Black

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The glimmer of overhead stars was replaced by the flare of city lights spreading endlessly before him like a neon blanket, and Black left the top down as he drove, the rarified atmosphere of Bel Air gradually replaced by the thicker, polluted smell of Los Angeles proper. His earbud trilled as he dialed his old friend Stan Colt's number - an LAPD homicide detective who had been instrumental in convincing Black to go into the PI game and had done his best to steer clients his way whenever he could. Black had known Stan for over twenty years, from way back in his band days, and their unusual friendship had survived the test of time, through all Black's ups and downs - mainly downs.

"What the hell are you doing calling this late? You get arrested?" Stan answered, his usually gruff voice like a Rottweiler's warning growl.

"Nah. Just left a meeting with my newest client, who had the pleasure of your company this evening. I was wondering if you were thirsty."

"It's Monday night. Eleven o'clock. What do you think?"

"So the Club Room in fifteen?" The Club Room was one of their usual watering holes, a dive off South Doheny that served strong drinks for fair prices.

"Make it ten. I gotta be up early tomorrow and I need my beauty rest."

"I'm on my way."

Black eased open the battered enamel door to the lounge and stepped into the gloom. The room was sparsely populated with life's trammeled and unfortunate: a pock-faced Asian bartender stood polishing glasses behind the long mahogany bar, a pair of middle-aged men took serious pulls on tall draft beers at the far end, and an aging woman sat at one of the middle stools, sipping gin, her eyes taking him in with a flicker of interest before settling back on her reflection in the mirror. He glanced around and chose one of the empty tables near the bathroom and waited for the bartender to walk over and take his order: two bottles of Anchor Steam beer, which he knew from experience would be delivered freezing cold with a plastic cup of stale pretzel sticks.

"And two shots of Jack on the side," he called after the little man, who raised a single hand in halfhearted acknowledgement as he returned to his station.

Just as the drinks arrived, Stan pushed through the door, and after a quick scan of the interior approached Black's table and sat across from him. Black considered his friend's craggy face, pummeled by years of hard duty and unmentionable images, his thick brown hair beginning to gray at the temples, a look in his eyes like a Bassett Hound that had been kicked once too often. Stan reached wordlessly over to the shot, raised it in salute, and downed it in a single swallow, then grimaced before exhaling loudly, the alcohol pungent on his breath. Black echoed the action, and they stared at each other for a few beats before Black broke the ice.

"Just took a job working for Hunter."

"Couldn't find a gig cleaning septic tanks?"

"He's not so bad. Says he's being framed."

"That's pretty much what they all say. Other than, 'I din't do it.'"

"You really think he's behind the killings?"

Stan sighed and took a thirsty gulp of his beer. "I don't know. The guy's connected to them in some way, that much I know. And he hates the head of the company all these clowns work for. What's his name, Freddie Psycho?"

"Sypes. Freddie Sypes. But from what I hear, lots of people hate the guy. It's a long line."

"I'm not arguing with you, but every one of these killings has been related to your new pal's movie. Which has been getting a fair amount of attention as a result. I mean, come on. He's over the hill, hasn't had a hit since eight-track tapes were big, and then on what's being called his big comeback flick the paparazzi start dropping like flies? Why this, why now?"

"So your theory is that this is all some kind of desperate publicity stunt?" Black asked.

"I have no theory. I'm just saying there are an awful lot of bodies down at the morgue since he wrapped filming. Seems like it's gotten hazardous to be a freelance photographer around Mr. Hunter, wouldn't you say?"

"It's too obvious, Stan. The guy's not a moron. He's got to know that he'd be the first person you'd look at, given his track record. Besides, Hollywood bigwigs don't off lowlife photogs for publicity. Not even in this town. Not without a permit."

"Fair point. Besides which, we don't have enough to hold him. Which you know since he's out driving his Rolls or whatever instead of sitting in the joint saying 'ahh' for Bubba."

"Have you considered that he's being set up?"

"Sure. The problem is, by who? And to what end? I mean, his crappy movie is getting more press than if the President had gone skinny-dipping with a Mexican hooker, and suddenly a guy who's invisible to the media is front page news. How is any of that bad for the guy who keeps saying, 'Woe is me'?" Stan asked.

"Do you have anything on the car crash?"

"Off the record, no. They're still working it. Trust me, you don't want the crap job of trying to do a forensic exam on three bodies after a fireball gets through with 'em. Same with the mechanical evaluation. This ain't CSI Miami. We've got two vehicles that look like somebody put 'em in a car crusher, three stiffs that make beef jerky look good, and no answers."

"I probably shouldn't say this, but I get the feeling that Hunter was banging her."

"Big deal. People bang each other all the time. This is Hollywood. Banging is like ordering a latte or something, except for guys like you and me. Everyone else in this town is out banging right now - while we're sitting in this armpit talking about how your client is out banging. Did you ever see that Melody chick? She was smoking. She probably had guys crawling through broken glass to bang her. Besides which, Hunter has a rep as a lady's man, so it comes as no surprise. But it doesn't get us any closer to the hows or whys of the case."

They drank their beers in silence, then Black stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "You should see Hunter's wife. I mean, she's just raw sex appeal. I met her this afternoon, and she was trying to get me to join her for quickie in the bathroom before the man of the house got home. I'm not making this up."

"Poor you. Believe it or not, that doesn't happen to middle-aged homicide dicks with beer bellies and bad attitudes. I should have been a PI."

"It's never too late. The hours are terrible and the pay stinks."

"Right now, that doesn't sound so bad. At least you don't spend your days putting thermometers in corpses and listening to sociopaths lie to you."

"Never say never. The night is young."

"But we're not. You going to have another one, or are we hitting it?"

"I have a ton of stuff on my plate tomorrow. But listen, will you do me a favor? Would you give me a heads up if you come across anything that implicates our boy, or points you in another direction? Just so I'm on the same page and don't step on your toes."

"You mean will I knowingly reveal pertinent information in a homicide case to someone working for our prime suspect?"

"You make it sound so ugly."

"That's what I do." Stan chuckled, a dry, harsh sound.

Black wished he'd brought his cigarettes in with him. Not that he could smoke in the bar - the nanny state had made that illegal along with just about everything else that was fun or felt good. But the craving was stronger than he could have believed, and he shifted uncomfortably, silently cursing his weakness, which inevitably intensified when his blood alcohol level spiked.

"So will you keep me in the loop?" he asked, trying not to radiate desperation.

Stan leaned back in his chair and swung his leonine head around, looking for the bartender. He caught the Asian's eye and lifted the bottle of beer, then held two fingers aloft before returning his attention to Black with a humorless smile.

"Of course I will. But you're buying the drinks tonight."

Black sighed in resignation. "I may be easy, but I'm not cheap."

"We'll see about that."