BLACK to Reality (7 page)

“I’ll page her.”

Black wondered whether she had a bat as a pet. The intercom buzzed, and a perky voice chirped, “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

The blonde shrugged and fixed Black with a dead stare. “She’ll be right out.”

“You don’t say.”

“I just did.”

The chrome and glass coffee table was covered with cosmetology magazines featuring impossibly beautiful people. A teenage girl sat across from him, texting away on a four-hundred-dollar phone she’d extracted from a five-hundred-dollar purse. Black idly wondered which of the expensive sports cars in front was hers, and decided he didn’t want to know – it would only depress him.

Ten minutes later a thirty-something woman with too much makeup and an outfit that would have been at home on a stripper emerged from the rear of the shop and approached him.

“Hi. I’m Monique. Bobby touched base. Oooh, I love your hair. I was expecting something way harder to work with.”

“Nice to meet you. Why were you expecting…?”

“Oh, I think Bobby likes to screw with me sometimes. I was expecting old, fat, and bald. Come on back into the magic kingdom. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

They walked through a door into a large, well-lit salon with twenty stations, the area a buzz of activity as the pampered and privileged were primped and snipped. Monique’s slot was at the far end, and Black removed his jacket and hung it up before sitting in the chair.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked doubtfully, staring at himself in the harsh light.

“Retired by forty and married to a billionaire,” Monique said and laughed, a percussive bray Black instantly disliked. What had Bobby gotten him into?

She played with his hair and nodded as she hummed softly to herself. Black watched her examining him with the clinical precision of a coroner and felt a tickle of trepidation in his gut. Finally, she stepped back and nodded.

“We’re going to have to give you some length, do some bangs instead of brushing it back, maybe spike the top a little, and go black – maybe with a midnight orchid cellophane. Something edgy, you know?”

“How are you going to give me length?”

“Extensions.”

Black’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t going to make me look like a freak, are you?”

“Of course not. I mean, no more than necessary. Part of this is to make you look a little freaky, right? You’re in a band. Can’t have you looking like Sinatra.”

Black sighed and closed his eyes. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.”

“You want some white wine?”

“Make it a double.”

Two hours later he was staring at himself in the mirror in horror and fascination. His hair was now around his collar with a Ron Woods cut, jet black and tousled.

“I look like a transvestite.”

“You look hot.”

“If you think the guy from Spinal Tap was hot. Nigel? The dumb one?”

Monique stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Never mind. I look like a paunchy Liza Minnelli, so if that’s what you were shooting for… How often do I need to get it redone?”

“Once a month.” She considered her work and winked. “A goatee would work well with the hair. Might want to consider it. As far as the maintenance goes, I can come to you if the money’s right.”

“Bill Bobby.”

On the way to the restaurant to meet Sylvia, Black’s cell jangled in his pocket. He answered, and Bobby’s voice boomed at him. “Hey. I hear you look like Marilyn Manson now.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Listen, I was going to tell you to pack a bag, but go light. The show will provide a wardrobe for you. They want to pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

“What? But I thought I still need to meet the band.”

“You do, but they’re already getting set up in the house. Rooster told them he’d found a guitar player, so that’s already decided.”

“That’s not how bands operated when I was playing.”

“Rooster’s responsible for doing whatever it takes to win. He vouched for you. You’ll meet them tomorrow and rehearse for the next week in preparation for the first contest.”

“Wait. So I’m moving into the house tomorrow? I thought I had till Monday?”

“Rooster thought you needed a head start. And what Rooster wants, Rooster gets.”

“Shit. Will they be filming?”

Bobby hesitated. “I don’t think so. Not until Monday.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Nope. So enjoy. Look at it this way – twelve weeks of easy living and free beer.”

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” Black protested.

“Just pretend. They’ll be at your office at twelve o’clock. Wear something pretty.”

“Did I mention I hate you?”

“You won’t when you pick up your check tomorrow morning.”

“It’ll probably bounce.”

“Have a nice night.”

When he entered the restaurant and Sylvia saw him, she just about passed out. He’d never seen her mouth actually hang open, so it was a first. He held his arms out to her, and she reluctantly rose from the corner table.

“Oh…my…God…”

“I know. I look like Iggy Pop. And not in a good way.”

She hugged him without enthusiasm. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

“No, I mean really. You look like one of those losers on Sunset hanging outside the clubs at two in the morning.”

“Those are called musicians. I think that was the general idea.”

“I…I’m at a loss for words.”

“I got that. Let’s order, if you think you can keep food down, and we can talk about it.”

Black noticed Sylvia was being more generous about her wine intake than usual. Dinner was strained, and when he broke the news about going to the house the next day, she just about lost it.

“So this whole nightmare starts tomorrow? I thought we had a little time…”

“The thing to remember is that this is a job. I’m undercover.”

“Yeah, like
Serpico
. I get it. Only you’re not De Niro.”

“Pretty sure that was Pacino.”

“Don’t change the subject. This is a major disruption in our lives, Black. And you didn’t even discuss it with me…”

“I know. It all happened so fast. I was going to say no, but then, after I played with Rooster today, everything kind of changed.”

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. “You played with a chicken today? What have you become, Black?”

Black smiled sadly. “I’m seriously considering starting. No, that’s the manager’s name. Rooster. He’s famous.”

Sylvia took another large gulp of wine. “What’s going to happen to us, Black? This is just too way out.”

“Everything will be fine. We’ll see each other once a week, plus at shows, I’ll pay my apartment and office rent and get back on track, and it’ll all be over before we know it.”

“It’s three months of our life. My life. With you in a rock band instead of behaving like a grownup. I…I don’t know, Black. I need time to absorb all this.”

“What does that mean?”

She cleared her throat. “It means I’m not sure I can deal with this. Not seeing you. This new…look. You being in the rock scene. It’s not what I signed up for.”

He took her hand, which felt like a dead smelt. “Nothing’s going to happen while we’re apart. This is all an act. I’m not planning on becoming a musician again. I’m on a job, which pays well at a time when I’m dead broke. I can appreciate this is all a shock, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t for me too, but we need to make the best of it. I’ll do the time, catch the bad guys, and come home. To you. Nobody but you.”

Her eyes were welling when she looked at him.

“That’s what you say now. Last night you didn’t even mention this, and today you’re leaving me for three months. I’m not sure your word means much these days.”

“I already explained that…”

“Not good enough, Black.” She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, and his heart sank. She was right.

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

“You always are.”

Chapter 8

Morning arrived too soon, and after a less-than-warm goodbye from Sylvia, Black returned home to pack. He carried the Gretsch upstairs and set it on the coffee table as he scrounged around for any clothes that didn’t look conservative, and wondered for the hundredth time since getting his makeover how he was going to pull any of this off. He’d thought playing would be the hard part, but each time he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he realized that he was in unfamiliar territory – what was fun at twenty was horrifying at forty-something.

He selected a few cocktail shirts and a half dozen T-shirts, and ferreted around for his rattiest jeans. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be walking around the house half naked, he packed a hygiene kit and some miscellaneous odds and ends, leaving his Glock locked in the safe – he didn’t want to have to explain to the crew or his housemates why he was strapped.

Finished, he did a final quick check and remembered to grab his laptop. Once it was stowed in his bag, he hoisted his guitar, shouldered the rucksack and, after a final look around, locked the door, hoping his luck in eluding Gracie would hold.

It wasn’t his day. Like a mongoose watching a cobra, she was waiting, her door cracked, a quarter glass of amber fluid in her coffee mug.

“What happened to you? Is it Halloween?” she croaked at him.

“Very funny. I was trying for a new look. More fun.”

“You look like a dope fiend. You trying to sneak out?”

“Nah. In fact, I’ll have your rent in about an hour.”

“Bullshit. You’re flying the coop.”

“No, I’m not.” He told her about the show and explained that he wouldn’t be around for a while. “Can you stop in every now and then and make sure nothing’s caught fire?”

“Sure thing. But I still don’t believe you. I think you’ve gone and joined the circus or something.”

“That’s nice, Gracie, but I’m telling the truth. I’m going to be on TV. Look the show up starting next Thursday. It’s on one of the cable networks.”

“You don’t know which one?”

“I haven’t watched TV since
ER
went off the air.”

“Wow.” That shut her up. Gracie had her idiot box on roughly twenty hours a day. “You’re really not lying to me?”

“All my stuff’s still up in the apartment. And I’ll be back with the rent by eleven at the latest. I swear.”

“Then leave your guitar with me.”

No fool, Gracie.

“I have to take it in to get worked on. Or you know I would.” He didn’t want her breaking anything, which she well might do while he was gone. Better to keep the guitar out of harm’s way.

“Then leave your bag.”

Black groaned, but agreed. He placed it on the floor by the entry and winked at her. “Be back soon. Don’t go digging around in it. I’ll know if you did.”

“Relax, tough guy. I have no interest in your dirty underwear. Especially now that you look like something out of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
.”

“I’ll be back,” he said in his best Schwarzenegger and aimed his finger at her like a gun.

“Don’t quit your day job.”

Bobby’s receptionist practically dialed 911 when she saw him, and it was only when he reassured her that a check was waiting for him that she relaxed. Bobby wasn’t in yet, which was just as well, because Black wasn’t sure he wouldn’t assault him on sight.

The teller at the bank did her best to control her expression when he made it to the window, but he could see the amusement in her eyes as she counted out the hundreds after triple-checking his driver’s license photo. When he returned to Gracie’s, she was planted on the sofa, remote in one hand, another morning cocktail in the other. He placed the money on the arm of the couch, and she counted it with the dexterity of a three-card Monte hustler before tucking it into the pocket of her housecoat. After declining the obligatory offer of a drink, he slipped away, leaving her to the reruns of
Gilligan’s Island
that were part of her daily ritual.

He called a cab on his cell and waited for it at the curb – he’d asked Sylvia to move his Cadillac from its position in front of the complex once a week so it wouldn’t get ticketed and towed, to which she’d reluctantly agreed. Ten minutes later a taxi arrived and popped the trunk, and he deposited his things before hopping in the back and giving the driver his office address.

Mugsy stared at him from his spot on the couch as Black shouldered his way through the door. He was lying on his back, all four paws up in the air, looking like a furry basketball with chubby stumps poking out.

“Good morning, tubby. You have a nice night overeating and crapping everywhere?”

Mugsy’s tail twitched, but other than that, he could have been dead. Black carried his bag and guitar to his office and placed them safely inside, and then attended to cleaning out the litter box and ensuring the oversized food tray and the water dispenser were full. He cinched the top of the garbage bag with a tie, left it where the cleaning crew couldn’t miss it, and returned to his office, where Mugsy was snoring softly on the lobby sofa, as was his custom.

Black checked the time. An hour to go. He spent a few minutes on the web checking for nonexistent messages before calling Stan.

“Yo. Stan. It’s yo homey Black in tha house.”

“You know how white you sound when you do that?”

“Not convincing, huh?”

“Worse than John Wayne as Genghis Khan.”

“Don’t be a hatah.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, wait. You busy?”

“Got all the time in the world. We mostly just hang out and take naps around here when we’re not watching porn. But don’t tell anyone.” Stan paused. “Why?”

“I got a gig.” Black explained what he was going to be doing for the next three months.

“That’s great. What’s next? Standing on the street corner warning that the end is nigh?”

“Tough job, that. Too much competition, especially in Hollywood.”

“What are the chances you can pull this off and win?”

“I have no idea. But the band’s really good. If I come up to speed, we could make it work. Of course, it’ll depend on the other groups. There could be a stunner in the bunch.”

“Does this mean you’re spending your male menopause doing lines of blow off groupies’ bare midriffs? I want to be you. I knew I should have gone into the PI game.”