BLACK Is Back (15 page)

“I think I understand why Ethiopians are so thin. I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat solid food for a few days. That spice is killing me,” he whispered to Sylvia. “Can I have just a little more wine to wash it down with?”

She slid the bottle to him with a resigned sigh.

“All right, everyone. It’s present time!” Spring said gaily, her voice filled with happiness, and for a moment Black felt lousy about his inner dialogue damning her for organizing the dinner in a place he was guaranteed to hate, with his ex-wife present. “Who wants to go first?”

Nobody volunteered.

Spring stood, moved to the meager pile of wrapped boxes on the floor by the back wall, and selected one at random. “Let’s start with this one. From Chakra and Spring! Happy birthday,” she read with all the solemnity of a judge, and then handed him the box. He opened it and stared inside before retrieving the items – a polyester tie with the discount store’s tag still on it, a new electric razor, and what appeared to be a congealed lump of fat, which he recognized from his childhood. Handmade soap, fresh from her stovetop.

“Wow! A razor and some…soap! And a tie. Oh, look, it’s a Christmas tie. It’s got little Santas on it.”

“That’s to remind you to come up to see us for the holidays.”

“And the razor?”

“Oh, honey, last time we saw you, you looked like you hadn’t had a decent shave. So I thought a razor was just the thing. Even now.”

“That’s kind of the fashion,” he said, his voice low.

“Spring, that’s so thoughtful. Thank you,” Sylvia said, stepping into the awkward silence. “Black loves it. He just isn’t good at expressing himself when he gets all emotional.”

“Or when my esophagus is on fire.”

She kicked him under the table.

“Ow. I mean, how nice, Spring. You’re right. You can never have enough good razors.” He removed the clump of what looked like congealed snot. “And you made me some of your famous soap!”

“Yes, honey, I haven’t done that for years, except for friends and your father, of course. I thought it would bring back memories, you know?”

“It certainly does. No question about that.”

“All right. And here’s one from…Roxie!” Spring announced, then handed him another box. He opened it and found a gift certificate from an office supply superstore for a hundred and fifty dollars.

“Roxie. Thanks. That’s…so much. Really. You shouldn’t have.”

“I figure you need another chair since you-know-who did you-know-what.”

“I do. Thank you.”

“You’ll see it on the bank statement. With what you pay me, there’s no way I could afford that.”

“Ah. Of course. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“It’s not like I was thinking about your ass, if that’s where you’re going with that.”

Everyone tittered at Roxie’s delivery, and then Spring presented Black with a familiar package. “
From Sylvia. For a special man
,” she read.

He carefully removed the tape from the wrapping paper, which he peeled back before lifting the lid. When he saw what was inside, he turned to Sylvia with grateful eyes. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He removed the hat, a black fedora handcrafted in Italy, and set it on his head at a jaunty angle. “She knows me too well.”

“Oh, good. Another hat. She’s encouraging you,” Roxie said. Spring held a smaller box aloft and presented it with a flourish. “From Nina. Many more happy ones, Black.”

Black’s stomach lurched as the Ethiopian death spice seared another ulcer, and unwrapped the final present. Inside was a green Rolex box. He opened it and found himself looking at a gleaming watch with a shimmering blue face.

“Oh…my…God. Nina. What…,” Black stuttered, and then withdrew the watch and studied it. He caught Sylvia’s sharp inhalation and didn’t need to glance at her to guess her expression after having given him a hat.

“Every well-dressed man needs a decent watch,” Nina said, clearly embarrassed by the excess now that the other gifts had been revealed. “Good news is they keep good time. Go ahead, try it on.”

He did, fiddling with the hidden clasp. “It’s heavy.”

“Platinum’s heavy.”

“Platinum?”

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s cheaper than gold now.”

“Nina, I can’t…”

“Of course you can. It’s your birthday. Just smile, say thank you, and stop making such a big deal out of it. It’s a watch, not a new liver,” she said.

“It’s incredibly generous,” he said.

“That’s how I roll. Now is there any more wine in this joint? I’m parched.”

Black didn’t ask how her battle with prescription painkillers was going. The last time he’d heard from her, she’d claimed she’d been clean for over half a year. If she wanted to have a few drinks, that was her business.

Spring paid the bill fifteen minutes later, after they’d eaten their slices of gluten- and sugar-free birthday cake-like substance. Roxie said goodnight, and then Spring and Chakra hugged Black, wished him a final happy birthday, and left with Nina, whose limousine had picked them up at their hotel. Her jet was on the runway at Santa Monica airport waiting to whisk her back to Las Vegas, and Black had a nagging feeling that tonight hadn’t gone as she’d hoped.
Join the club
, he thought, as Sylvia brooded by his side. After several sullen moments, she poured the last of the wine into her glass and swigged it like water, gulping it dry in three swallows.

“Sylvia, thanks for putting this together. It means a lot to me. Plus, I love the hat…”

“Yeah. The hat. I mean, it’s not the platinum edition, but then again, I’m not successful, so you kind of get a different level of gift.”

“Don’t be that way. I had no idea Nina was going to be here, and I certainly didn’t know that she was going to get me a Rolex.” She studied the table top as though it were a treasure map. “Come on. Knowing Nina, it’s probably a fake.”

“No, Black, it isn’t. We both know that. To her, that’s nothing. A bauble. I could probably live off the value for a year. But for her it’s beer money. A bar tab.”

“If it’s any consolation, she bought it with my money.” Black had told her bits and pieces of the songwriting story.

Her face softened. “I’m sorry. It’s just so humiliating. I did everything I could to make your birthday special. I know none of this is your fault. I’m just jealous. She’s got everything. And every day’s a struggle for me. But that’s my issue, not yours.”

“There’s one thing she doesn’t have.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Me.”

“Who now has a fine hat, an expensive timepiece – Swiss, of course – and a tie with Santa all over it. Oh, and who can finally get a decent shave and not have to sit on tape.”

“All in all, a big win, I’d say.”

“That’s how I’d look at it.”

The made their way outside and stood by the front entrance, waiting for the valet to return with the car. Down the street, a low-slung Impala edged away from the curb, its lights off, and accelerated toward them. Some part of Black’s primitive reptile brain sensed danger, and he was pulling Sylvia down as the first gunshots exploded in the night. Chips of mortar showered them as the distinctive whistle of slugs narrowly missed their heads, and for a fleeting instant Black wished he’d brought his gun to his own birthday party. Another few shots echoed off the buildings and the car was pulling away, the driver now flooring it, and Black caught a glimpse of the vehicle as it swung around the corner. Typical gang-banger ride, like thousands all over Los Angeles.

Then his brain began processing rather than simply reacting and he hugged Sylvia to him as she shivered in shock.

“Are you okay? Are you hit?” he hissed, eyes still on the street lest the car come back around for one more bite of the apple.

“I…I…I’m fine. Just scared.” She looked up at him with terrified eyes and then reached out to his face. “Oh, Black…”

“What? What? Am I wounded?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s your hat.”

His hand felt for the brim and lifted it from his head. A bullet hole marred the upper side; the slug had missed his skull by millimeters.

His stomach flipped, then flipped again, and he barely made it to the gutter before the spasms came and he heaved, the Ethiopian gruel’s pungent burn even worse the second time around.

Chapter 20

Red and blue flashes strobed along the brick front of the building next to the restaurant, where four uniforms stood, waiting for the detectives to arrive. Sylvia had a blanket around her and the tremors and quaking had subsided, replaced by a sort of numb resignation. Black had done his best to comfort her, but the truth was that there was little he could say after a sudden outburst of lethal violence like they’d just experienced – something he had no doubt didn’t happen in Basel, and for which she was ill prepared. Not that he was much better suited to being an after-dinner target for armed assailants.

Departing diners averted their gazes as they left, the drive-by having taken the joy out of their culinary experience, and Black had no doubt that for at least a few weeks the restaurant would have plenty of open tables for last-minute reservations. Nothing like being the recipient of random savagery to mute folks’ taste for high-priced culinary experiences in marginal neighborhoods. Black still couldn’t figure out the logic behind opening a dining spot in an area that was crime-ridden, but it was the trend, and he supposed it didn’t have to make a lot of sense to him. Probably the low rents coupled with the titillation of being in the danger zone; a heady draw for cutting-edge restaurateurs and the affluent crowds that sought them out.

When the detectives finally arrived, they spent a few minutes interrogating Black and Sylvia, inspected the bullet holes, and then announced that the two of them would need to come into the station to make their statements. Black protested, but it was no good. The pair gave the impression that this was only one of an endless string of senselessly violent acts that took place on their turf, leaving them bodies and damage to mop up. The shorter of the two, a man named Jacobs who was built like a fireplug, reminded Black a little of Stan, and he recognized the world-weariness that was the natural consequence of years on the beat, seeing the unthinkable on a routine basis, any illusions about human nature long since abandoned in favor of a plodding pragmatism as corrosive to the soul as acid.

The action long since over, the uniforms packed up. Crime scene tape draped around the area to preserve it for the forensic techs who would dig out the slugs for ballistics matching whenever the lab got around to it. One squad car remained to wait for the van, busy at another site where an angry young man had gone berserk with a baseball bat.

Black started up the Eldorado with Sylvia in the passenger seat, scanning the area as well as his mirrors in case whoever had unloaded a full magazine at them came back to finish the job, and when the police cruiser pulled onto the street, he followed. The trip to the station took eight of the longest minutes of his life. Sylvia didn’t say a word the entire time, and while she outwardly appeared composed, he knew that inside her head she was replaying the scant seconds of gunfire, trying to make sense out of the inexplicable, as was he.

The San Pedro station was like so many others: cold, clinical, rundown, and shabby, with dilapidated offices and a pervasive odor of astringent cleaner, urine, and body odor wafting from the holding area in the rear. An occasional scream or curse penetrated the walls as victims sat shell-shocked on metal benches waiting their turn to describe the brutality they’d suffered to officers with too many cases and too few resources.

A young Hispanic man with a shaved head and covered in gang tattoos emerged from the rear of the building, his attitude contrite, someone having made bail for him so he could have his freedom for at least a little while longer. He signed out and collected his things, and a pair of matching thugs who had been sitting at the far end of the waiting room stood to greet him. His shoulders kicked back, and the beaten perp who’d been lucky to see the outside world again transformed before the watching room’s eyes into a swaggering punk without any hint of remorse, a laugh on his lips as the motley group emerged into the night, free to prey on the citizenry until the slow wheels of justice ground them into bloody pulp, or rivals ended their strutting with the definitive bark of a 9mm in some cold alley.

Black watched it all without comment, the parade of life’s losers a familiar sight in his line of work. He didn’t see how guys like Stan did it, and knew that an alarmingly high percentage wound up addicted or hopeless alcoholics – those that didn’t wind up eating their pistols on the nights when the horror came home to roost, the weight of what they’d witnessed pressing on their chests like anvils, when the bottle of rotgut or pills failed to banish the ghosts that always waited on the periphery of their awareness. It was a crap job by any measure, and it took a special kind of personality, one that Black knew well enough that he didn’t have, and which demanded his respect.

After an hour their names were called, and two uniforms took their statements, reciting a long list of boilerplate questions with bureaucratic indifference. By the time they were done Black was confident that a near miss like theirs would hardly warrant more than a note in a file – after all, they hadn’t been hit, so all was well that ended well. The police had a very real relentless tide of humanity to deal with, and while drive-by shootings in the area were alarming, they certainly weren’t a rarity. One of the uniforms had opined, when Black had asked, that it had probably been thrill-seeking youths out to liven up their evening – apparently not unheard of in that neighborhood. It was regrettable, but the hard disks were filled with similar cases, many of which ended with corpses bleeding out on the concrete. The message was clear: Black should count himself lucky. Many didn’t get off so light.

They left the station, Black toting his ruined hat and holding Sylvia’s hand as they made their way to the Cadillac. Black was jumpy, and his mind was a million miles away as he considered the endless possibilities behind the shooting. While it was true that it was probably random, kids high on dope joyriding and playing shooting gallery, a more troubling possibility was nagging at him: that he had been the target, and the attempt on his life hadn’t been random at all, but merely disguised as such so that if it had been successful it would have been chalked up to the continuing, regrettable gang violence that plagued the city.