BLACK Is Back (3 page)

They watched traffic through the picture window, a relentless stream of steel and metal rolling by on the way to important destinations, and silently thanked providence for their connection – a seemingly accidental encounter that had led to something important for them both. Sylvia’s shaggy blond hair seemed to catch the sun as she moved, and her clear blue eyes sparkled with customary good humor. And for the hundredth time since they’d met, Black wondered at his good fortune and vowed not to blow it, as he had so many times before.

Their lunch arrived, and they spent a relaxing hour eating, drinking, and soaking up the ambience, insulated from the outside world. When they finally parted with a lingering kiss, and Black returned to the office and Sylvia to the abstract portrait she was painting, he was assailed by a sense of melancholy and wished that he could take the rest of the day off and spend it in bed with her. But that wasn’t to be. She had her production schedule and he had to hustle up some new clients, and neither could afford a dalliance, no matter how sweet.

For the remainder of the afternoon he caught himself grinning into space like a fool, which seemed to confirm for Roxie that he was losing it. As did most of his actions, so no surprise there. Maybe he was. If so, it wasn’t a bad way to go.

God knows he’d been down worse roads.

Chapter 4

The substantial police presence outside Staples Center was a display of force intended to curb any mischief-minded attendees of the night’s big event: a Los Angeles concert featuring a host of the hottest rappers in the nation, including B-Side, the latest sensation directly from South Central, whose breakthrough debut album had catapulted the youth to instant celebrity six months ago, on the heels of the tragic death of his cousin, Blunt. Blunt had been all raw power and gangsta swag. B-Side was flashier, more of a showman. His rippling pecs and abs were a prominent feature of his celebrity, and his provocative and flamboyant music videos invariably featured the rapper sans shirt.

It was a sell-out crowd in B-Side’s hometown, and the turnout was fully representative of his stomping ground, with a large gang-related contingent in the house. Security was tighter than a federal prison, with metal detectors and body searches to ensure that no weapons made it inside. Groups of highly visible uniformed LAPD officers roamed outside to discourage drive-by shootings; the temptation to even scores while enemies were waiting unarmed in line could prove irresistible.

Inside the huge auditorium the seats were packed, and the anticipation was palpable – tonight was more than a concert, it was an event, history in the making. B-Side had come from nowhere, a background singer with Blunt on his only tour, and he’d aggressively claimed the crown left rolling after Blunt’s death.

Backstage, the dressing rooms were mobbed with the various entertainers’ entourages, and security was almost as thick as out front. Nobody wanted any altercations between adversaries, and any rapper who was successful would have a long list of those he’d dissed and publicly proclaimed were punks or posers. Tonight there were only a few with overt feuds, and they were kept well away from each other.

B-Side’s posse was in the largest of the six dressing rooms, a twenty-by-thirty suite stocked with every imaginable variety of alcohol and food, the air thick with marijuana smoke as B-Side got his groove in gear. He wouldn’t be going on for an hour and a half, the three acts before him each allocated thirty minutes for their abbreviated sets, and backstage was party time for his crew until he set foot on stage.

A select handful of young women hovered near the star, who sat reclining in a chair, a red silk shirt shimmering in the lights, a black do-rag on his head, more diamonds on his watch and necklace than on display at Tiffany’s. B-Side had an undeniable larger-than-life charisma, more of an aura than an attitude, and a facility with fast talk that was the province of the street hustler. Tall, handsome, and engaging, he radiated success, and it was evident to everyone that he was going to be one of the enduring stories in the business.

Miles Ferris, the head of Gravestone records, B-Side’s label, pushed through the door and made his way to his star, trailed by two hulking goons devoid of necks and with faces like losing boxers.

“Yo, Miles in tha house, give it up!” B-Side called out, and the lively banter and trash talk dropped in volume as B-Side stood and moved to greet him. Miles held out his arms and B-Side hugged him, no small feat given Miles’ considerable girth, ensconced in a two-thousand-dollar hand-tailored silk suit that could have doubled as a car cover.

Miles grinned and nodded to the girls, who were sizing him up, and then pulled B-Side aside and murmured to him, “You gonna kick ass, my man. This is your town. You own these other suckahs. Ain’t nobody going to remember their names two seconds after you in the spotlight,” Miles added, stressing his street vernacular even though he had a degree from Pepperdine and had grown up in the San Fernando Valley, where his parents were respected physicians.

“Straight up. Gonna show ’em what time it is.”

“B-Side time. They gonna come correct when you in tha house.”

The affirmation formality concluded, Miles departed with a wave to the group and a lingering look at the scantily clad women. B-Side moved beside the most beautiful and took her hand, into which he placed a glass of Hennessy.

“So you a fan, huh?” he said, raising another glass of the amber nectar in a toast.

“I was telling my friends today that I’d do just about anything if I was lucky enough to meet you tonight.”

“Anything, huh? I got a big…imagination, you know?”

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Really? That’s good to know.”

They toasted and sipped the cognac, and then he gestured to the center table, stacked with shrimp on ice and heated containers with food specially prepared to B-Side’s contract rider’s specifications, which for this concert was themed after his birthplace in New Orleans. Gumbo, fried everything, turtle soup; nothing had been spared to deliver a meal that would have been the envy of half the restaurants in L.A.

“You get any of that?” he asked.

“I already ate. Besides, a girl’s got to watch her figure.”

His eyes roved over her curves before settling on her hazel eyes. “You let me worry about watchin yo figure, baby doll.”

She tittered, and he led her to the table. “How about dessert, then? These here are my favorite,” he said, pointing to a tray with blue and pink chunks of congealed sugar.

“Oh, yeah? What are they called?”

“Filibo. They from the islands. Spun sugar, taste like nothing else you put in your mouth. Go ahead. Try one.”

She looked doubtful. “Sugar?”

He selected a blue one. “This flavor’s great. I make the promoter get me some for every concert, wherever I am. It’s anise. Open wide – say ahh…”

She did, and he popped it into her mouth. Her eyes got large and she cooed in approval. “Mmm. That’s great.”

“You got that right.”

A large man, easily 6’6” with a shaved head, wearing a B-side tour jacket, entered the room with a gorgeous Hispanic woman in skin-tight leather pants and a turquoise corset top. The girl B-Side was flirting with gave her a long appraising look as the rapper moved toward her.

“Genesis. You look bangin’ tonight,” he said.

Genesis smiled. “But the crowd’s here to see you. How you feeling?”

“Strong. Ready. Been waitin’ my whole life for this moment.”

“That’s great. You have a few photos left in you? I’ve got the people from
Rolling Stone
outside who want an exclusive shot.” Genesis was B-Side’s PR person. She’d joined his clique after his record had begun shooting up the charts, hired by Sam Rothstein, his manager, who was upstairs dealing with the venue, verifying the door count.

“
Rolling Stone
, huh? Yeah, I suppose I can do that,” B-Side said, grinning crookedly and flashing his trademark Westside gang signs. He turned to his new friend, who was still savoring the candy he’d given her. “Baby, I be back in a flash. You don’t go nowhere, you hear?”

“I’ll be right here.”

The photo shoot took fifteen minutes, and included a brief interview with the journalist – all the usual questions, which B-Side fielded with aplomb, relentlessly coached by Genesis until he had his answers for the press down pat. She escorted him back into the dressing room as the second act was taking the stage; the thumping of the bass and screaming of the audience sent trembles through the floorboards as they walked.

B-Side sauntered to the heaping food table and ate some shrimp, then finished off with a piece of filibo. He popped it into his mouth and the familiar sickly-sweet flavor seeped across his taste buds. Glancing around, he didn’t see his new companion, and he walked over to her friends to ask where she was.

“She in the bathroom. She wasn’t feeling good,” her partner in crime said with a look that made it clear she’d be available to take over any duties her friend couldn’t handle.

The door at the far corner of the room swung open and the girl staggered out, bent over nearly double, clutching her stomach as she collapsed on the floor. Her friends screamed and ran to her, and Jerome, B-Side’s road manager, moved in and knelt by her side. After a few seconds he stood and pulled the girls back.

“Give her some room. Let her breathe. Back off,” he warned. They did as he ordered. He pulled a phone from his jacket and speed-dialed someone, muttered into the mouthpiece, and listened intently. “Doctor’s on his way. Be here in a few.”

The girl began convulsing, and a hush fell over the room. B-Side approached her, and then backed away. “Everyone out. Go on, now. Get out of here. You heard me,” he said, and the shocked hangers-on reluctantly began filing for the door.

“The man say he want some privacy, you hear? Come on. Party over,” Jerome called, and Genesis joined him near B-Side.

“What do you think? Drugs?” she whispered, watching the girl convulse, helpless to do anything to assist her.

“Could be. But she didn’t strike me as the type.”

A balding white man in a tan sports jacket entered carrying a physician’s bag. Jerome intercepted him and introduced himself, and after one glance at the girl on the floor, the new arrival opened his satchel and crouched by her head.

Sam Rothstein swung the door open and took in the scene in a single glance. He and B-Side exchanged a look, and he sidled up to the rapper, looking completely out of place – a white man in his mid-forties, dark curly receding hair crowning his high forehead, his goatee threaded with gray, his gaunt features cadaverous in the artificial light.

“What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded, regarding first Genesis, then Jerome. The doctor looked up from his position by the girl’s side.

“I’m not sure, but she’s showing all the classic signs of poisoning.”

“What? Poisoning? From what?” Genesis stammered.

“I don’t know. But I’m calling the paramedics. She needs to get her stomach pumped immediately. She’s becoming cyanotic.”

“What’s that mean?” B-Side blurted, his street accent fading with each syllable.

“It means she’s not getting oxygen in her blood. At first I suspected an allergic reaction, but this isn’t it. And look. Her mouth and tongue? It’s blue. That’s probably the agent. What was she eating?” the doctor asked.

B-Side ran to the bathroom, spit the piece of blue filibo he’d been sucking on into the sink, and began rinsing his mouth out. Sam followed him to the bathroom, and after a short discussion, turned, pale as a ghost.

“We’re cancelling the concert. B-Side needs to get to the hospital immediately. Jerome – bar anyone from entering the room until the police get here. And for Christ’s sake, don’t eat anything. Especially the candy. It’s probably poisoned.”

Chapter 5

The following day, Black arrived at Factor’s five minutes early and dutifully stood in line, waiting to get the hostess’s attention. When he was finally able to elbow his way to the front, the frumpy woman met his gaze with all the warmth of an exterminator.

“Did Bobby Sorell arrive yet?” Black asked.

The woman checked her book and nodded. “He’s all the way down, on the left, sweetheart. Booth twenty,” she said in a sandpaper voice seasoned by countless cigarettes and more than the occasional cocktail, judging by her face.

“Right. Booth twenty. Got it.”

Bobby was studying the menu like a bookie with a tip sheet, his professionally tanned face nipped and tucked by the very best surgeons Beverly Hills attorney money could buy. His three-hundred-dollar shirt and equally expensive slacks were impeccably fitted, and a row of hair plugs created a hairline thick enough to make Bon Jovi blush. He looked up at the last minute, sensing Black’s presence. “There you are. Hope you’re hungry,” he said, extending his hand.

Black shook it and sat opposite him. “When you’re buying, I could eat a horse.”

“Which is probably the special. What are you drinking?”

Black nodded to the frothy glass of beer in front of Bobby. “That’ll work.”

“Indeed it will. How you been, buddy? Keeping out of trouble?”

“Yeah, as much as I can. Same ol’. Not much changes in my life. Oh, except I’ve got a girlfriend. Swiss.”

Bobby waved at the server and then returned his attention to Black. “Come again? You’ve got a girlfriend?”

“Yeah. An artist. Ahhteeest. From Switzerland.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Why is everyone so surprised when I tell them I’ve got a girlfriend? Like it’s an impossibility, or I’m the elephant man or something? I’m a player. I’ve got game. It could happen.”

“Oh, absolutely. No, I guess I…dude, that’s great. It’s about time.”

“About time?” Black echoed.

“You know what I mean. You’ve been solo for a while.”

“I was dating. I just didn’t meet anyone I liked very much.”

The server arrived. Bobby pointed to his beer and regarded Black. “You know what you’re going to have?”

“Hot pastrami. Swiss on top. And don’t hold out on me.”