BLACK to Reality (12 page)

“Hardly charity. Something about this show stinks, Black. And whether I like it or not, my name’s connected to it. It’s not like we could have found just anybody to investigate from the inside. It had to be a musician, or they wouldn’t get access. So where could I find an experienced investigator who was also big enough back in the day to be known, who would be available to take over the only open slot?”

Black shook his head. “You used me. You should have approached me–”

“Would you have said yes? With that big chip on your shoulder you walk around with and your determination to never let anyone help you – least of all, me?”

He felt his anger building and took several deep breaths. “That’s not the point.”

“Black, here’s how this is going to go down. You’ll either succeed or fail with the band based on your own abilities, not for any other reason. In the meantime you’re being paid well to figure out what, if anything, is bent about the show, so I’m not involved in a huge scandal and my name tarnished by association. Last year some of the results didn’t add up. Now, I’m not saying anyone rigged anything, but it sure was convenient for Alex that Christina’s guitar player did a major freak-out at the finals. That left a bad taste in my mouth. Don’t get me wrong – Alex is talented, but he’s not in the same league as Christina. Which brings us to you. I’m not doing you any favors here. You’re working a case I need investigated, and you’re the best man for the job. It’s strictly business. Nothing more.”

Black counted slowly to five as he drank from the can. “I haven’t seen anything weird, so you’re wasting your money.”

“That’s fine. It’s mine to waste. Maybe there’s nothing to all this – in which case, no harm done. But with you nosing around, at least I feel like I’ll know if I’m involved in a scam of some kind.”

“Then you want me to keep doing what I’m doing.”

“Correct. But no contact with me. I’m a judge. You’re a performer. I don’t want any hint of impropriety from that. This can be our only meeting.”

“Okay. I still think it’s a waste.”

“Just keep your eyes open. And a tip: you might want to talk to the old guitar player and get his side of the story. Something about how he clammed up and disappeared never set well with me. I mentioned it, but nobody seemed to care – the show had a winner, and everyone walked away happy. Except of course, Christina.”

Black’s eyes narrowed. “What is it with you and her? This almost sounds…personal.”

“Maybe it is. She reminds me of when I was starting out. Talented. Hungry. Wanting to take the world by storm on her own terms. It felt like someone punched me in the gut when she lost last year. I want to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen again. If something funny’s going on, I need to know about it, because I’ll blow the whole damned thing wide open. But I can’t go off half-cocked. It has to be provable. Which is where you come in.”

Black looked at the door. “I’ve already been here too long, Nina.”

“I know. Go back to your band. And work on your solos. You were pretty good except for that.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“You can do this, Black. You just have to want it. You weren’t playing like you want it.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t.”

She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “You do. You’re just afraid to put your all into it. I know you, Black. Remember?”

He pulled the door open and set the empty soda can down on the table next to it. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Any time.”

Black was returning to the backstage area when he heard Sylvia’s voice. “Black!”

“Sylvia? You made it!” He picked up his pace, squinting to make her out in the gloom.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Whose trailer was that?” she asked as he neared.

Damn
.

“Sylvia…”

“I noticed your ex-wife is one of the judges. How cozy. Is that her trailer?”

“Honey…”

“Never mind, Black. You’ve got your new life, rubbing shoulders with women half your age, your ex on the show with you, behaving like a teenager with no responsibility…I can’t believe I actually came here.”

He moved to hug her. “Sylvia…”

“Don’t touch me, Black. Don’t you dare touch me.”

“But it’s not like it looks,” he said, sounding completely lame even as he spoke the words.

“No, I’m sure it isn’t. As usual, you’re innocent as a lamb, and it’s all just a big mistake. Did I miss anything?”

“Sylvia…”

“Good bye, Black. Have a nice life.”

He watched as she stalked off, angrier than he’d ever seen, and debated running after her. Christina watched him from one far corner of the backstage area, and Roxie’s eyes were tracking him like radar from the other corner, where she was still talking to Alex.

Pride won, and he slowly returned to where the band was waiting, Rooster toasting with Ed, beers in their hands. “Everything okay?” Rooster asked, sizing Black up.

“What? Oh, sure. Just a little drama. My life’s way too calm right now.”

“The ladies are good for a little excitement, that’s for damn sure. You want a beer?” Rooster asked.

“Sure. I see no reason to quit drinking today…”

Alex and Roxie approached as he was finishing his first bottle, Roxie with an odd expression on her face. Alex grinned as he neared, and Black hated him for his youth, success, and good genes.

“I hope you don’t mind me stealing Roxie away from you,” he began, but Roxie cut him off.

“We’re going to grab dinner. Alex knows a cool Italian joint somewhere around here…”

“Dinner?” Black repeated.

“Roxie hasn’t eaten, and I’m starved. I’d invite you, but the show rules are pretty strict – plus, you’re going to have to do the disqualification ceremony tonight.”

“Roxie, can I talk to you for a second?” Black paused, eyeing Alex. “Alone?”

“Sure, boss,” she said, and Alex found something else to do, wandering off to congratulate the various band members on making it past the first round.

“Roxie, you don’t know this guy. And ten minutes after meeting him you’re going on a dinner date?” Black complained.

“Yeah, what was I thinking? I mean, he’s totally hot, he’s rich and famous, he’s a singer – and so am I – and he seems to be into me. I guess I should be hoping the guy over at Jiffy Lube comes on to me or something. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Roxie, he’s a huge question mark.” A sudden thought occurred to Black. “And he could be mixed up in this investigation.”

“Relax. He hasn’t asked anything about what you do. If he does, what’s your line? Security service? Don’t worry about that. He doesn’t seem interested in you at all. No offense.”

“I don’t know, Roxie…”

“I’m a big girl, okay? It’s just dinner, a few drinks, a couple of laughs. No biggie. Just me and the hottest pop sensation in America grabbing lasagna, swigging some cheap red. So chill. I can take care of myself.”

“I wasn’t implying you can’t, Roxie.”

“I know. You’re just worried about me. But don’t be. I’ll be fine. More than fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I kinda want to get back to Alex before he forgets I exist. Those Korean chicks were beaming death at me when I was talking to him.”

Black shook his head as Roxie strutted away, her black leather pants hugging her curves. The anger he’d felt in Nina’s trailer resurfaced, but with an uglier edge, and he realized as Roxie joined Alex, who seemed enraptured with her, that what he was feeling had nothing to do with the case, or Sylvia, or even Nina.

Plain and simple, he was jealous.

Chapter 13

The disqualification ceremony was depressing, even though Black wasn’t one of those getting the boot. But the look of defeat in the eyes of the losers was visceral, and not one of the assembled artists wasn’t affected. For those remaining, the second challenge two weeks later would be another gladiator battle to the death, and it could just as easily be anyone there the next time. The Irish lads took it in good stride, mostly half in the bag as far as Black could tell, and Lou and two other security men helped them get their things – they’d have one night in a motel and then catch the next flight back to Ireland.

Black called Sylvia that night at eleven, but she didn’t answer. He left a message on her voicemail asking her to call him, but he wasn’t holding his breath. That he was innocent of any wrongdoing didn’t matter – the innocent were routinely the first to get brutalized, he knew from experience.

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about his predecessor’s gaffe, which reminded him somewhat of his own back in the Nina days: a last minute screw-up that cost him everything. That Black’s meltdown had been a bar fight while Rick’s had been showing up wasted was more a question of style than anything material. They’d both made poor decisions that had cost them their futures. Black’s final thought as his consciousness faded was that he needed to track Rick down and have a heart-to-heart.

The next day was a balmy one, the sky clear and blue, the air fresh from a light breeze blowing off the ocean. Black knew from talking to Ed that Rick worked at a guitar superstore on Sunset. The store wasn’t open on Sundays, so Black would have to sneak out of the mansion on a curfew day to grill him. He resolved to duck out that night after dinner, when things were quiet, and see what he could glean from Rick in the hour before closing time. Black tried calling Sylvia twice more during the day, but her line went straight to voicemail.

Dusk brought with it a fog bank and a chill. Black shivered as he waited for the taxi he’d called down the hill from the mansion. His departure had gone unnoticed by Lou or any of the others, Mugsy the house mascot now the constant object of everyone’s attention and a useful distraction. Black’s hair was slicked straight back under a dark blue baseball cap, his clothes those he’d arrived in instead of his new rock look. He checked his watch and figured he would be able to get to LA before the store closed, talk with Rick, and make it back before his disappearance was noticed – three hours, four, tops.

The cab cost him nearly a hundred dollars, and he made a mental note to bill Bobby for the overage as he paid the driver and climbed out. The shop was located in a large building with a glitzy façade proclaiming a huge spring sale. It had been forever since Black had been in a music store, but not much had changed, and he remembered from his band days that this particular outlet had the reputation of being run like a car lot, replete with haggling over prices and requiring the manager’s approval to accept an offer. When he entered the cavernous space, with hundreds of guitars mounted on the walls, he had a momentary sense of claustrophobia accompanied by an overwhelming desire to run from the building.

Black knew what Rick looked like from the footage he’d seen, so he wandered the floor of the mostly empty store until he spotted him drinking a soda with two other salesmen. Black signaled to Rick and pointed at a nearby amplifier, and Rick almost ran to greet him, eager to make a sale.

“Can you tell me about this amp?” Black asked.

“Oh, yeah, that’s a great choice. Really versatile. Does well in small clubs, portable, and sounds awesome in the studio, too. Only fifty watts, but a real powerhouse. Two 30-watt Vintage 30 Celestion speakers, so it has that old-school warmth, with a boosted tube preamp. What were you thinking about spending?”

“Price isn’t an issue. The sound is.”

Rick’s interest was piqued. Every salesman dreamed of a customer walking in cold at the end of his shift and announcing that price was no object. Black could practically hear the gears meshing behind Rick’s amenable expression. “Well, let’s grab an axe and see what it sounds like, then. What do you play?”

“Gretsch.”

“Wow, really? That’s an awesome-sounding guitar. You have a reissue?”

“No. One of the original Sixties models.”

“Sweet. All I’ve got here is a reissue, but it should get the job done.”

“Cool.”

Rick returned after a few minutes with a black single-cutaway Gretsch Duo Jet and plugged it in. He strummed a few chords while adjusting the gain, then handed Black the guitar. “What kind of tone are you looking for?”

“I play through a hundred-watt Marshall right now. Kind of a warm, soulful distortion, you know?” Black said.

“I think it’ll more than do that. And it beats hauling a stack around, am I right? What’s your name, anyway, partner?”

Black held out his hand. “Art.”

“Nice to meet you, Art,” Rick said, trying to build rapport.

Black noodled around on the guitar for a few minutes and then stopped, as if an idea had occurred to him. “Hey, you look familiar. You’re…you’re the guitar player from that TV band, right?”

Rick looked embarrassed. “I was.”

“I saw that show. You guys were awesome right up until the end.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s ancient history, you know?”

Black studied his face. “What happened?”

Rick hesitated, obviously tempering his response so as not to lose a sale. “I’ve made it a policy not to discuss it, if you don’t mind. How do you like the tone?”

Black could more than understand, but he needed to get Rick talking. He played for a few minutes, trying his hand at a few Hendrix riffs, then sat back. “I’m going to think about the amp. But if you’ve got a card, I’ll look for you when I come back.”

Rick tried to put the hard sell on Black, who was having none of it. They went back and forth, Rick assuring him that it was the best amplifier in the world and that it was the last week before a major price increase from the manufacturer, but Black politely declined. Eventually Rick took the guitar back and returned with his business card and handed it to Black. Black slipped it into his pocket and smiled. “You know, I used to do a lot of studio work around town about a hundred years ago. Worked with some of the biggies. Mutt Lang. Bob Rock. Bud O’Brien. Rooster Simms.”

“You worked with Rooster? Small world. I worked with him, too,” Rick said, still trying to get Black to warm to him.

“Yeah? On what albums?”

“No, nothing like that. He was the coach for the show.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize it. You were lucky. He’s a good guy.”