BLACK Is Back by Russell Blake

out into a marble and glass foyer. Sam’s offices were directly in front. Black opened the door to find himself facing a fashion model receptionist with a million-dollar pout. He removed his hat and approached the woman, who looked ready to call security until he announced himself and told her that B-Side had arranged for a meeting with Sam. She tapped her headset to life and murmured into it while Black took in the stunning view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and then directed him to a black leather and chrome sofa to await Sam’s assistant.
    The rap business was better than Black had thought, obviously, although Sam no doubt represented more acts than just B-Side. He was considering how difficult it would be to hang out a shingle and rake in some of that easy money when a young man in a navy blue Canali suit approached with a flight attendant’s practiced phony politeness.
    “Mr. Black? Would you follow me, please? Mr. Rothstein will see you now.”
    Black dutifully accompanied him to an expansive corner office, and after a courtesy knock on the doorjamb, the assistant motioned for Black to enter. From behind a polished hardwood desk the size of Ireland, Sam studied Black with eyes that had all the warmth of a lamprey, and after taking his measure, gestured to one of the chairs.
    “Black, huh? You can call me Sam. B-Side called, said Bobby sent you. I spoke to Bobby, and he gave you the nod. So what have we got to talk about?”
    “I came by to get a check. My retainer. Ten grand against two-fifty per hour. Plus expenses.”
    “Wow. Do I get a BJ for that?” Sam raised his hands like he was being robbed. “Kidding. But isn’t that a little high? You’re a PI, not a neurosurgeon.”
    “That’s my rate. B-Side said no problem. Is there a problem?”
    “No, no, I’m just checking. But before I start cutting the loot free, let me lay down the ground rules. You work for me. The money comes from me. B-Side’s to be kept out of this to the extent possible. And you can’t talk to the press about anything you see while you’re part of the team. That’s not negotiable.”
    “My practice is to not talk to the press, period. Ever.”
    Sam offered a wan smile. “Then we’re going to get along just fine. Last thing I need is to try to manage another potential leak. The kid’s the hottest thing in the country right now, and everybody wants a piece of him. I have to be careful who I let into the inner circle, that’s all I’m saying.”
    “I understand.”
    “So what’s your plan, Mr. Two-hundred-and-change Black?”
    “You pay me, I figure out who’s trying to kill your client.”
    “Sounds simple.”
    “It usually is. To do that, I have to research everyone connected to him, and anyone he might have pissed off who could hold a grudge big enough to drive him or her to murder.”
    “That makes sense. But I’ll tell you what. I can give you a good place to start.”
    Black raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
    “Yeah, really. The number one rat who wants to eat B-Side’s cheese is a first-class thug named Maurice Quantrel. Goes by the nickname Moet. Runs Laughing Dead – competitor to B-Side’s label. He’s still pissed that B-Side didn’t sign with him. He thought it would be a given, since Blunt had been on Laughing Dead. But I have to choose what’s best for my artists’ careers, and Miles made us a better offer. Moet hasn’t forgiven B-Side – or me. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he’s behind this. He’s a bully and an animal.”
    “I’ve heard the name.”
    “You hear that he’s rumored to have negotiated record deals with some of his artists with a loaded gun on the desk? In plain sight? That’s just one of his little stunts. He’s a gangster, all right, which is what he likes to play up; but unlike many in this business, he’s the real thing. Gang-affiliated, rumors of his seed money coming from drugs, the Feds nosing around for years over suspicions of laundering and