empire and a slew of fawning media lotion jobs, he’d come up with zip useable data, and knew about as much as he had before he started.

The outer office door slammed shut and a moment later Roxie’s shocking red mane appeared in his doorway.

“I’m back.”

“How did it go?”

“I got three indecent proposals, but no Mugsy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah. What’s going on? You need me to do anything?”

“Actually, yes. I could use everything you can find on Laughing Dead Productions and its president, Maurice ‘Moet’ Quantrel.”

“I know them. They’re big players. A lot of clout. But shady. That’s their rep on the street, anyway.”

“All of which I know. But I need more solid info.”

“I’m on it. Probably take a while.”

“I’ve got nothing but time.”

Black’s cell rang, and he checked the screen: Genesis. Black held up a finger to Roxie and answered.

“Black.”

“Genesis. It’s your lucky day. I got you a meeting with Moet. Over at his studio. In East L.A.” She gave him the address. “He’s there now.”

“That was fast.”

“Is that a complaint, or are you impressed?”

“What was that last one?”

“You’re welcome.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, but he was talking to a dead line. Roxie regarded him without comment.

“Should I just stand here, or what?”

“Sorry. Yes. I mean, no.”

“Started on happy hour early today?”

“Why are you always implying that I’m drunk, Roxie?”

“Never mind.” Her head disappeared, ending the discussion. He stared at the doorway in frustration, and then took a deep breath and shrugged it off. He would not get annoyed. Roxie was just worried about Mugsy. It was understandable.

He stood, put on his jacket and hat, and moved out to Roxie’s desk. “I’ve got to get going. Be back in a while.”

She studied his black suit and fedora, and then her eyes flicked back to her screen. “Costume party?”

“No, I’m meeting Moet.”

“You. Meeting Moet.” She blinked. Once. “You got your gun?”

“Why? Do you think I’ll need it?”

“Might want to make sure it’s loaded. You ever fire it?”

“I’m actually a pretty good shot.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am.”

“I believe you. Cough cough
not
cough.”

“I’m pretty sure that the head of a big-time record label isn’t going to get into a gun battle with me at his studio.”

“I’ll start working on a eulogy.”

“Thanks. That’s very reassuring.”

“Try to stand sideways at all times. Present a smaller target. I saw that on TV.”

“Good advice. You do realize that TV isn’t real, right?”

She affected a look of shock. “It isn’t? What about Animal Planet? CNN? Sixty Minutes?”

“Maybe those are.”

“I thought you just said they weren’t.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You never answered my question about the boozing. But never mind.”

“I didn’t answer it because it was ridiculous,” Black said.

“Hic.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“The bullets come out the end of the gun with the hole in it.”

“That’s priceless. Thanks. Email me with anything you find on Moet. It’ll take me a while to find the studio.”

“You realize that most cars built in the last fifteen years have a GPS in them, right? Just a thought.”

“I don’t need any GPS. I know this city like the back of my…what’s that thing connected to my arm?”

She returned her focus to the screen. “Do you have any preference for headstones?” she asked.

“Good bye, Roxie.”

Chapter 11

The streets leading to the freeway were congested, midday traffic clogging the arteries with overloaded semi-rigs and workers trying to slip out early for lunch. Eventually he took the I-5 south, then got off near Olympic Boulevard and worked his way east, the neighborhood degrading with each passing block. Low-rider cars in neon hues prowled the streets with Latino thugs inside, their shaved, tattooed heads announcing their criminal affiliations as clearly as signed confessions. Storefront signage segued from English to bilingual and then finally to Spanish only, as the pavement deteriorated along with the air quality.

Black knew the area well enough to stay out of it, but circumstances had dragged him there and he was determined to put on a brave face. Still, he wasn’t insane, and he kept the top and his windows up, the doors locked, and a sharp eye out at each stoplight for potential carjackers.

He circled the block where the studio was located and rolled to a stop in front of a dilapidated iron gate with razor wire strung in loops across its top; the gleaming wire continued along the top of the ten-foot-high walls that encircled it. A solitary steel pole with a keypad and intercom stood at the side of the driveway, and Black was just able to reach it and press the black communication button.

“Who’s there?” a baritone voice boomed from the speaker.

“Black. I have a meeting.”

The box clicked off and the gate lurched to the side, sliding on a lubricated track to allow his car in. A man stood with his hands in the pockets of his baggy leather jacket near the other vehicles – a black Bentley coupe, a Land Rover, and an Audi Q7 SUV. The moment Black’s Cadillac was across the track, the gate began sliding shut again, and Black noted that the man’s eyes didn’t leave the opening until it had closed with a heavy
thunk
. Discretion seemed the prudent course, and Black took his time shutting down the engine and unbuckling his seatbelt, allowing the man sufficient opportunity to scrutinize him before he got out of the car.

“You heah for Moet?” the security man asked with a Caribbean lilt once Black opened the door and slid from behind the wheel.

“Yeah.”

“In deh, mon,” the man said, pointing at a heavy steel door in the brick façade. “You packing?”

“Nah. Left it in church.”

Black walked to the door and pulled it open, only to find himself facing another door eight feet beyond. Framed gold and platinum records lined the walls of the small foyer. A blinking red light attracted his attention over the door and he found himself looking at a micro-security camera. The second door buzzed like an angry hornet and he pulled on the handle. He was immediately assaulted by a pungent aroma of marijuana smoke and a muffled shuddering caused by a bass drum amplified at ear-crushing volume in the recording studio at the far end of the waiting area, which he could make out through a massive double-paned glass window. Two young men sat on a ratty sofa near the entry door, glowering at Black as if they planned to attack him.

The heavier of the pair stood and wordlessly pushed the recording studio door open, and the volume increased to deafening. A few seconds later the thumping stopped, and the man returned and scowled at Black before motioning to the door.

“You up, whitebread.”

Black nodded in what he hoped was a neutral manner and slowly approached the entry. Inside, the lights were dimmed to near darkness, and he could just make out two men sitting in front of a console large enough to host a soccer game. Behind them, near a bank of two-inch reel-to-reel tape machines, a completely bald man with coal-black skin sat with arms folded across his Versace shirt, staring at him. Black recognized Moet instantly.

“Calvin, Jay, take ten. And tell 2Bad to take a break,” Moet said to the engineers, and the one on the right activated a microphone and spoke into it while the other stood and made his way out of the room. The door to the recording chamber opened, and a lanky young man wearing a yellow Lakers jersey and a black flat-brimmed baseball cap emerged, his baggy jeans unsuccessfully battling gravity as he gripped the waist with his left hand.

“Who he? DEA?” the rapper asked, and Moet, the second engineer, and he all laughed.

“Nah. Got some business to deal with. Go take a load off. Won’t be long,” Moet said, and the second engineer exited, followed by the youth, whom Black presumed was Moet’s newest discovery, 2Bad.

“Nice studio. SSL console, Neve pre-amps, Neumann mikes, digital workstation…but tracking to tape,” Black said. Moet’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

“Yeah. The two-inch warms it all up. Has more bottom end. Old school, but I like the way it sounds. Have a seat. I hear you want to talk to me,” Moet said.

“That’s right. I’m investigating the unfortunate events that seem to have become a regular part of B-Side’s life.”

“Punkass needs to look over his shoulder. Thinks he’s Snoop. He ain’t shit.”

“Probably not. But he’s got a problem. So he hired me.”

“You got some balls coming into my studio like this.”

“I’ve never been very smart.”

“But you know your way around a studio.”

“Ancient history. Back in the day. I had a chance to work with some of the greatest producers in town. O’Brien. Lang.”

Moet’s face changed. “Doing what?”

“Guitar. Songwriting. A long time ago.”

“Huh. Well, spit out what you came for. I’m trying to do some patching and get tones for a mix.”

“Like I said. I’m investigating B-Side’s mishaps. Which include a murder. I thought it would be good to hear your side of the story. I don’t like to just automatically assume everything I hear from his side’s true.”

Moet appraised him. “Like what?”

“Like you hold a grudge. Don’t like him. That kind of thing.”

“I do hold a grudge. But he’s a punk. He’s here today, gone tomorrow. He’s lint on my pants. Nothing more. I certainly wouldn’t get involved in going after him. I’ve got shoes older than him, and better made.”

“You have any theories?”

“Ha! You haven’t done much investigating yet, have you? B-Side’s a no-talent showman. He couldn’t write a joint if his life depended on it. He was flash for the stage show when Blunt was on the rise. He can’t hold a candle to Blunt, who had real talent.”

“I don’t know anything about rap, so I’ll take your word for it.”

“Damn right you will. Rap’s my business, and business is good. I didn’t get where I am by having a tin ear. I wasn’t all that interested in B-Side. That’s the truth. And I don’t think he writes his own stuff. I know he’s hired songwriters for the new album. Nothing in this town happens without me knowing. Same on the one that’s riding the charts right now. No way he wrote that material.”

“So what? Ninety percent of pop stars don’t write their own stuff.”

“If you’re a big swinging dick rapper, you better. Otherwise you lose your street cred, and once that’s gone, you’re history. It’s a different market.”

“And you don’t think he wrote his?”

“Nope. And I’d know. I heard his demos. They were shit. Then I hear his album, and I hear tracks that are almost identical to riffs Blunt played for me before he died. Now maybe he shared them and B-Side got inspired. Or maybe B-Side lifted them. I’m just telling you that your boy has a lot to answer for on that. Maybe somebody’s blackmailing him. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I don’t have shit to do with his troubles. That’s the universe raining down on him. Karma. It’s a bitch. And in case you don’t know, he got screwed on his deal. Thinks he’s so smart, and got taken.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s all I’m going to say. You have to dig up your own dirt. But if you’re looking at me, you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

“Can you tell me about his deal? He’s making millions.”

“And leaving more on the table. That…and his manager, Sam? He’s a lizard. Took B-Side to the cleaners, is what I heard. Gets his percentage for managing him, and splits his songwriting, too. So your boy is making less than half what he should be. That’s probably why Sam moved him over to Miles and signed him there. He knew I wouldn’t do a deal where he’s a partner with the talent. Not that there’s much talent there. But I won’t do those types of deals, because eventually the artist figures it out, and then it’s lawsuits all around.”

“So you think Sam may have something to do with this? That he’d have a reason to kill his own act?”

“I never said that. Although money does strange things to people. I’m just saying that you got other people with more to gain by B-Side eating it than me. I gain nothing. Sam? The record he’s getting those fat checks on would go through the roof. Look at what happened with Blunt. He’s right up there with Biggie and Michael. Worth way more dead than alive. Yo, Black, right? You watch movies?”

“A few.”

“Remember that oldie with Redford and the little guy? What’s his name? About the two reporters?”

“Hoffman. Dustin Hoffman.”

“Right.
All The President’s Men
. Remember what they were told by the Deep Throat guy?”

“Yup.”

“Follow the money. Good advice.” Moet glanced at his watch. “Now this meeting’s over. I got a label to run.”

“You sit in on all your acts for final mix?”

“Only the ones I’m producing. 2Bad’s my latest, greatest. He’s going to be way bigger than either Blunt or punkass. You can take that to the bank.”

Black nodded. “Thanks for the time.”

“You’re welcome.” Moet stood and walked to the door, and only then did Black realize how tall he was. Easily 6’8”. Maybe closer to seven. Moet opened the door and called into the other room. “Yo, boys. Let’s get to it. Time is money.” He turned to Black. “You know the way out.”