BLACK to Reality Read online

  “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 wa
nted 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?”

  “I may have to ride the bus. The gas might break the bank. Can’t you tell me about it over the phone?”

  “Nah. It’s…it’s sensitive. Just be at my office. Sell blood or something, but make it, okay, buddy?”

  “Put that way, how can I refuse?”

  “That’s the spirit. See you in a few.”

  Black hung up and stared at the handset before lowering it softly into its expensive cradle. If Bobby was going to drag him across town, he had a client. That was good news. That he needed to break it in person was the bad news – Black knew him well and understood that an in-person pitch meant it was something Black would normally say no to.

  Only at this point, no wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  Black finished applying for two more low-level security jobs that paid only slightly more than minimum wage and shut off his computer, anxious to find out what Bobby had up his sleeve. Roxie was just getting ready to go to lunch when he strode past her. She glared at him like he’d exposed himself.

  “I’m headed over to see the dragon lady and cinch the deal. We agreed to terms on the phone,” she announced.

  “That’s great. Bobby says he’s got a client, so you may want to hold off for an hour.”

  “I can always back out if you land something. But I don’t want to stall her. I get the feeling I’m the only one she liked out of all the people who applied, and I’d hate to lose it because I ran late for our first official date.”

  “That’s probably wise. Cross your fingers for me.”

  “Are you going to stop at your place and change first? You look like you slept in that suit.”

  “I do not. It’s just been a little while since I could afford to get it dry cleaned.”

  “Which is why it looks like the kind you get when you’re released from jail.”

  “I don’t think they do that anymore.”

  “Probably because nobody would hire someone in a jail suit. Which is my point.”

  “It’s only Bobby.”

  “I’m just trying to save you some embarrassment, that’s all.”

  “I’m going to miss you bagging on my clothes once you’re gone.”

  “Don’t get all choked up.”

  “You going to wish me luck?”

  She sighed. “Hope you don’t blow it.”

  “I might cry. That was really touching, Roxie.”

  Her cell phone vibrated, and she turned her attention to it, Black forgotten as she giggled at a message and rapid-texted in reply.

  “Lock up when you leave. I don’t know how long this will take,” Black said.

  “Huh?”

  “Roxie, you heard me.”

  “If it wasn’t ‘I’ll have your two weeks salary by closing time’, I’m afraid I didn’t catch it.”

  He sighed and moved to the front door. “Could you clean the cat box, please? The place smells like ass.”

  “Be happy to, right after I cash my paycheck.”

  The drive to Bobby’s office took half an hour with lunchtime congestion clogging the streets, an endless stream of luxury vehicles on parade in a city where appearances were everything. High streaks of pale clouds stretched across the sky, transitioning from white to beige as they met the horizon, the smog thick after morning rush hour. Black tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the sun played across his face, the top down, his fedora on the seat beside him, the early spring day delivering just enough snap to be refreshing. An old Yesterday & Today song blared from the car stereo, the guitar wailing over the chorus, and for a moment Black was back in his garage, wailing along with David Meniketti, matching the solos on the album note for note. Had time really flown that fast? It seemed like just yesterday…

  A glance at himself in the rearview mirror brought him back to reality, and he switched the stereo off, suddenly maudlin. Here he was, forty-three, with literally nothing to show for it other than an eccentric wardrobe and an old Cadillac, his glory days long faded. He eyed his black hair and noted a few gray strands at the temples and in his sideburns, which depressed him even more. He’d refused to go down the hair dye road, but there was no denying he was getting older. No, scratch that. Getting old. Not older. Women Roxie’s age didn’t give him a second glance – he was as good as invisible to anyone of the opposite sex under thirty. And in a town where the worst possible sin was being poor, he was doubly forgettable, even to mature eyes. No power to broker, no entourage to command, no bling to flash.

  He’d sold the Rolex Nina had given him for his birthday to cover the move and the hefty security deposit on the new office, as well as some unexpected repairs to the Eldorado when the transmission had given up the ghost. Even though he’d felt raped after the jeweler gave him only half its new price, he’d been happy to get the cash. But it had quickly evaporated, and now even that reserve was gone.

  When he pulled into the parking area of Bobby’s luxury high-rise, the attendant gave him a skeptical glance before handing him a ticket.

  “Machine’s broken. You going to be long?” the man asked.

  “An hour or so.”

  The attendant took a long look at the Cadillac and nodded, his expression making it obvious that Black didn’t belong amidst the Lexuses and Mercedes and BMWs. Black couldn’t have agreed more completely. Right now he hated L.A., with its surface glitz and focus on conspicuous consumption.

  His mood was glum as he stepped into Bobby’s office lobby, where a smoldering Latina in a business suit met his gaze with boredom as he approached the reception desk.

  “May I help you?” she asked, white teeth flashing.

  “I’m here for Bobby.”

  “And you are?”

  “You must be new. I’m Black.”

  She blinked twice as she glanced at her console and pressed a button. He noted her eyes were hazel. A good color for her. She murmured into her headset, and her attitude changed to a more interested one.

  “Yes, Mr. Black. Er…Bobby says you know the way to his office?”

  “I do indeed.”

  Bobby was at his desk, wearing a banana-colored silk shirt with the collar open, the better to display his Palm Springs tan and a garish gold necklace that would have made an Indian bride blush.

  Bobby greeted him with a grin. “There he is. Mr. Fashion. Look at you in that suit. Take a load off, tough guy. It’s good to see you.”

  Black eyed him distrustfully. “I feel like the only blonde at the bar after last call’s announce
d. What’ve you got up your sleeve, Bobby?”

  Bobby came around his desk and offered the cosmetically enhanced smile of a shark. “What I have is your chance to be famous, my lad.”

  “You start drinking early today?”

  “I’m serious. When was the last time you played?”

  “Played? Played what? Poker? With myself? What are you talking about?”

  “Music. Guitar. You were one of the best.”

  “What does that have to do with a client?”

  “Well, I told you it was complicated. I wasn’t kidding.”

  Black’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh.”

  “This one’s right up your alley. You’re a natural for it. In fact, I’d say there’s nobody else who could pull it off.”

  “Pull what off?”

  “I’m gonna make you a star, kid,” Bobby said, pretending to flick an imaginary cigar as he waggled his eyebrows.

  “You into pills or powder? Or smoking it?”

  “I’m serious. This is your big break.”

  “My big break. Right now I need a paycheck. Tell me what the hell you’re talking about, Bobby. I’m not having a great day.”

  “Fortune has smiled upon you, my friend. Most people never get a second chance. But you just got one. And it pays.”

  Black perked up. “Go on.”

  “You ever hear of Rock of Ages?”

  “Gospel song, right?”

  “Reality TV show. A combination of Jersey Shore and American Idol.”

  “Oh, yeah, I saw an episode. A bunch of washed-up bands living in some house. It was a freak show. I turned it off when one of the rappers got into a fight with some chick over his banging her trailer-trash roommate.”

  “A race to the bottom, my friend, but huge ratings. America loves its reality shows, the uglier the better.”

  “Fine. Where do I come in?”

  “Last year the band that looked good to win blew it in the finals. The guitar player showed up whacked out of his skull on something. Cost them the trophy. But they get to come back this year because they were the runner-up.”

  “And?”

  “And they need a guitar player.”

  Black stared at Bobby like he’d just announced that Jesus was waiting to meet him in the conference room.

  “Bobby, I’m not a guitar player. I’m a PI. Remember? A forty-something PI.”