Black

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Orange and red streaked the sky as the sun shimmered through the smog layer that hung across Los Angeles like a beige blanket, a perennial part of life in the big city, as tenacious as a divorce lawyer and equally pleasant. The storm had blown through and exhausted itself the prior night, and not a cloud now marred the balmy spring day.

A convertible white 1973 Cadillac Eldorado, the top down, growled its way through traffic on the gridlocked streets leading into downtown, consuming enough gas to power a cruise ship, its red leather upholstery faded from the years but still garish enough to turn heads. AC/DC blared from the crackling speakers, the singer's shrieking caterwauling a lewd promise over the driving guitars and thumping drums, drawing stares from a few of the surrounding cars' occupants - those not on the phone making deals or excuses or promises they had no intentions of keeping.

The light on La Cienega turned red and the big car rolled to a stop as Artemus Black punched the button on his cell phone and listened to the warbling ring on his earpiece. He was running late, and hoped that his office manager, Roxie, had made it in before him - he hated to set a poor example by being tardy, but hadn't accounted for the pileup that had put a twenty-minute dent into his well-oiled plans.

He considered his reflection in the rearview mirror as he waited for her to pick up, noting that his gleaming black hair, cut like mid-career Elvis, could use a trim. His piercing blue eyes radiated intelligence and a sincerity he rarely felt, although he would certainly pretend to care if he thought it was important to a case or could gain him an advantage. And he looked sharp in his choice of lightweight gray vintage-cut suit - very Bogey, he thought with satisfaction, straightening the skinny oxblood tie, also vintage, and in keeping with his preferred style of Elmore Leonard-era noir. At least that was his perception.

"Black Investigations - er, crap, I mean, Solutions. Black Solutions. May I help you?" Roxie answered on the fifth ring, sounding frazzled.

"Nice. Very professional, Roxie," Black chided. The name change had been his latest idea for increasing business and being able to charge more per hour. Investigations sounded lower-end, whereas Solutions...well, who wouldn't pay a few bucks more for a solution to their problem, whatever it was? It had come to him about midway through a self-help and motivational program he'd been listening to, taught by a self-declared success guru and celebrity flim-flam seminar speaker whose claim to fame was hosting fire-walk programs and group stadium gropes of orgiastic affirmation.

"Whatever. It's a stupid name. I don't see what was wrong with the old one," Roxie responded.

"It didn't reflect our scope."

"What does that even mean?"

Black had been working with Roxie on improving her attitude, but some days it seemed like a losing battle. It was a pity she was so good at what she did - running the office, juggling administrative duties and research that made the FBI look like neophytes.

"It means I think we can improve our brand, Roxie."

"Our...brand. I see. Have you been drinking?"

"Branding is very important."

"Maybe if you're a cowboy or a steer. Wait - did you mix up your meds again?" Roxie asked.

"Please at least try to answer the phone professionally. Is that too much?"

"I don't know. I'm getting confused about our brand. Are we not a private detective agency named after that Brad Pitt movie?"

"We're a solutions enterprise group. We provide security and investigation solutions. Brad Pitt has nothing to do with it."