BLACK to Reality (3 page)

“I may have to ride the bus. The gas might break the bank. Can’t you tell me about it over the phone?”

“Nah. It’s…it’s sensitive. Just be at my office. Sell blood or something, but make it, okay, buddy?”

“Put that way, how can I refuse?”

“That’s the spirit. See you in a few.”

Black hung up and stared at the handset before lowering it softly into its expensive cradle. If Bobby was going to drag him across town, he had a client. That was good news. That he needed to break it in person was the bad news – Black knew him well and understood that an in-person pitch meant it was something Black would normally say no to.

Only at this point, no wasn’t in his vocabulary.

Black finished applying for two more low-level security jobs that paid only slightly more than minimum wage and shut off his computer, anxious to find out what Bobby had up his sleeve. Roxie was just getting ready to go to lunch when he strode past her. She glared at him like he’d exposed himself.

“I’m headed over to see the dragon lady and cinch the deal. We agreed to terms on the phone,” she announced.

“That’s great. Bobby says he’s got a client, so you may want to hold off for an hour.”

“I can always back out if you land something. But I don’t want to stall her. I get the feeling I’m the only one she liked out of all the people who applied, and I’d hate to lose it because I ran late for our first official date.”

“That’s probably wise. Cross your fingers for me.”

“Are you going to stop at your place and change first? You look like you slept in that suit.”

“I do not. It’s just been a little while since I could afford to get it dry cleaned.”

“Which is why it looks like the kind you get when you’re released from jail.”

“I don’t think they do that anymore.”

“Probably because nobody would hire someone in a jail suit. Which is my point.”

“It’s only Bobby.”

“I’m just trying to save you some embarrassment, that’s all.”

“I’m going to miss you bagging on my clothes once you’re gone.”

“Don’t get all choked up.”

“You going to wish me luck?”

She sighed. “Hope you don’t blow it.”

“I might cry. That was really touching, Roxie.”

Her cell phone vibrated, and she turned her attention to it, Black forgotten as she giggled at a message and rapid-texted in reply.

“Lock up when you leave. I don’t know how long this will take,” Black said.

“Huh?”

“Roxie, you heard me.”

“If it wasn’t ‘I’ll have your two weeks salary by closing time’, I’m afraid I didn’t catch it.”

He sighed and moved to the front door. “Could you clean the cat box, please? The place smells like ass.”

“Be happy to, right after I cash my paycheck.”

The drive to Bobby’s office took half an hour with lunchtime congestion clogging the streets, an endless stream of luxury vehicles on parade in a city where appearances were everything. High streaks of pale clouds stretched across the sky, transitioning from white to beige as they met the horizon, the smog thick after morning rush hour. Black tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the sun played across his face, the top down, his fedora on the seat beside him, the early spring day delivering just enough snap to be refreshing. An old Yesterday & Today song blared from the car stereo, the guitar wailing over the chorus, and for a moment Black was back in his garage, wailing along with David Meniketti, matching the solos on the album note for note. Had time really flown that fast? It seemed like just yesterday…

A glance at himself in the rearview mirror brought him back to reality, and he switched the stereo off, suddenly maudlin. Here he was, forty-three, with literally nothing to show for it other than an eccentric wardrobe and an old Cadillac, his glory days long faded. He eyed his black hair and noted a few gray strands at the temples and in his sideburns, which depressed him even more. He’d refused to go down the hair dye road, but there was no denying he was getting older. No, scratch that. Getting old. Not older. Women Roxie’s age didn’t give him a second glance – he was as good as invisible to anyone of the opposite sex under thirty. And in a town where the worst possible sin was being poor, he was doubly forgettable, even to mature eyes. No power to broker, no entourage to command, no bling to flash.

He’d sold the Rolex Nina had given him for his birthday to cover the move and the hefty security deposit on the new office, as well as some unexpected repairs to the Eldorado when the transmission had given up the ghost. Even though he’d felt raped after the jeweler gave him only half its new price, he’d been happy to get the cash. But it had quickly evaporated, and now even that reserve was gone.

When he pulled into the parking area of Bobby’s luxury high-rise, the attendant gave him a skeptical glance before handing him a ticket.

“Machine’s broken. You going to be long?” the man asked.

“An hour or so.”

The attendant took a long look at the Cadillac and nodded, his expression making it obvious that Black didn’t belong amidst the Lexuses and Mercedes and BMWs. Black couldn’t have agreed more completely. Right now he hated L.A., with its surface glitz and focus on conspicuous consumption.

His mood was glum as he stepped into Bobby’s office lobby, where a smoldering Latina in a business suit met his gaze with boredom as he approached the reception desk.

“May I help you?” she asked, white teeth flashing.

“I’m here for Bobby.”

“And you are?”

“You must be new. I’m Black.”

She blinked twice as she glanced at her console and pressed a button. He noted her eyes were hazel. A good color for her. She murmured into her headset, and her attitude changed to a more interested one.

“Yes, Mr. Black. Er…Bobby says you know the way to his office?”

“I do indeed.”

Bobby was at his desk, wearing a banana-colored silk shirt with the collar open, the better to display his Palm Springs tan and a garish gold necklace that would have made an Indian bride blush.

Bobby greeted him with a grin. “There he is. Mr. Fashion. Look at you in that suit. Take a load off, tough guy. It’s good to see you.”

Black eyed him distrustfully. “I feel like the only blonde at the bar after last call’s announced. What’ve you got up your sleeve, Bobby?”

Bobby came around his desk and offered the cosmetically enhanced smile of a shark. “What I have is your chance to be famous, my lad.”

“You start drinking early today?”

“I’m serious. When was the last time you played?”

“Played? Played what? Poker? With myself? What are you talking about?”

“Music. Guitar. You were one of the best.”

“What does that have to do with a client?”

“Well, I told you it was complicated. I wasn’t kidding.”

Black’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh.”

“This one’s right up your alley. You’re a natural for it. In fact, I’d say there’s nobody else who could pull it off.”

“Pull what off?”

“I’m gonna make you a star, kid,” Bobby said, pretending to flick an imaginary cigar as he waggled his eyebrows.

“You into pills or powder? Or smoking it?”

“I’m serious. This is your big break.”

“My big break. Right now I need a paycheck. Tell me what the hell you’re talking about, Bobby. I’m not having a great day.”

“Fortune has smiled upon you, my friend. Most people never get a second chance. But you just got one. And it pays.”

Black perked up. “Go on.”

“You ever hear of
Rock of Ages
?”

“Gospel song, right?”

“Reality TV show. A combination of
Jersey Shore
and
American Idol
.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw an episode. A bunch of washed-up bands living in some house. It was a freak show. I turned it off when one of the rappers got into a fight with some chick over his banging her trailer-trash roommate.”

“A race to the bottom, my friend, but huge ratings. America loves its reality shows, the uglier the better.”

“Fine. Where do I come in?”

“Last year the band that looked good to win blew it in the finals. The guitar player showed up whacked out of his skull on something. Cost them the trophy. But they get to come back this year because they were the runner-up.”

“And?”

“And they need a guitar player.”

Black stared at Bobby like he’d just announced that Jesus was waiting to meet him in the conference room.

“Bobby, I’m not a guitar player. I’m a PI. Remember? A forty-something PI.”

“Which is why you’re perfect. My client thinks something stinks about what happened last year and wants someone on the inside to root around. If you’re in the band, that’s the ideal cover.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I don’t play guitar anymore.”

“Isn’t it like riding a bike? Come on. This is right up your alley. Plus, the money’s not bad.”

“Really?” Black asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Five hundred a week to be on the show, but my client’s willing to pay another couple of grand a week for the snooping.”

“Who’s the client?”

Bobby looked suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s confidential.”

“Why?”

“Part of the deal.”

“Let me get this straight. A mystery client’s willing to pay me two grand a week to play in a band and poke my nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“That’s basically it. Oh, and the grand prize if the band wins is a hundred thousand smackers. Which would be a four-way split. Plus a record contract.”

“A record contract,” Black repeated.

“Dude. You’re a quasi-celebrity. You founded one of the most popular bands of the nineties and penned their best-loved songs. You’re a shoe-in for this.”

“What kind of music?”

“Who gives a shit? It all sounds the same to me – like alley cats going at it.”

“What’s the name of the band?”

“Last Call.”

“Poetic justice in that, isn’t there?”

Bobby paused. “So are you in?”

Black shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t picked up a guitar in twenty years.”

“You were a god. Tell me that goes away.”

“I honestly don’t know if I could do it. Plus, I don’t exactly look the part…”

“That’s easy. I’ll make an appointment with a girl I know who works miracles.”

“Does she do cosmetic surgery?”

Bobby ignored him. “I got a CD of the band if you want to hear what they’re all about.” Bobby returned to his desk, picked up a plastic case, and tossed it to Black, who caught it in midair. He examined the cover, which featured a typical retro-seventies group with a stunningly beautiful female singer lounging on a paisley couch, one leg hanging off the edge, a pouty come-hither expression on her face.

“Wow. Can she sing?”

“Who cares? Look at her! Can any of ’em really sing? It’s not about vocal talent, babe, it’s about presence. And she’s got it in spades.”

“Band looks like they’re all, what, early thirties? I’ve got ten years on them, easy.”

“Hogwash. You look twenty. And you’ll look like a teenager after Monique gets done with you.”

“I don’t know, Bobby…”

“Check out their tunes. If you think it’s something you can relate to, just do it. Don’t overthink this. It’s a chance to do something you were great at, make some money, and get on national TV. People would kill for the chance.”

“How long do I have to think about it?”

“I need an answer by tomorrow. Show starts taping in a week.”

“How long does it run?”

“They shoot for twelve weeks. If you make the grade, plan on three months of living at the mansion with the band.”

“What? That’s insane. I don’t have that kind of time to blow.”

“I thought you had no clients.”

“Not right now. But, Bobby, living in some house with a bunch of musicians, cameras following me around all the time…I mean, that’s hell on earth.”

“Nonsense. It sounds like a blast. Reliving your youth. Look, I’ve got a meeting I need to get to, but do me a favor and think it over, would you? I told the client I thought you were perfect, and it’s enough money to save your bacon.”

“I wish. I already owe three grand in rent, with another three coming due on Friday, plus my apartment, utilities, you name it. Roxie’s even going to work somewhere else.”

“Then you don’t have anything tying you down, am I right? Come on. This is a paid vacation. You’ll be out of hock within a month of doing the show, and the rest is gravy. And just think – if you win it, you get a hell of a sweetener, plus another shot at the big time with a record deal. Tell me how any of that sucks.”

Black tried to quiet the buzz of unease in his stomach, but the truth was that it
would
get him out of hot water…and the prospect of a record deal was one he’d long ago dismissed as out of reach after the fiasco with his band.

He stood and held up the CD. “No promises. But I’ll listen to it and do some thinking. You around tomorrow?”

Bobby approached him again and put an arm around his shoulders. Black noted he smelled of expensive cologne. “Always for you, babe. Now go have a couple of beers or tokes or whatever you do, and listen to your new band. My secretary says they’re good. I’ve got ties older than her, so that means the kids dig it.”

“You don’t own any ties.”

“You know what I mean. Just keep an open mind. Promise me that.”

Black exhaled noisily and nodded as Bobby steered him to the door.

“Fine. And thanks, Bobby… I think.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Rock God. You and Jimmy Plant, two hall-of-famers in my book. Classics. Old school guitar heroes who can show the youngsters a thing or two.”

“Pretty sure that’s Jimmy Page, Bobby.”

“Whatever.”

Chapter 4

Black sat in traffic, listening to Christina’s smoky voice wailing over the guitars and bass. The woman could sing, that was obvious, and the tunes were pretty good, he thought – better than he’d expected – and easier to play than some, if you could manage the laid-back boogie style. When the guitar player cut into his solo, it was pure blues, harkening back to a cross between ZZ Top and Stevie Ray Vaughn – a style that Black knew well, although he tended toward more speed. But it was in his league, even if he was rusty.