BLACK Is the New Black Read online

  “That could be an incentive to be vengeful,” Bobby agreed.

  Black wasn’t so sure. “But this Zane guy more or less brought it on himself, right? So it wasn’t just Demille picking on him. It was the whole industry condemning his actions. And you said that happened after New York, so if that wasn’t suicide, the timing’s wrong for him to be the perp. Unless it actually was suicide, in which case only the acid attack’s an issue.”

  “True. It could be unrelated to Zane. But he’s one of the people I’d take a hard look at,” Daniel said.

  “Fair enough. Can you also send me whatever you have on him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Anything else? You mentioned losing talent to competitors. Anyone in particular?”

  “Well, there’s a new agency, a start-up, that’s gotten surprising traction. It’s being run by an ex-Demille model, Gabriel Costa. Costa Brava is the outfit.”

  “Another Demille alumni? Is the world that small?” Black asked.

  “On this coast it is. Demille has been the biggest agency in L.A. for years. Most of the business is concentrated in New York, but he’s carved out a profitable niche here, and anyone who’s anyone in West Coast modeling over the last ten years was probably in his circle.”

  “All right. Costa Brava. It would help if you added that to the list you send me.”

  “Will do. I’ll also include anything else I think might be relevant,” Daniel confirmed.

  “That would be a good start. You said that the information about the buyout’s public?”

  “Yes. Everyone knows we’re in the consummation stages with Demille. Obviously, my concern is that we’ll lose more of his roster. Part of what we’re buying is his talent, and the deal gets worse for me with every model whose contract expires and decides to go elsewhere.”

  “Would that normally happen with a buyout like this?”

  “No. Ordinarily this would be viewed as a strong positive for his faces. They’ll be part of DNA, which opens them up to a lot more work on the East Coast, and a shot at the big time. L.A. certainly has a presence these days, but New York is still the Mecca for American modeling. So I wouldn’t normally expect much, if any, attrition. That was what my offer was based on. If we lose half a dozen of his biggest names, I’m overpaying and I don’t like to overpay…or look like a fool.”

  Black nodded. “I think I get it. Is it all right if I contact you with any questions that come up?”

  Daniel slid a card across the desk. “Absolutely. I’m supposed to fly back east tonight, but I might stay through tomorrow. That cell number works anywhere. Just call if you have anything come up. And I’ll do the same.”

  Black pocketed the card and handed Daniel one of his own. “Great. Then all I need is the check and I’ll hit the ground running.”

  Daniel punched an intercom button and issued instructions to Gunther. When he was done, he sat back and offered a practiced smile. “I’ll find out what Demille’s got scheduled and get in touch. You should try to meet with him as soon as possible. He’s very concerned about all of this as well, as you can imagine.”

  “Can’t I just go to his office? Let him know I’m working for you, and I’ll do the rest.”

  “If only it were so easy. No, he likes to be at his bigger shoots, so he’s usually traveling. I seem to recall him saying something about a beach shoot somewhere exotic. I’ll check. I trust you don’t have a problem flying to meet him…?”

  “As long as you’re paying, I’ll do whatever’s necessary,” Black said, visions of palm trees in Fiji or Maui springing to mind.

  “Fair enough. I’ll call as soon as I know his plans. Mr. Black, I want to thank you for agreeing to take this on. Bobby says you’re the best. I need this tied up quickly. I hope you can do so. If you can, you’ll have no shortage of recommendations from my end. I know a lot of people,” Daniel said, the implication clear.

  Black stood. “Whatever’s going on, I’ll get to the bottom of it. That’s my job.”

  “Perfect. If you’ll have a seat out in the lobby, Gunther will bring a check in a few minutes. Now if you’ll excuse us, Bobby and I have some other matters to discuss…”

  Black took the hint. “Sure. See you around, Bobby. I’ll call.”

  Bobby rose from his position on the couch and joined Black, pumping his hand like a car salesman as they walked to the door. “Good deal, buddy. Let’s talk soon.”

  Black spent five minutes in the lobby skimming through trade publications that revolved around pouty headshots and occasionally peering at the receptionists, who could have been carved from blocks of ice. Gunther appeared just as Black was getting restless and presented him with a check with the sincerity of an ambassador signing a treaty.

  His cell phone warbled in the elevator on the way to the street, but when he answered it, all he got was static and popping. Once out on the street, he pressed the redial button and waited as the line rang.

  “Stan Colt.”

  “Stan. It’s Black. You called?”

  “Yeah. It was a lousy connection.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My blood pressure and cholesterol. Thanks for asking.”

  “Appreciate the update. But I was thinking more about why you called?”

  “I want to get together. What are you doing for lunch? I wanna talk about our favorite dirtbag.”

  “Nothing. Usual spot?”

  “Chez Carl. Half an hour?”

  “I should be able to make it. I’m over in Beverly Hills.”

  “You win the lottery? Stalking a celeb?”

  “Nah. Client meeting.”

  “Nice. So thirty minutes?”

  “My arteries are already hardening at the thought.”

  Chapter 4

  When Black arrived at the fast food restaurant the parking lot was full, and he had to circle around twice before a car pulled out so he could shoehorn the Eldorado into the spot. Stan was already seated at his usual booth, munching on a double burger with enough calories to sustain a small village. Black ordered a chicken sandwich, his concession to health since Sylvia had been pushing him to follow a more sensible diet, but went large on the fries and the soda so he wouldn’t be shaking from hunger by late afternoon. He carried the plastic tray to Stan’s table and sat down.

  “Hey, big man. What’s the haps?” he asked, noting the rivulet of grease trickling down Stan’s chin without comment.

  “Just another day in paradise. Had a double come in this morning – some kid high on ‘lean’ decided that his mother had scolded him one too many times, so he took a machete to her and then blew his own head off.” Stan worked homicide, and he routinely saw the worst humanity could perpetrate. Which apparently didn’t hamper his appetite – he was attacking his burger like a great white.

  “Went sling blade on her, huh?”

  “Yeah, the whole apartment looked like one of those performance art paintings, you know? Where everyone gets naked, pours paint on themselves and then rolls around on a big canvas? I’m talking blood everywhere,” Stan said, chewing with gusto.

  “What’s ‘lean,’ by the way? Some new drug?”

  “Been around for a while. Popular in the south, but it’s showing up in California more and more. Made out of cough syrup, candy, and watermelon soda. Nasty shit. It can kill you, and it can also cause delusions, paranoia, hallucinations, violent behavior…basically a poor man’s PCP.”

  “What’ll the kids think of next? What ever happened to stealing five bucks out of Dad’s wallet and buying some rotgut bourbon?”

  “You just described my typical Friday night.”

  Black smiled. “Well, I spent my morning with the rich and famous. Got a live one.” He gave Stan the rundown on his newest client, and asked him to run Zane Bradley through the computers to see what came up.

  Stan phoned it in, and then returned to savaging his lunch. He washed down a huge wad of partially chewed beef, cheese, and bacon with some full tilt soda a
nd regarded Black with a sad expression. “Wow. Look at you. So now you’re going to be hanging out with supermodels? I so should have quit the force and become a PI. I hate you.”

  “Yeah, if you enjoy living hand to mouth and not sleeping for weeks at a time, this is the perfect gig. Not to mention learning to get really good at peeing in a Gatorade bottle during stakeouts.”

  “At least my subjects don’t require that. They’re usually not moving by the time I get to them.” Stan scowled at Black’s sandwich. “What the hell is that?”

  “Chicken. I’m watching my weight.”

  “Why? You look like a triathlete.”

  “Hardly. More like three athletes strapped together, so I’m cutting back on the red meat.”

  “Okay, maybe a chunky triathlete. Does this have something to do with Miss Sweden?”

  “Switzerland. Sylvia’s Swiss. Like the chocolate.”

  “Is that where porno movies come from? I get confused.”

  “I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m just trying to lose a few.”

  “Well, I found the ones you lost,” Stan said. “The last time I went to the doctor, he wanted to shoot video to prove to his colleagues I was still alive. I think he’s writing a book about me.”

  “At least you’ve got that going for you,” Black said, and took a bite out of his poultry sandwich, which suddenly looked a lot smaller to him. He eyed the remains of Stan’s burger with barely concealed envy.

  “What have you found out about our buddy Ernest? Is he going out dancing at night? Pole vaulting? Parkour?”

  “Nah. So far, dead end. He’s not working a night job, either. I spent two nights outside his house, and he never left except to go to the store.”

  Stan nodded. “Damn. So much for that theory. Have you seen anything suspicious?”

  “Nope. I mean, he’s walking around, but that’s about it. And he had the collar on when he went to the store just after dawn, so it could be genuine.”

  “Not a chance. The guy’s a fecal speck. You saw his job history. This is his con. Gets a gig for a little while, hurts himself, cashes in and gets enough to live off for a year or so, then does it again. Beats the crap out of working.”

  “I’m not disagreeing. I’m just saying I haven’t caught him doing anything sketchy yet.” Black took another bite and shoveled a handful of greasy fries into his mouth. “You could always set fire to his house and film him when he comes running out.”

  “Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me.”

  “Long story short, this ain’t gonna be easy. If he isn’t really hurt, he’s being careful to keep up the act.”

  “Then what can we do? If we pay this dirtbag off, we have to shut down the business.”

  “I don’t know. But we’re smart guys. We’ll think of something.”

  “I do like the fire idea.”

  “I know. Certain simplicity to it. Too bad it’s illegal.”

  “Frigging cops ruin everything.”

  “They take the fun out of living, don’t they?”

  “Tell me about it. Used to be a guy could solve his problems in a civilized manner with a baseball bat and a pair of gardening shears. Now? It’s all about attorneys. And I’m the bad guy.”

  “If you firebomb his house, it could be spun that way.”

  “Bastards.”

  Black was plowing through the rest of his fries when Stan’s cell rang. Stan fumbled with fingers slick from grease and pulled the phone from his jacket pocket. After a brief conversation salted liberally with curses, he hung up.

  “Sorry, man. Gotta run. Body turned up in Griffith Park, and I got the ticket. Never a dull day in murder central,” he said, squeezing his impressive girth from the booth as he spoke.

  “Not a problem. Don’t sweat Ernest. If he’s faking it, I’ll nail him.” Black took a final wedge of fries and stuffed them into his mouth, swallowed after chewing three times, and then stood. “Do me a favor. Stay away from Ernest, would you? Tempting as it is, I don’t want to have to bail you out for putting him in a body cast.”

  “Was it that obvious I was thinking about having a heart to heart with him?”

  “I know you too well, buddy. That’s all I’ll say. Leave him to me once I’m back.”

  “That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks, dawg – or at least I should be. Now I have to go try to figure out why one bum would stab another over a shopping cart full of crap and then pass out drunk ten feet from the body. What a wonderful country we live in, huh?”

  “Land of opportunity. Oh, and don’t forget about Zane.”

  Stan wiped his hands on his jacket and then snapped his fingers. “Right. Come out to my car. I’ll check my email on my iPad. Depending on how busy they are, the desk can sometimes get a simple trace like that done within a few minutes.”

  Black followed Stan to his unmarked sedan and waited while he tapped at his new toy.

  “Eureka. We got a hit. Here’s his home and work.”

  Black jotted the addresses down on the back of one of his business cards. “Thanks. Pretty cool technology. I was expecting it to take all day.”

  “It can, but there aren’t a lot of guys with that name in L.A. So you got lucky.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Let me know if you come up with anything on Ernest,” Stan said as he started his car. The big engine roared to life and Stan slammed his door closed. Black nodded and gave him a mock salute.

  “You got it, Detective. You’ll be the first to know.”

  Chapter 5

  Zane worked at a shop in the garment district that specialized in high-end furs. Black stopped at the drive-through window of his bank and deposited Daniel’s check, and twenty minutes later parked a block from the fur merchant. The chicken sandwich burned in his stomach as he strolled down the grimy sidewalk past a group of runaway street kids passing around a joint, unconcerned by the uniformed LAPD cop standing obliviously on the corner watching the world go by.

  Black’s eyes roved over the shop signs until he found the one for Bardashian Fine Furs, mounted over a gleaming black marble façade with blue-tinted display windows. He approached the store and stopped in front of it, taking his time as he admired the mannequins draped in expensive-looking fur coats before entering the shop. A security guard sat reading a magazine in one corner as an impossibly handsome young man helped a teenage girl into a coat while an older woman stood inspecting the fit.

  “I don’t know, Mom. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s…too heavy,” the girl whined.

  “Lita, it’s gorgeous. Seriously. Of course it’s heavy. You’ll need something substantial for Paris. It’s cold there.”

  The man brushed imaginary lint from her shoulder and straightened the collar. “It does look fabulous on you. I mean, really. Makes a statement. If you want to stage a grand entrance at the Place de l’Opéra, this will do the trick, even in Paris.” The young man’s words were carefully pronounced, cultured with a worldliness older than his years.

  The older woman nodded. “You hear that? I’m with Zane. You look like a million, dear. And the color’s perfect for you,” she said, eyeing Zane with a predatory smile that never reached her eyes.

  “Fine. I just hope none of my friends ever see me in it. They’d never let me live it down. Fur’s so…gross. Nobody in the U.S. wears it anymore,” the girl complained. To Black’s ear her nasal voice grated like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Well, I predict it will make a comeback. Besides which, you’re going to be in France, not Melrose. They’re far more sophisticated over there,” Zane declared with a theatrical hand wave.

  “We’ll take the coat, Zane. Put it on our account. Can you keep it in cold storage until her trip next week? I’ll send one of the staff by to pick it up before she goes.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Avedikian. It’s a wonderful choice. I’ll put it with the rest of your furs.”

  Zane helped the girl out of the fur and she adjusted her polo shirt
, relieved to have the coat off. The woman joined Zane at the counter and signed for the purchase, and then mother and daughter left in a cloud of expensive perfume, leaving Black alone with Zane and the sleepy guard.

  “Yes, sir. May I help you?” Zane asked.

  “Zane Bradley. My name’s Black. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you have a moment.”

  Zane studied Black and glanced away. “I don’t know. I’m awfully busy just now.”

  “I can see that. It won’t take long.”

  “Are you a reporter? I don’t talk to reporters.”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  The young man’s gaze roved over Black’s retro-cut suit and settled on his face. “You aren’t a cop. I can see that from the outfit.”

  “No, not a cop. I’m a private investigator.”

  Zane’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m looking into some regrettable incidents related to an agency you used to work for. The Demille agency?”

  “Regrettable incidents?” Zane echoed suspiciously.

  “Yes. Apparently it’s gotten dangerous being one of their models. Do you know anything about that?”

  “No. I don’t talk to anyone in that world now. Ever since…” his voice trailed off.

  “I know about the…difficulty.”

  “Very diplomatic of you. That little episode should be a public service announcement – a cautionary tale against too much gin and coke. If I could turn back time…” Zane said softly.

  “Yes, well, we all make mistakes, right?”

  “Easy for you to say. Most mistakes don’t go viral and result in the end of a fabulous career. Literally overnight. Mistake’s a pretty tame word for it.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s all been covered. I flipped out. I was drunk and high and hadn’t slept for three days, partying with some friends in town for a concert they were playing. I got pulled over, and I went off on the cops. Not much more to tell. My modeling career got shit canned from the witch hunt. And now I’m selling overpriced pelts to snot-nosed brats in my dad’s store instead of jetting to Milan. End of story,” Zane spat, bitterness in every word. “What’s funny is I’m not even a racist. I mean, I’ve had I don’t know how many black boyfriends. It was totally unlike me. Needless to say, I’m not drinking or using anymore. My career in ruins sobered me up quick.”