BLACK Is Back (2 page)

“Because it means I’m getting older.”

“Mmm. And that depresses you?”

“Sure. My body’s breaking down, cells are dividing in alarming ways, and it’s just a matter of time until…”

“Until your next birthday?”

“No. Until death.”

“Death. So your birthday makes you think about death?”

“Not all the time. But this one does. Forty-three. It’s impossible to pretend I’m still that young, you know?”

“
Pretend
. So you feel like you need to pretend you’re younger than you are – to yourself?” Kelso asked, his voice flat, the question more of a statement than an interrogative. “Or to others?”

“You know what I mean. You can sort of tell yourself that there’s a special exclusionary clause for yourself. That you’re different. That time’s not having its way with you like it is with everyone else.”

“I see. So you can pretend that your bad habits aren’t having the negative effect you would expect?”

“Well, not so much that. Or rather, sure, that, as well as the idea that you still have a lot of road ahead of you.”

“Which is an illusion. Nobody knows how much time they have left. A piano could fall on you as you leave the building.”

“I’ll make sure I avoid piano movers,” Black said.

Kelso paused. “You smoke, don’t you?”

“I’m trying to quit.”

“Trying,” Kelso intoned.

“Trying.”

“But a birthday signals that another year of that unsuccessful trying has gone by, despite your best efforts.” Kelso hesitated, never a good sign to Black. “You’ve also mentioned that you drink quite a bit?”

“Not quite a bit. I mean, sometimes I have a few too many. But everyone does.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone I know.”

“Mmm. I see. So everyone you know has a substance abuse problem.”

“No. That’s not it at all. It’s just not unknown for guys to have more than they should sometimes. It happens.”

“If you say so. But back to death. Why do you associate death with your birthday?”

“I don’t. But I think it’s natural to associate aging with death. I mean, that’s the end result of aging, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it is. And how does that make you feel?”

“I…it just seems unfair, you know? That you can do everything right, and you still get death as your reward in the end.”

“Does it make you angry?”

“No.”

Kelso remained silent.

“Okay, maybe a little. But what’s the point of getting angry over something that’s inevitable?”

“So you
do
get angry, even though you know there’s no point.”

The chime sounded, indicating the session’s end. “You know what the bell means. Our time’s up,” Kelso said.

“Why do I feel crappier after talking to you than I do before? Is that the way this is supposed to work?”

“The process isn’t designed to make you feel immediately better. We’ve discussed that. It’s a longer term goal than instant gratification. So, same time next week?”

Black knew better than to continue trying to engage with Kelso after the bell had rung. He’d have better luck with a sphinx.

“Sure. In a week.” Black stood and left the office, stopping to pay the receptionist on his way out. He was all but totally convinced now that the man was a charlatan and that the sessions were doing nothing for him but draining his bank account. After God knows how many of these meetings, he couldn’t point to any improvement Kelso made. Black descended to the street and wondered what other job you could fail at for years and still get paid for, other than therapist or weatherman, and maybe politician. What a racket.

He approached his new-to-him car – a white 1973 Eldorado convertible he’d bought in Nevada after his last, identical car had exploded – and dropped the top after starting the engine so it could warm up. The sun beamed down through the morning haze, the mountains in the distance invisible due to pollution.

Kelso was full of it. Sure, another birthday was right around the corner, and sure, Black wasn’t delighted at the prospect, nor was he happy that increasingly it was his father’s face that stared back at him from the mirror, but he didn’t have it so bad. His new relationship with Sylvia, a beautiful artist from Switzerland, was going well, and his business had picked up a little, so he wasn’t completely broke. It could have been a lot worse.

Hell, it had been, only a few short weeks earlier.

He pulled into traffic and a Dodge Caravan almost collided with him, the driver having veered into his lane without looking. Black stomped on his brakes and slammed the heel of his hand into the center of the steering wheel, only to discover that the horn didn’t work. Stymied from a righteous expression of indignation, he yelled in outrage, but the van continued on its oblivious way. He debated catching up to it and flipping the bastard off, but then thought better of it – getting worked up over a lousy driver’s thoughtless behavior was no way to begin his day, and wasn’t consistent with the newfound attitude of Buddha-like tolerance he’d been working on.

The cigarettes in his glove compartment called to him like little nicotine sirens, but he ignored them. He would not start off his work week with an act of weakness. This was the week he would find the strength to quit for good.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

He didn’t want to paint himself into any corners with rash declarations, after all. One day at a time. That was best. Today, he wouldn’t smoke. He was almost a hundred percent sure.

Only not so sure that he’d throw the cigarettes away.

As he motored toward his office, ten minutes away from the good doctor’s, he felt a pang of guilt over his inability to show some backbone, which he immediately shook off. Because, as he more than knew, even with the best of intentions, he was a weak man. Especially with a birthday coming up. Anything could happen, and it was probably best not to be wasteful.

The craving for a smoke returned, and he silently cursed it. He wouldn’t bend. He was better than the manufacturers who had spent billions conditioning him to ingest a substance that stank, was expensive, and would likely kill him. They wouldn’t prevail. Not again.

And this time, he really meant it.

Chapter 3

Black mounted the stairs to his second-floor offices carrying a newspaper and a cup of overpriced coffee, his black hair slicked back in a retro cut he believed lent him the sophisticated air of a forties-era film star. That impression was reinforced by his suit and tie, which could have been taken straight from a Bogey flick. He glanced at his watch as he reached his floor and regarded his office door, the Black Investigations lettering already beginning to peel – another budget job gone wrong, which he should have seen coming when the contractor’s bid was half the price of any of the rest of the quotes.

He pushed open the door and was startled by his assistant, Roxie, peering behind the file cabinets, not at her usual position at her computer. She was wearing her typical ensemble of all black, her full-sleeve tattoos on display for the entertainment of his clients.

Perhaps another reason he didn’t have many.

“Good morning. What are you doing?” he asked.

She looked up at him, and he noted that her customary black hair dye had been abandoned in favor of neon red. “I can’t find Mugsy,” she said, worry etched across her face. Mugsy was the obese cat that had adopted Black when he’d rented the office.

“What do you mean? The fat bastard never leaves. Too much energy required to move off the couch, unless it’s to destroy one of my prized possessions.”

“I came in this morning, and he was gone.”

“And here I was thinking that it was going to be another bad day.”

“I’m serious. He’s not here.”

“So am I.”

Roxie threw him a black glare. “You love that cat.”

“Nothing lasts forever. Like my executive chair that he willfully shredded last month.”

“I’m worried he got out and is lost.”

“Right. Freezing to death in the seventy-degree weather, and wasting away to where he’s only…really fat.”

“Don’t be an ass-hat, boss. He could get hit by a car.”

“The car would lose on that one. Like hitting a cow. Or a deer.”

“Could you please be serious, just for a minute? He’s missing.”

“Roxie. He’s a stray cat. He managed just fine before finding a sucker like me to sponge off. I’m sure he’s just out roaming around. That’s what cats do. Alley cats. Although the odds of Mugsy being able to fit into most alleys is a stretch…”

“We need to find him,” she announced, returning to her station.

Black nodded, as though considering the idea. “And how do we do that?”

“I’ll go walk around the neighborhood.”

“Great idea. Instead of doing the work that’s part of your employment, you’re going to spend your day looking for a destructive cat that hates me. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I think he’s got a thyroid problem. I’ve been reading up on it.”

“He’s got an eating-too-much-and-not-moving-around-enough problem.”

She glared at him again. “You’re not helping.”

“You want me to notify the authorities? Maybe they can get a helicopter to go block by block. Do a grid search.”

The phone on Roxie’s desk rang. She ignored it. “Seriously, boss. I’m worried.”

Black frowned at the phone. “Are you going to answer that?”

“Are you going to stop treating Mugsy’s absence like a joke?”

“Roxie. Your job is to answer the phone. Is that too much to ask?”

“What phone?”

The phone rang again.

“That one.”

“Oh.”

Black sighed in defeat. “Fine, Roxie. Answer the phone, and then you can take an hour to look for Mugsy,” he said as he moved into his office.

“Black Investigations,” she said, and then transferred the call to his desk. “It’s your buddy Bobby,” she called. “Line one.”

Bobby Sorell was an entertainment attorney who’d helped Black start his PI business and still referred him clients. As well as being the lawyer who’d slept with Black’s eighteen-year-old wife and orchestrated a deal where Black got peanuts while she became a bazillionaire from the royalties of songs he’d written. It was a long story and a complicated one, but over time they’d developed a friendship, and Black now counted Bobby as one of his closer friends.

Black lifted the headset to his ear and stabbed the line active. “Bobby. What’s shaking?”

“Not much. The usual. Too little money and too much work.”

Black knew Bobby was as rich as a Central American dictator. “That’s a shame. I hate to think of you slaving away over a pile of contracts. I mean, the paper cuts alone are hazard enough.”

“Laugh all you want. My life is complicated,” Bobby said.

“No argument there.”

“Enough about my ugly little world. I was calling to see if you could come over today. I’ve got a potential new client for you. And I need a hand with something personal.”

“Are you coming on to me?”

“Not like that, you pervert. I mean with a personal issue.”

“A personal issue? I…hesitate to ask.”

“It’s nothing like that. I’ll explain it when you get here. Maybe lunch? I’ll buy.”

“I can’t today. I’ve got a lunch date already. How’s the rest of your day look?”

“I’m slammed too. What about tomorrow? Lunch
mañana
?”

“Now we’re talking. Where?”

“Let’s say Factor’s at noon?”

“I’m all over it. See you then. But can you at least tell me about the client now?”

“He’s in the music business. Should be right up your alley. Perfect for you.”

“Music, huh? All right, Mr. Mysterious, I’ll see you tomorrow. Consider it a date. And don’t be late – you know I’m a busy guy,” Black said before hanging up.

Roxie appeared in his doorway, a look of concern on her usually uninterested face. “No BS, boss. I want to go look for Mugs. I can’t concentrate knowing he’s out there, all alone…”

“He’s not alone. He’s so fat it’s like he’s got a whole second cat accompanying him.”

“That’s mean.”

“He looks like a bowling ball with legs.”

“He’s got a condition.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

She stared at him, a moue of disapproval a testament to his cold-heartedness. In the face of that sort of resistance, he had no choice but to cave.

“Okay, Roxie, take an hour or two and look for him. But I have to get out of here for lunch with Sylvia – it’s our one-month anniversary, which is kind of a big deal, so please be back by then. Much as I’d like to operate the office’s hours around Mugsy’s walkabout schedule, we still have to make a living, and that means someone needs to answer the phone. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure, boss. By the way, nice suit.”

A smile began to form on Black’s face, and then he stopped, suspicious, her flattery as unexpected as it was likely insincere. “Really? Or are you F-ing with me?”

“No.”

“No, you’re not F-ing with me, or no, the suit isn’t nice?”

“Door number two,” she said.

Black met Sylvia at her favorite restaurant, a small Italian bistro near her apartment that had a light touch and a heavy pour. She was glowing, as usual, radiating an inner energy unlike any Black had ever seen. They ordered lunch, and Black reached across the table and took her hand. She threw him a megawatt smile and waited expectantly.

“This has been an amazing month, Sylvia.”

“May. Every year, same time. Right after April.”

“You know what I mean.”

She got serious. “I do. It’s been incredible for me too. Hard to believe that in this whole city, we managed to meet.”

“Try in this whole world. Switzerland’s a long way from Los Angeles.”

“Indeed. A world apart.”

The waiter brought their drinks: brimming glasses of Pinot Grigio for her, Chianti for him. They toasted and sat appreciatively, enjoying each other’s company, the milestone of thirty days significant for them both. It had been a long dry run for Black before meeting her, and it couldn’t have happened at a more opportune time. Perhaps most significantly, his seething anger had receded since they’d been together, and they were now making plans as a couple, a unit – something Black realized he’d been missing since his previous relationship had crashed and burned.