BLACK to Reality (2 page)

A disembodied voice emanated from the PA speakers as the host’s voice announced them, and then the lights blazed megawattage and Ed launched into the snare roll that started the song. The crowd cheered. Rick and Peter ground out a raucous blues riff, Rick all peacock strut as he did a modified duckwalk, and then Christina let loose, her voice a thing of magic, smoldering soul and bitter lament.

The groove was powerful, and everything was perfect until Rick approached the mike for the chorus and stumbled, his suede boot catching on the edge of one of three oriental rugs that were part of the band’s trappings. He saved himself but flubbed one of the chords, shooting Peter a panicked glance as he momentarily lost the notes.

It was a small thing, but enough, and when Rick sang his harmony it was flat, his moxie evaporated. He recovered by the next verse and tried to make up for his glitch with attitude, but when he launched into his solo, it lacked his usual flair, ending on a sour note that elicited winces from the audience.

Christina had tears in her eyes as the song ended, her voice as strong as it had ever been, disappointed realization clear even as she battled her emotions. Rick whipped off his guitar strap, swung his guitar by its neck, and shattered it in a display of rage before storming away, cursing. He tripped again and went down face first at the edge of the stage, drawing a shocked gasp from the audience, and a chorus of boos followed him as a roadie helped him to his feet.

The telephonic votes were tallied, and the results were unambiguous. Last Call had indeed had its last call; Nth Degrees was the winner of the first season.

Within four months their hastily recorded debut album went on to break sales records, and its charismatic front man, Alex Sage, was propelled to the forefront of notable new artists.

Rick and the band parted ways after the show. His departure from Christina’s Hollywood apartment followed shortly thereafter. The band soldiered on with a string of guitarists, none of whom lasted for longer than ninety days, as Christina waited for her second chance: the runner-up band would get to return on the second season of
Rock of Ages
, and this time, she intended to win.

Chapter 2

Artemus Black stood next to his Cadillac Eldorado while the gas pump dial blinked as if mocking him, knowing that his meager ten dollars of fuel would be barely enough to get him to his office for the rest of the week. He’d contemplated taking the bus, but nobody except crazies, illegals, and the homeless resorted to public transportation in Los Angeles, and he didn’t count himself in their number. Yet.

At the rate things were going, though, he’d soon be sleeping in his car. He hadn’t had a case for two months and owed back rent both to his landlady and for the new office he’d leased after solving several high-profile cases that had paid him handsomely. Of course, like most things in his life, that had turned out to be a case of the gods first raising up those they would destroy, and things had taken a nosedive ever since the ink on the rental agreement had dried. Roxie had badgered him into getting the larger suite in a prestigious building against his normally conservative better judgment, which had turned out to be a huge mistake as the bills mounted and his bank balance shrank.

Payday was on Friday, and he had no money for her – a first in their relationship, and one that he’d been racking his brain for ways to avoid, but to no avail. He’d rarely been this broke before, and while he desperately hoped for something to shake loose, nothing had manifested yet. All he was currently holding was the money in his wallet and a depressing future.

The pump clicked off, and he shook the nozzle, trying to eke out every last drop before sliding it back into its socket and twisting the gas cap into place. His head was splitting as he slid behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. The big V8 roared to life, consuming a quarter of his fill-up, he was sure. The fuel gauge barely moved from its position on empty. He sighed as he pulled onto the street and gently eased down on the gas pedal in a futile attempt to stretch the go-juice as far as he could.

Black had recently been moonlighting at a club on the strip for ten bucks an hour under the table, providing security from ten till two – the only reason he had any money at all, but an insult to the value of his PI license and skills, such as they were. After only five hours of sleep, the headache was a constant companion, and he regretted rolling out of bed instead of dozing until noon.

The new building was hardly high-end, but with a granite-tiled lobby and an elevator, it was worlds nicer than his old digs. When he arrived at his floor, he approached the office. He hesitated, debating slinking off and not putting in an appearance, but discarded the idea. Roxie would simply badger him via his cell phone until he answered, and she could be relentless.

He twisted the knob and breezed into the foyer. Roxie was at her desk, on the web. Mugsy’s porcine form slumbered at her feet. The faint taint of cat box perfumed the air, and Black’s nose wrinkled as he moved toward her. Several weeks ago she’d adopted a bleached white hairdo with orange tips and looked somewhat like a polar bear – although her leather pants and stretch top quickly took his mind off her coif.

“Good morning, Roxie. Any calls?” he asked, choosing to ignore the cat box odor in favor of a diplomatic opening.

“The landlord. Wants to know when you’re going to pay the rent.”

“Always asks good questions, doesn’t he?”

“Speaking of which, we have no money.”

“I know.”

“And I have to pay my bills. And eat. And buy gas. All that mundane stuff people do with their salaries.”

Black sighed. “I’m not going to kid you, Roxie…”

She snorted. “I knew it. I’m screwed. I can’t believe I waited around this week to see if you’d pull a rabbit out of your hat and come up with some cash.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t know what happened to the business. It’s like all my leads just dried up.”

“You could always call your parents. They’d have no problem sending you some loot.”

He shook his head. “You know better than that.”

“Do I? The prospect of starving to death and being evicted must have clouded my judgment.” She took in his expression. “You look like shit. I mean more than usual.”

“Thanks, Roxie. You look nice too.”

“No, I mean it. Are you on the pipe? Is that what happened to all the money?”

“I’m not on crack. We’ve just had a bad run of it lately.”

“Right. Unfortunately I can’t tell my landlady that instead of handing her the rent. ‘Sorry, Mrs. Tran, my boss swears he’s not smoking the hubba rock, but he can’t pay me…’ You see how that won’t solve my problem?”

“At least Mugsy’s getting enough to eat. Nice to see he hasn’t slowed his onloading,” Black countered, changing the subject.

“Right. Pick on a helpless cat instead of doing something productive.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s super.”

Black paused before speaking. “Roxie, I hate to say this, but you may need to look for something else.”

“No shit. I’ve been doing that for the last week. This may come as a shock, but these days jobs are really hard to come by. Although I think I’ve found something that could work. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to do it.”

“What’s the job?” he asked, edging by her desk, stiff from the two fights he’d had to break up the prior night during his bouncer gig.

“Some old woman who was married to a studio head in the forties. Lives in Beverly Hills. She’s a recluse and very demanding, from what I can tell. Mean as a snake, too. I’d be acting as her assistant. ‘Girl Friday’ is what she called it.”

“Does it pay well?”

“She’s also cheap. But it does pay better than not getting any money, which is what this has turned into.”

“I can’t argue with that. When were you thinking about starting?”

“Sounds like I better make the call right now, unless you’re holding out on me.”

“Maybe she likes cats. Most recluses like cats, right?”

“I already asked. She hates them. Allergic.”

“Ah. So what about Mugsy?”

“He’ll be staying here until I can convince my landlady to let me have a pet. She’s real anti on cats and dogs.”

“Tell her he’s a long-haired potbellied pig. That’s not far from the truth.”

“Ha ha, Mister Funny. Very amusing.” She returned to playing her video game. “I want this computer as part of my salary, okay?”

“You got it. It’ll save me the trouble of hauling it out of here in the dead of night.”

“Guess it wasn’t such a great idea to move uptown, huh?”

“Might have been premature.” Black walked into his office and removed his jacket, taking care to hang it on the coat rack he’d bought. All the furniture and systems were new, and he was kicking himself for squandering ten grand on useless crap when his old stuff had been perfectly serviceable, if slightly worse for wear due to Mugsy’s destructive bent. He was just settling in behind his desk when he heard his friend Stan’s voice boom from the lobby area.

“Nice digs. How you doing, hot stuff?”

Black moved to the doorway and saw Stan staring at Mugsy while Roxie ignored him, as was her custom.

“Big man. What brings you by?” Black asked.

“Just wanted to see how the other half lives. Sweet. Everything looks expensive. Except for the walrus there,” he said, eyeing Mugsy.

“He’s not a walrus. He’s a hippo.”

“I always get those confused.”

“Come into my office. Take a load off,” Black invited, refusing to acknowledge Roxie’s glare.

Stan plopped down on Black’s new pride and joy – a two-thousand-dollar black Italian leather sofa that sat at the far end of his office. Black returned to his desk and took a seat in his executive chair.

“So how hangs it? This a social call?” Black asked.

“Nah, I was just in the neighborhood. Had a murder/suicide three blocks from here. Some commune house. The woman who ran it, called herself Sister Mercy, took a golf club to the guy she was sleeping with before slashing her wrists.”

“Sounds messy.”

“The other nutcases staying at the house say the last thing they heard was her screaming, ‘Fore.’ That’s a joke, by the way.”

Black offered a tight smile. “I get it. How you been?”

“Same old. People keep killing each other, so good job security.”

“And you still have your health.”

“Body of a forty-year-old. German shepherd. But still.”

“Could be worse.”

Stan nodded. “How about you? Anything interesting?”

“It’s been slow, buddy. Really slow.” Black recounted his financial woes.

“Damn. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got calls out to everyone, but nothing’s surfaced. I’m kinda up against the wall, to be honest. Roxie’s taking another job. It sucks.”

“I’ll nose around and see if I can find anything. You should have reached out.”

“Why burden you with my problems?”

“Misery loves company.” Stan ran an approving hand over the surface of the couch. “This is nice.”

“Wanna buy it? Special for you, today only.”

“I’m surprised that porcupine in the other room hasn’t ripped it to shreds. Your last place looked like a holding cell at County Central.”

“Roxie’s under orders not to let the fat bastard anywhere near my office.”

“Since when did that stop him?”

“Fair point.”

Stan grinned. “How’s the Swedish hottie?”

“Swiss. Sylvia’s Swiss.”

“Right. So how is she?”

“Good. Selling paintings. She applied for a work permit and got it, so she’s here for the duration.”

“Do I hear wedding bells?”

“Only if you recently took a blow to the head. We have no plans. We’re just taking it slow, enjoying life.”

“A sensible man. What’s Roxie going to do for work? You never said.”

“Play nursemaid to some geriatric.”

“You mean other than you, right?”

“Touché.”

Stan rose stiffly, his belly hanging over his belt, his sports jacket looking like he’d pulled it off a corpse.

“Remind me not to come by to get a pep talk from you, Black. Now I want to lock myself in my garage with the engine running.”

“Your building has a carport.”

“Still.”

Black escorted his friend to the foyer. Mugsy cracked an eye open and gave them both a truculent stare before resuming his slumber. Roxie didn’t acknowledge either of them as they walked past her desk.

“See you around, gorgeous,” Stan tried.

She didn’t look up from the monitor. “Not if I see you first.”

Chapter 3

Black was checking the online help wanted listing of the
Los Angeles Times
when the phone rang. Roxie answered, and after a brief pause, she called out from her desk.

“Boss?”

“Use the intercom, Roxie. These phones cost a fortune so we could speak over it.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

Black raised his voice. “I said use the intercom.”

“Why? Bobby’s on line one.”

Black looked at the blinking button and was reaching for it when the speaker on his phone crackled to life.

“You have a call,” Roxie said.

“I got that.”

“On line one. Crap. I hung up when I pushed the wrong button to access this stupid intercom.”

“That’s really passive-aggressive.”

“It was an honest mistake.”

“Is Bobby in his office?”

“He sounded like he was on his cell.”

Black punched in Bobby’s number. When he answered, Black could hear a car radio in the background with the Eagles crooning about tequila sunrises and lost love.

Bobby sounded in typically good spirits. “Babe. That Roxie must not like me. She cut me off.”

“She adores you, Bobby. She’s just getting used to the new phone system.”

“Right. Hey, I think I may have something for you. That is, unless you won the lottery.”

“Right now I’m only a night away from turning tricks in rest-stop bathrooms.”

“Good visual. I’m headed into the office. Can you meet me here in an hour?”