BLACK to Reality (18 page)

“Dude. What happened to you?”

Black tried a smirk. “I thought it would be a good idea to sit on the rail and have a smoke. Turns out that’s not the best thing to do after you’ve had a few. And the worst part is, I didn’t even get to smoke my cigarette.”

“You fell in?” Christina asked in disbelief.

“I prefer to think I slipped.”

The table exploded with laughter as Peter stood. “I didn’t know you’d need a chaperone to have a smoke. Come on. I’ll make sure you don’t go over again.”

“Thanks,” Black said, eyes roving over the tables, searching for anyone who visually matched the voice on the terrace. He wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that he didn’t see anyone suspicious, but from now on he’d have to carefully monitor his alcohol intake and stay alert. One swim per case was more than enough, and he suspected that the next time he wouldn’t be so lucky.

Chapter 22

The following day the bus home left early, and by the time it pulled into Malibu, Black was ready to get off. Sarah had announced that the bands would be consolidated in the one mansion since only four remained, and that the new arrivals would arrive that evening.

The afternoon went by quickly by the pool, and Lavon and SnM took their last dips before being officially booted on TV at seven. They were bitter about how they’d lost but were putting a brave face on it, shrugging it off as just another pothole on the road to stardom. The roadie had never surfaced, and after spending hours with the sampler, the DJ had concluded that wiping the memory had to have been premeditated – and the user interface wasn’t intuitive.

“They had to know what they were doing, which means they knew what gear we was using and studied up on it,” Lavon said.

“Have you spoken with Sarah?”

“Yeah, yesterday after the show. But she just gave me that honky bitch look and ignored me. Said what was done was done, and if we didn’t have anything solid, there wasn’t anything to investigate.”

“You could go to the papers.”

“Yeah, we thinking about that. Only how do we prove it? Don’t wanna get our ass sued.”

“You can probably tell them what happened and make it clear enough so even an idiot could figure it out.”

“Our manager said it would look like sour grapes. Best to just move on. Besides, we talkin’ to a label that liked what they saw. So it may be no biggie in the end. Although I’ll miss the free booze and that big boy,” he said, pointing at Mugsy.

At six o’clock the other bands showed up, and everyone did a meet and greet for the cameras. Sarah escorted the new arrivals to their rooms. Terrence, the lead singer of Strobe, stopped when he saw Mugsy.

“There’s going to be a problem. I’m horribly allergic to cats. Have been all my life,” he announced. “Sarah, you’re going to need to have the housekeepers clean the whole house if I’m going to stay here.”

Sarah made a call and nodded. “They can be here tomorrow. Will you be okay for one night?”

Terrence sneezed. “I’d prefer a hotel, just in case.” He turned to Black. “You need to keep him in your room from now on. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not at all. I know it can’t be helped.”

Terrence rubbed his nose and pursed his lips in displeasure. “I have to get out of here.”

Sarah nodded. “Okay, Terrence. I’ll ask one of the cars to take you back to the other house for the night. Just go outside until we do the ceremony, and they’ll take you immediately after. Will that work?”

“I suppose it’ll have to, won’t it?” he said and moved to the pool deck. Sarah turned to Black. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“Man’s got a medical condition. What can you do?”

“Thanks for being understanding.”

“As long as Mugsy’s getting regular meals and is allowed to sleep twenty-three hours a day, he’ll be fine.” Black scooped Mugsy up and hauled him upstairs, followed by Ed. They changed into their more formal rock clothes for the ceremony, to be held on the beach by tiki torchlight, followed by a group dinner. Black’s cell phone rang just as he was getting ready to join everyone downstairs. It was Stan.

“I took over your boy Rick’s case,” he said.

Black considered Stan’s words. “Then it’s a homicide?”

“I’m treating it as one. There’s just too much that looks odd on it for my liking.”

“Such as?”

“No other track marks, for starters. And conflicting reports from a neighbor who says she thought she heard something, like a scuffle outside his door.”

“Damn. Well, I’ve got something else for you, too.” Black told Stan about being thrown into the lake and warned off.

“You think it’s related?”

“That’s my bet. I’d take a hard look at Rick’s bank records and see whether he got a big slug of money after he blew the competition, or went on a buying spree. The story never hit the press other than the party line that made him look like a screw-up, so my guess is he was paid off to stay quiet.”

“Or threatened,” Stan said.

“Right. Or both. Carrot and stick. He’d already broken up with Christina and been thrown out of the band, so maybe a slug of cash looked pretty good.”

“I’ll have someone go through his accounts. Good idea.”

“You might also want to look hard at who benefitted. Obviously Alex. His band. His manager. Peter and Rooster…and Christina and Sarah, too. The motive could be as simple as either one of the women getting back at him. I’d turn over rocks and see what you find.”

“Whoa. That’s way outside of the scope of the investigation. I don’t have time. I still need to establish whether it’s actually a homicide or not. It’s not clear.” Stan paused. “That sounds like a job for Black Investigations.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Sorry. Tough love.”

“My problem is that I’m stuck at this house six days a week, and Roxie’s not available to do research right now.”

“So there’s nobody to do your work for you. I get it. A shame.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

Stan grunted. “Hey, one word of advice. If there is a connection between Rick and the mugs who tossed you into the drink, I’d be careful. This is the big leagues.”

“That occurred to me.”

“Then you’re not just a pretty face wearing a wig.”

“I wish it was a wig.”

The ceremony went by quickly, and dinner was livened up by a dozen Playboy bunnies whom the producers had lined up for visual appeal. Now that it was down to four bands, the only female was Christina, and the ratings clearly indicated that skin brought in the viewers. Black wondered how Simon was going to contrive to have a stream of swimsuit models at the house, and decided that being a TV producer was only one step below being a Greek god. The bunnies were fun, if professional, and Black took care not to overdo it on beer, Stan’s warning still fresh in his ear.

When they made it back to the mansion, Christina invited Black to have a nightcap with her in the hot tub, sans cameras. He debated saying no and then realized that there wasn’t any reason not to join her. He trotted to his room and changed into swimming trunks. The noise of a card game drifted up the stairs from the great room, where Ed and Peter were preparing to fleece the new arrivals out of some money. As he listened to the banter, he wondered at Christina’s change since their chat. She’d been positively warm of late, and suddenly their age difference didn’t seem like that wide a gap.

He padded down the stairs, a towel draped over his shoulders, and studiously ignored Ed’s raised eyebrows as he slipped past the game table. Christina was already in the Jacuzzi, warm bubbles frothing around her, a fresh bottle of champagne in an ice bucket next to the tub.

“I thought a little bubbly would be nice,” she said. Black eased himself into the water and sighed. She poured him a drink and they toasted. “To a big win.”

Black smiled. “And many more.”

Christina downed half her glass in a swallow and set it down as she glanced at the house. “What did you think of the hired talent?” she asked.

“The girls? Cute. But that’s kind of what they do for a living, isn’t it?”

“Aren’t you temped by all that flesh? I never see you with anyone.”

“I…I’m sort of in a relationship.”

“Sort of?” She smirked.

“That sounds lame, I know. The truth is, I don’t know whether I am or not.” He took another swallow of champagne and felt the effervescent warmth flow to his stomach.

“As a woman, I hate to break it to you, but if you don’t know whether you are, you’re not.” She finished her glass, poured herself another, and topped off Black’s.

“You’re probably right.”

“Sounds like there’s a story. I’ve got time.” She smiled again and lifted her hair off her neck. “Mmm, this is nice.”

“Relaxing.”

“So what’s the deal, Black?”

“It’s complicated.” He took her through it and realized as he described what had happened that it seemed like a year ago. When he was finished, she looked at him for a long time.

“Thank God. For a while there I was afraid you batted for the other team.”

Black laughed. “Being married to Nina could do that to you.” He closed his eyes.

They finished their second glass, and Black split the last of the bottle between them before sticking it upside down in the steel bucket.

“So what kind of women do you like? What’s your type?” Christina asked.

“I…I’m not sure I have a type.”

Her foot touched his calf, and an electric charge seemed to course through him from the connection. He didn’t know whether he was misinterpreting what had just happened, so he stayed still. Christina’s eyes met his, and she moved to him and kissed him, taking her time, her breath sweet, her lips full. After what seemed like an hour, he pulled away. She regarded him curiously.

“What? You no like?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s just…we’re in a band, working together. This isn’t a great idea.”

“I’m an adult.”

“I know. But it’s…the timing’s wrong.”

She smirked. “You’re going to let that stop you?”

“I have to. I don’t want to blow this.”

Christina sighed and nodded. “We aren’t going to be in this contest forever. Only six more weeks.”

“Six long weeks, at this rate.”

She laughed. “Very long. But there’s always week seven to look forward to.” The invitation was unmistakable.

They finished their drinks, the moment over, and Black said goodnight when Ed left the game and came out to socialize. His mind was racing as he climbed the stairs, wondering whether he’d done the right thing or was being a complete dolt, turning down a willing, available, extremely hot woman who seemed into him. Mugsy lifted his head as he entered the room and then returned to his catnap.

Black changed into sweats and was about to brush his teeth when his phone rang. He did a double take when he saw the number and punched the line to life.

“Sylvia! You…you called.”

“About time, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a month. No, longer.”

“I left town.”

“What? Where did you go?”

“Home. Switzerland. My parents bought me a ticket. Said they missed me, so I thought I’d take them up on the offer of free food and drink for a while.”

“I miss you too,” Black said quietly, relief at having declined Christina’s overture flooding him.

“Oh, Black…” she said, her voice closing down on her as she tried to speak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “It’s Sunday tomorrow.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I was thinking about your car. I wonder if it’ll start?”

“If not, you can always get a jump.”

“Seems like nice weather for a trip to Malibu,” she said.

“With the top down.”

“Maybe a picnic on the beach? Unless you’re busy…”

“I have the whole day.”

The silence was uncomfortable, and when Sylvia asked her question, there was no mistaking her meaning. “Is there anything you want to tell me? About…while I was gone?”

He was glad he didn’t have to lie. Much. “No. Just that I really miss you.”

The relief in her voice was clear. “That’s nice to hear. I’ll call you in the morning when I’m ready to head out.”

“If you can’t get the car moving, take a cab. I’ll pay for it.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

Black was grinning ear to ear when he lay down, and even tolerated Mugsy waddling over and hopping onto the bed. As Black drifted off to sleep, whiffs of cat gas rolling over him like waves of pungent surf, an image of Sylvia played in his imagination, and for the first time in weeks he felt homesick for his old, uneventful life.

Chapter 23

Black spent Sunday with Sylvia ambling by the water’s edge while they exchanged stories about Switzerland and life on a reality TV show. They checked into a motel near the beach after an early dinner and spent four hours in each other’s arms before Black’s curfew pulled him back into his chaotic make-believe world of round-the-clock filming and arrested development.

The next two weeks went by quickly, with another vapid team activity out of the way before hearing about their fourth musical competition: a charity event in Northern California, near the wine country. For that concert they would be only one of the draws, with several major acts playing to raise money for Native American scholarships. It was already sold out, limited to a thousand lucky attendees in general admission, with an additional ten dinner tables in a VIP area running five hundred dollars a seat.

Last Call drew Wilson Pickett’s “Mustang Sally” as their song and spent the week making it their own. Christina’s vocals shined on it, and by the time they loaded onto the bus for the eight-hour drive north, everyone in the band was pumped. Rooster would fly in, as would Holly, David, and the judges. The plan was to arrive, have an early dinner while the headline bands played, and then close the concert with the four performances by the
Rock of Ages
contenders.

Black dozed most of the way, the luxury coach’s suspension softening the ride as it droned toward San Francisco. The concert location turned out to be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by redwood forest, with a newly constructed lodge boasting twenty guest rooms on the perimeter and the stage erected in the center of a large clearing. It was three o’clock when he stepped off the bus and stretched. Lunch in San Jose sat like a lead brick in his stomach, and the sun felt good on his skin as he waited for Sarah to arrive and tell them what to do.