retribution?”
“For going against him. To teach anyone with big ideas a lesson. You don’t buck Moet. Not and live to tell about it.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Now, I’m going to need B-Side’s itinerary for the week emailed to me, as well as that check so I can hit the road. I’ve got a lot to do, and whoever’s trying to kill your star isn’t napping. The sooner I get started, the better his odds.”
“No problem. I told my assistant to cut it. Who do you want it made out to?”
“Black Investigations.”
Sam activated his intercom and issued terse instructions, then stood and stretched. “It’ll be waiting for you on the way out. You got a contract or something I need to sign?”
Black rose. “I’ll email it tomorrow. Can I get your contact information?”
Sam produced an expensive linen business card with tasteful small print on it, identifying Sam as the President of R-cubed Management. Black programmed the number into his phone, pocketed it, and fished out one of his cheaper cards to hand to Sam.
“I told B-Side the basic terms. I work alone. No oversight. I report when I have something to tell you, not to set everyone’s minds at ease. And I need full access. Nothing’s off-limits.”
“You come highly recommended, so I’ll agree. Do whatever you have to do, but put a stop to this before anything else happens. B-Side’s got a tour that’s critical to his career, and he’s working on a new album. I don’t need him distracted, or afraid to eat or drink anything. Oh, and here’s Genesis’ info – she’s B-Side’s PR person, but she also acts as his gofer. Anything he wants, she’s in charge of getting – cars, houses, entertainment. Call her for whatever you need on the day-to-day.” Sam handed him another card, which he pocketed.
“We met at the hospital.” Black nodded. “I’ll get to work. Let’s hope that this is an easy one.”
“You get many of those?”
“Not so far. But you never know. There’s always a first time.”
Chapter 9
When Black arrived at the Salty Dog, Stan was already there, his half-empty bottle of Anchor Steam beer sweating on the table. Black signaled the bartender for one more and then sat across from Stan in one of the battered wooden chairs, scarred by generations of drinkers celebrating petty victories or commiserating over life’s hardships. An old country and western song played on the ancient jukebox – a Garth Brooks favorite, Friends in Low Places – and Black appreciated the irony of the choice in what could only be described as an armpit of a bar.
“Hey, big man. I was wondering whether you were going to show,” Stan said.
“And miss a free beer? In what lifetime?”
“Oh, is the bar giving away free beers? Damn. I’ll take a dozen.”
“I thought you were buying,” Black said as the bartender arrived with his selection.
“Sure. I’ll buy the beer and you pay me for my information. Sounds like a deal to me.”
“Perhaps I got my wires crossed.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“We do what we can.”
“Imperfect clay, and all.” They took pulls on their beers and then Stan sat back. “Why the sudden interest in rappers? You thinking about restarting your musical career? I hate to break it to you, but a paunchy middle-aged white guy ain’t such a hot commodity.”
“And the world’s the poorer for it.”
They toasted solemnly and Stan waved for two more beers. Black gulped another big swallow, hoping to catch up with Stan before the next ones arrived.
Black leaned on the table. “Nah, I got a new client. Rap kid. Big deal on the charts right now. Thinks he’s being stalked by a killer, but claims he has no idea why, or who.”
“Until you discover that he’s been a member of the Bloods since he was a toddler.”
“It occurred to me that he might not have been completely forthcoming about his gang affiliations. Call that a hunch.”
“Who knew that people lie? I mean, I do, all the time, but
“For going against him. To teach anyone with big ideas a lesson. You don’t buck Moet. Not and live to tell about it.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Now, I’m going to need B-Side’s itinerary for the week emailed to me, as well as that check so I can hit the road. I’ve got a lot to do, and whoever’s trying to kill your star isn’t napping. The sooner I get started, the better his odds.”
“No problem. I told my assistant to cut it. Who do you want it made out to?”
“Black Investigations.”
Sam activated his intercom and issued terse instructions, then stood and stretched. “It’ll be waiting for you on the way out. You got a contract or something I need to sign?”
Black rose. “I’ll email it tomorrow. Can I get your contact information?”
Sam produced an expensive linen business card with tasteful small print on it, identifying Sam as the President of R-cubed Management. Black programmed the number into his phone, pocketed it, and fished out one of his cheaper cards to hand to Sam.
“I told B-Side the basic terms. I work alone. No oversight. I report when I have something to tell you, not to set everyone’s minds at ease. And I need full access. Nothing’s off-limits.”
“You come highly recommended, so I’ll agree. Do whatever you have to do, but put a stop to this before anything else happens. B-Side’s got a tour that’s critical to his career, and he’s working on a new album. I don’t need him distracted, or afraid to eat or drink anything. Oh, and here’s Genesis’ info – she’s B-Side’s PR person, but she also acts as his gofer. Anything he wants, she’s in charge of getting – cars, houses, entertainment. Call her for whatever you need on the day-to-day.” Sam handed him another card, which he pocketed.
“We met at the hospital.” Black nodded. “I’ll get to work. Let’s hope that this is an easy one.”
“You get many of those?”
“Not so far. But you never know. There’s always a first time.”
Chapter 9
When Black arrived at the Salty Dog, Stan was already there, his half-empty bottle of Anchor Steam beer sweating on the table. Black signaled the bartender for one more and then sat across from Stan in one of the battered wooden chairs, scarred by generations of drinkers celebrating petty victories or commiserating over life’s hardships. An old country and western song played on the ancient jukebox – a Garth Brooks favorite, Friends in Low Places – and Black appreciated the irony of the choice in what could only be described as an armpit of a bar.
“Hey, big man. I was wondering whether you were going to show,” Stan said.
“And miss a free beer? In what lifetime?”
“Oh, is the bar giving away free beers? Damn. I’ll take a dozen.”
“I thought you were buying,” Black said as the bartender arrived with his selection.
“Sure. I’ll buy the beer and you pay me for my information. Sounds like a deal to me.”
“Perhaps I got my wires crossed.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“We do what we can.”
“Imperfect clay, and all.” They took pulls on their beers and then Stan sat back. “Why the sudden interest in rappers? You thinking about restarting your musical career? I hate to break it to you, but a paunchy middle-aged white guy ain’t such a hot commodity.”
“And the world’s the poorer for it.”
They toasted solemnly and Stan waved for two more beers. Black gulped another big swallow, hoping to catch up with Stan before the next ones arrived.
Black leaned on the table. “Nah, I got a new client. Rap kid. Big deal on the charts right now. Thinks he’s being stalked by a killer, but claims he has no idea why, or who.”
“Until you discover that he’s been a member of the Bloods since he was a toddler.”
“It occurred to me that he might not have been completely forthcoming about his gang affiliations. Call that a hunch.”
“Who knew that people lie? I mean, I do, all the time, but
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