BLACK to Reality
Authors: Russell Blake
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Hard-Boiled, #Private Investigators
BLACK to Reality
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2014 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Contents
The Assassin Series by Russell Blake
The JET Series by Russell Blake
The BLACK Series by Russell Blake
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
Excerpt from The Geronimo Breach
Thrillers by Russell Blake
FATAL EXCHANGE
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
The Assassin Series by Russell Blake
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
The JET Series by Russell Blake
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
The BLACK Series by Russell Blake
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
Non Fiction by Russell Blake
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
BLACK to Reality
Chapter 1
Ten months earlier, Los Angeles, California
A spotlight played over the crowd at the Pomona Fairgrounds as the band onstage delivered the last song of their short set to cheers and whoops. The sky was dark, night having fallen an hour earlier, and the assembled throng’s eyes glittered as the beam lit them as it passed from section to section.
Four bikers in denim and leather eyed a pair of tipsy sorority girls dancing with each other to the pounding beat. Oblivious to their admirers, they swayed together as the harmonies kicked in on the funky chorus. A trio of Latino youths with tattoos running up their necks pushed by, bandannas tied around shaved heads, eyes darting furtively as they avoided the bikers. The metal detector at the entry gates had discouraged any weapons from entering the venue.
The band hit the final chord, and the singer, Goth ebony ducktails gleaming, held up a black-gloved hand with two fingers extended in a victory sign. He soaked up the applause while pretending to ignore the camera crew filming his practiced stance, adoring his shirt bedecked with ruffles and Victorian frills and his shiny latex pants that left little question about his endowment. Peals of feminine laughter greeted the guitar player’s tossing of his soaked T-shirt into the audience, and then the stage went dark in preparation for the set change. The band sauntered off to the side, led by flickering flashlights as the crew took possession of the area and spirited the equipment away so the final act could perform.
The concert was part of the
Rock of Ages
competition, a musical talent show and reality TV show whose goal was to find the “best band of the year,” per its much-hyped tagline, centering around the trials and tribulations of the bands as they competed in a series of elimination rounds. On this, the show finale, a roster of name acts had been invited to play for the packed crowd, and each band had worked hard to outdo the others in sheer intensity, if not talent. The earlier song by the first of the two surviving groups had been a showstopper, and the tension was palpable as the final act prepared to deliver the performance of its career.
Backstage was pandemonium as hangers-on, band members, roadies, and film crews contended for limited space. The performers kept to themselves while burly men carried amplifiers to the exit, to be loaded into the U-Hauls that waited like orange sentries on the dirt behind the line of temporary dressing rooms erected that morning. A comedian dabbed his brow by the monitor mixing board, wisecracking with his manager, who’d turned out for his client’s first national television appearance, albeit only the entertainment between the main attractions.
Recorded music blared from the PA system as the final band’s roadies began the laborious process of readying the equipment for their performance. The comedian got the cue from the stage manager and strode out. A single spotlight followed him to center stage, where a lone microphone awaited his shot at fame and fortune. The canned music faded and he began his shtick. The audience shifted restlessly as he quipped, not being there for a comedy routine but willing to endure it as part of the show.
The upcoming band members exited their dressing room and moved to stage left. The diminutive female singer was visibly agitated as she checked her watch.
“Where is he?” she fumed. “This is a disaster.”
Christina’s band was the favorite going into the hotly contested final round. Her group, Last Call, a bluesy southern-inspired rock quartet reminiscent of the Black Crowes, was neck and neck with the remaining contender, Nth Degrees, a pop-oriented act in the mold of Maroon 5. Christina’s voice, a scratchy croon reminiscent of Janis Joplin, had been a consistent crowd pleaser, and the band’s laid-back boogie approach had won many over – but she understood, now more than ever, that none of that would matter if they didn’t turn in a heart-stopping final performance.
The bass player shook his head. “He seemed fine earlier at the bar.”
“But nobody’s seen him since. Which leaves us completely screwed, Peter,” she fired back.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be here,” Ed, the drummer, assured her. “Rick wouldn’t miss it. He’ll be here any second.” He twirled a drumstick with pudgy fingers, his perennial grin beaming, offsetting Peter’s near-constant frown.
“I swear I’ll cut his balls off…” Christina threatened and then spun as loud voices called from the backstage entrance.
“Yo, homeboy. You better check yourself,” one of the gargantuan security guards warned Rick, the guitar player, who was clutching the wall for support as he made his way toward them.
Christina’s eyes narrowed as she took him in – he looked whacked out of his mind on something. His usually serious expression twisted into a crooked smile as he lit a cigarette and approached unsteadily.
“What the hell is this?” she demanded. “Are you stoned?”
“Just a little something to take the edge off. A few hits of weed. No biggie.”
“You ready to rock, wild man?” Ed asked, holding up his beer, trying to lighten the mood.
“Dude. How much did you drink?” Peter muttered to Rick as he scowled at his sister, fearing one of her infamous explosions.
A young woman a head taller than Christina marched up with a clipboard, followed by a camera crew, and Christina choked back her rage, not wanting to air her issues on national TV. By now the cameras were a constant in their lives, and she barely registered their presence, inured to them over the twelve weeks of the show’s run. The tension between Christina and Rick had been conspicuously documented as time had worn on, but that was to be expected between boyfriend and girlfriend in a high-stakes proposition like the contest. Still, she wanted to avoid any more dirt being plastered across the websites and tabloids that were following their saga, so Christina fixed a lackluster smile in place as the woman cleared her throat.
“T minus five and counting. Is everyone ready?” she asked, looking Christina dead in the eyes.
“Sarah. What a delightful surprise. I wasn’t aware we were going on shortly,” Christina said, her tone mild even as each syllable dripped with hate. Christina had cornered Rick several weeks earlier and forced a confession out of him – he’d been having an affair with Sarah for most of the last six weeks, a dirty little secret they’d managed to keep out of the viewers’ eyes but not out of Christina’s. The obvious source of the friction that had developed between Rick and Christina, it was made worse because Christina couldn’t do anything about it. Sarah was the production head and answered to the impresario who ran the show, and if Christina complained, she was afraid her big break would nosedive. Besides, if her boyfriend couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, that wasn’t anyone’s fault but his – and it wasn’t like Christina had their trysts on film, so it would be her word against Sarah’s.
She turned to watch the comedian build his bit, ignoring Sarah in a deliberately dismissive manner. What Rick saw in her, with her prim slacks and dressed-for-success blouse, escaped Christina, but every time she saw the woman, it was like a slap, and angry as she now was, she didn’t want any more interaction than necessary.
“Just doing my job, Christina. Looks like the comedian is finishing up.” Sarah glanced at Rick, who was weaving slightly as he smirked at her. “Are you all right?”
“Tip top. Never better. Gonna rock the walls down, baybee!” he declared overly loudly.
Sarah frowned and checked her watch. “When the lights go down, you have two minutes to get on stage and ready to perform. You know the drill by now.” She hesitated. “Good luck.”
Ed shook his head. “Never say that. You’re supposed to say, ‘break a leg.’”
“Right,” she said, her tone betraying her lack of interest. Sarah turned on her heel and marched away, leaving the band to its last minute preparations.
Rick blew a cloud of smoke over their heads and grabbed a bottle of beer from the cooler strategically positioned near the stage.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Peter cautioned in a stage whisper.
“Dude. Relax. You’re not my dad. I got it covered.” Rick chugged two-thirds of the bottle in four swallows and belched loudly, drawing another furious glare from Christina.
The comedian delivered his trademark punch line, and the crowd rewarded him with half-hearted laughter. The lights dimmed and the taped music came back on. A short, wiry man with ebony skin approached, wearing a rainbow-hued three-hundred-dollar silk shirt. “This is it. You gonna kill ’em dead. That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he assured them, slapping Rick on the back. Rooster was their show mentor, a blues legend who had shepherded the group through a series of successful performances. “Give it everything you got, for real, like at that last rehearsal. This is yours. You own these people.”
“Tell Rick,” Christina fumed. She strode with catlike grace onto the darkened stage, her trademark black unitard a second skin. The rest of the band trailed her, and the roadies handed Rick and Peter their instruments as Ed climbed behind his drum kit. A buzz of anticipation rose from the audience when Rick flipped on his Marshall amplifier and gave his guitar a quick check, which always infuriated Christina, who felt it was unprofessional and reduced the impact when they began playing.