Black

Chapter 4

He pushed back from his desk, stood, and stretched, deciding to stop for coffee on the way to Bel Air, the most expensive real estate in L.A. He'd spent plenty of time in the area operating the last failed business he'd tried before starting the P.I. firm: discreet private limousine service to the stars, which had been one of the ways he'd gotten so connected in town.

During its two-year operation, he'd driven just about every celebrity and mogul worth mentioning. He'd gotten referrals from his friend Bobby Sorell, an entertainment attorney who'd gone from being his worst enemy to an unexpected ally, after structuring the deal where Black had foregone any claim on the songs he'd written in return for a lousy hundred grand. That had been bad enough, but then the bastard had begun sleeping with Nina, his nineteen-year old wife, and had helped her divorce him when she'd become the hottest female singer of her era, eclipsed only by Beyoncé when Destiny's Child had bounced and shimmied onto the scene.

Be that as it may, Sorell had done his best to make amends, and Black believed that he really felt bad about how it had played out. Black had moved from his customary blind rage to a cautious truce that had developed into a real friendship, as his ex had moved on from Sorell to a string of high-profile flings that had culminated in two disastrous marriages to A-list celebs - bad boy actors with big careers and even bigger egos, probably overcompensating for other shortcomings.

"I'm headed out," Black announced as he strode through Roxie's reception area. She didn't look up from her furious text messaging, thumbs punching and stabbing her little cell phone with rapid dexterity as she listened to music on her computer speakers. "What's that you're listening to?"

"A band."

Black nodded. "Yeah, I got that. What band?"

"You wouldn't know them. They're hip and cool."

"I know hip and cool things."

She eyed him scornfully. "Sure you do."

"I'm serious. I do. I've got game."

"Uh huh. Nobody says that anymore."

She turned the music up, and the chorus of the driving, psychedelic-tinged melody filled the office:

When you see yourself in a crowded room

Do your fingers itch, are you pistol-whipped?

Will you step in line or release the glitch?

Can you fall asleep with a panic switch?

She lowered the volume. "I love these guys. They're called Silversun Pickups. I think they're slathered in awesome sauce."

"I swear I've heard of them."

"No, you haven't. Don't lie."

"No, really, I have."

"You are so not being remotely truthful. It's okay. Once you're over your 'best if used by' date, you can't be expected to know what's cool anymore. No need to pretend you do in some pathetic bid for approval."

"Roxie, I'll have you know not long ago I was a player in the music business."

"Is this where you start crying?"

"I was. I wrote all the songs for Nina's first album. You know, the biggest album of the decade?"

"I wasn't born yet." She hesitated. "Is that the phone?"

"I'm standing right here. I can hear that the phone's not ringing."

"Right." She stared at him.

"I'm leaving now."

"Okay," she said, without a trace of interest. "I guess that means I'm screwed on the chai for today, huh? Thanks for nothing." She returned to texting.