Black

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Jackhammer pounding from Black's front door reverberated inside the cramped apartment. He sat up and his head swam. Nausea overwhelmed him, and he had to choke back the sour bile that threatened to seep out of his nose as he fought for breath. A tight band of agony had been fastened around his head, a medieval torture device fit for the Inquisition, and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting from the pain.

"Black. Yo, man, what up, homeboy? You in there? I ain't got all day. Some of us got to work for a living, you know?"

Cesar's voice sliced through the walls and into Black's brain like a lance of white-hot agony, and it all came back to him as he forced his eyes open. He was lying face down on his bed, his shirt bunched up around his chest, his slacks now wrinkled beyond salvation.

The Cadillac. Being responsible. Taking care of business.

Black sat up and swallowed the metallic taste of partially metabolized whiskey and cigarettes. He vaguely recalled the series of bad decisions that had led up to him passing out, but the knocking from his front door interrupted his quiet introspection.

"Crap. Just a second, Cesar. I'm in the can."

"Okay, homeboy, no problem. Man's gotta do what he's gotta do, an' all," Cesar answered, a man of boundless discretion.

Two minutes later Black's crusted red eyes peered through a crack in the door as he winced away the worst of the harsh morning light. The Earth must have moved nearer the sun while he'd been sleeping because the glare was blinding. Black avoided looking directly at Cesar's goateed face, two tears tattooed below his left eye, and handed him the Eldorado key on a ring with his The Club key. Cesar appraised him and nodded knowingly after taking in his matted hair, dusting of beard, and face lined and creased from the folds of the blanket.

"Sorry, man. I...I got the flu," Black said, his voice sounding phlegmy and gravelly, cracking on the final word.

"Yeah. We all been there, man. Lot a that going around, you know?"

"So I hear."

"Awright. I'll take the boat into the shop and letchou know what the damage is later on today, okay, vato?"

"Sure thing. Just call whenever. You know the number."

"Yeah, uh huh. And you got money, right? We straight on that?" Cesar asked.

"Sure. Of course. I'm flush this week."

"Cool. Okay, then. We good."

Black shut the door and turned to face his living room, then leaned against the door and slid until he was sitting on the floor. What the hell had he been thinking? Good God almighty. What was it? Tuesday? It wasn't his birthday or Christmas, so why had he gone out on a bender like that and gotten obliterated?

The only good news was that he had no work, no clients, and no prospects, so his phone wouldn't be ringing. He exhaled as if confirming that his pulmonary system was still functioning, then willed himself off the carpet and back into the bedroom.

He was just composing the text message to Roxie alerting her that he had an offsite meeting that day when his windows rattled from a concussive blast out on the street. Stunned, he staggered back to his front door and threw it open, stumbled out onto the second story walkway, and looked toward the front of the complex. A pillar of black smoke was pouring from a point down the block. Black barely registered the rough concrete stairs on his bare feet as he descended to the ground level. Once there he increased his pace, the whirring in his head receding as adrenaline flooded his compromised system, and by the time he passed Gracie's door, which was swinging wide as she emerged to investigate the commotion, his heart was thudding like he'd run a four-minute mile.