Chapter 8
Black was finishing dinner with his parents when his phone lit up, Highway to Hell sounding loud and clear from its speaker. The other diners in the restaurant glared at him as he fiddled with it, trying to turn it down before answering it. His parents watched him with curiosity as he raised it to his ear.
"Black here."
"Black. This is Hunter. We met today."
Black eyed his parents and turned away so they couldn't easily hear his words. "Yes?"
"Have you heard about the hotel?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't you watch the news?"
"I'm at dinner with my family. This isn't a good time."
"Guess where I just spent the last three hours? With Los Angeles' finest. They took me into custody for questioning. I just got released."
Black stood up and walked to the lobby area, signaling to Spring and Chakra that he would be right back. "For what? The accident yesterday?"
"No, I was doing a press conference downtown, and somebody fried two paparazzi."
Black swallowed hard. "Fried?"
"Some kind of a bomb is what they're saying. Killed them both."
"And why were you being questioned? Didn't you have a roomful of people with you?"
"I'd slipped out to use the restroom when it happened. My co-star was wrapping up his one-on-one with the press."
"So you have no alibi for when the bomb went off?"
"That's basically it. But they pulled security camera footage. The bathroom was upstairs one level, and there's a cam there. It shows me going into the bathroom."
"Which is why they didn't hold you."
"Correct." Hunter hesitated. "Listen, I was thinking about what you said earlier, about not being able to do everything successfully by yourself. I'd like you to come by the house again, tonight, if possible. I think we got off on the wrong foot."
Black glanced at his watch. "I'm just wrapping up dinner. I can probably be there by ten. Does that work for you?"
"I've got some crap I'm also dealing with, so that'll be perfect. See you at ten. And Black? Thanks for giving this another shot."
"No problem. But as of ten, you're on the clock."
"Fair enough. Whatever your hourly rate is, consider it paid as of this call. You're already on the clock."
Black set the phone down, shook his head, and returned to the table where he scowled at his parents. "What a weird business this is," he said, and motioned to the server for the bill.
"What is it, sweetheart?" Spring asked, concerned.
"Oh, just one of the most powerful directors in Hollywood, calling to set up a meeting later tonight. He needs my help," Black said, keeping his voice casual.
"Wow! Congratulations. That's kind of a big deal, isn't it?" Chakra asked, pulling his battered wallet from his pants and fingering carefully through it before extracting a hundred dollar bill for the check. Black didn't try to haggle with him about it.
"All in a day's work. Although nighttime meetings are a little out of the ordinary. Sounds like the man's got an urgent situation."
"I'll say."
They drove home, full of organic pasta and cheap Chianti, and Black escorted them upstairs to his apartment, bid them good night, and headed back down to the waiting Cadillac. Thankfully, Gracie's apartment was dark, so he wouldn't get hijacked. By the time her Scotch ran out it was sleepy time, and she was reliably out like a light by nine.
Bel Air loomed like royal palace grounds above the city's twinkling lights. Its pristine real estate was the most coveted in L.A., every other home owned by a star or a mogul, Bentleys and Rolls Royces and Lamborghinis prowling the hilltop lanes, while only a few short miles away street people pulled cardboard over themselves in preparation for another long night. The old Eldorado sputtered to a stop in front of Hunter's gate, and Black jabbed at the intercom button and waited for the ornate iron barrier to swing open, wishing he'd had a little less wine with dinner. Then again, it wasn't common for him to be on call at night, so he'd had no way of knowing he'd be doing his second interview by starlight.
He pulled up the circular drive and rolled to a halt in the same spot he'd occupied that afternoon and killed the big engine. A silence fell, and his ears detected the soft chirping of crickets from the surrounding trees. Off in the distance, a large dog barked halfheartedly before stillness descended again. Up here was none of the noise that was constant closer to the city, and he had to strain to make out the sound of traffic from the 405 freeway a scant mile away.
The Caddy's door groaned open and he stepped onto the cobblestones, debating for a moment whether to don his hat before dismissing the idea. He straightened his tie and smoothed his hair with a steady palm as he studied the hedges for any signs of the drunken daughter, but she must have graduated to other forms of amusement than tormenting new arrivals, and he was alone under the night sky, the house looming large in front of him.
He was mounting the stairs when the front door opened. Meagan stood backlit like a goddess, her nightgown nearly translucent in the warm glow from the interior. He wondered whether she knew that her outfit hid no secrets when the light was right, then decided that it didn't matter - this was his new client's wife, and the man was a heavyweight mover and shaker. If she had an exhibitionist thing, that was Hunter's problem, not Black's, although he couldn't help but admire her toned legs and perfectly sculpted-
"Well, hello again, Mr. Black. I didn't think we'd be seeing you so soon, but looks like it's my lucky day," she said, her voice a siren's song, every note melodious and in tune, with a feline sensuality that was undeniable.
"Mrs. Hunter..."
"Meagan, remember?" she chided, still in the doorway, barring his entry while giving him a million dollar view.
"Right. Meagan. I talked to your husband earlier, and he wanted me to meet him at the house at ten."
"Oh, he hasn't gotten in yet. But do come in and make yourself at home. I'm just having a margarita before I go to bed. Would you like one? On the rocks?" she purred, stepping back and inviting him in with a wave of her half-empty glass.
"I don't drink when I'm on the job, Meagan," he said, stepping into the foyer, keenly aware of her voluptuous figure only a few short feet away.
"Nonsense. You're not on the job right now. I insist. Besides, I hate to drink alone. It's so lonely and desperate, you know? I'm guessing you like it hard over the rocks. None of that blended stuff for you," she said, closing the door softly behind her and brushing by him. "No, I can see you're a real man. Maybe even prefer just a straight shot of tequila? Skip right to the chase?"
Black shrugged in surrender. "Maybe just a small one. Margarita, that is."
"There's a good sport. Thanks for humoring a lady," she crooned and moved to the kitchen, where an orange glass pitcher sat on the expansive granite island next to a bucket of ice. She lifted out three cubes out and dropped them into a Mexican leaded glass tumbler and then poured it three quarters full of the amber fluid, taking the time to squeeze in a lime before picking up the glass and bringing it to him. "Try this. It's my special recipe. Been in the family for literally hours."
As Black took a sip, the potent nectar filled his mouth with vanilla and caramel, then citrus and orange juice, all of it held together with a massive wallop of tequila.
He nodded appreciatively and took another taste, and it felt like he'd hooked an IV bag of straight alcohol up to his feed and opened the line.
"Wow. That's...that's incredible. I mean, seriously. It's the best margarita I've ever had in my life."
"The secret is using three different anejo tequilas, each with its own flavor profile, and topping it off with a splash of Grand Marnier and a few drops of Chambord. I find I can't enjoy anyone else's margs now. They're highly addictive," she said, moving closer to him and holding her glass up for a toast. Mischief danced in her eyes as she clinked her glass against his, and then she took a long pull on her drink before closing them and leaning her head back in obvious invitation. "Mmm. It's like heaven, isn't it?"
Black was getting uncomfortable with what had shifted from mild flirtation to something considerably more. This was a married woman. Whose husband would be arriving at any moment. His better judgment took hold and he moved away, choosing an overstuffed chair in the living room before this thing, whatever it was, with Meagan could escalate. She followed him in, gliding on the marble floor like a jungle cat, and sat on the padded arm of the chair. He caught a glimpse of her pupils, which were dilated, and he wondered in passing what else she used to dull the jagged edges of life besides alcohol.
"So tell me, Mr. Black, what do you do for stimulation in this big, nasty ol' city?"
"Mostly just work for the rich and famous, Meagan. And the odd spouse who believes his mate is cheating on him," he said, hoping to introduce some sanity into their interaction.
"I meant when you're not working. How do you relieve your accumulated tension? Are you married? Is some lucky young lady your steady girlfriend?"
"No wife, no girlfriend. Just me and twelve cats."
She eyed him distrustfully. "You're such a liar. I bet you don't have any pets."
"I have one bitter, morbidly obese cat. But he's more the office cat. The kind who despises you even though you saved at least one of his miserable lives and feed him every day."
"That's probably because he's male. I bet all the female cats melt around you."
Black took a gulp of his drink and felt the tension seep out of him, washed away by the high-octane drink. So what if his new client's wife was sitting on the arm of his chair, smelling like jasmine and female allure and radiating thousand-watt sex appeal? Did that make him a bad man? Had he put the moves on her or in any way encouraged her? Poor thing was only human, after all. Was it his fault that he had such undeniable animal magnetism?
Such were his thoughts as a curtain of fragrant hair descended on his face and her open, full lips nipped his ear and then moved toward his mouth.
The rear French doors creaked and he opened his eyes, pulled back to reality by the small noise, and he caught a glimpse of Hunter's daughter through the glass panes, her eyes burning as she looked at him accusingly. Meagan let forth a small moan, a tiny cry of hunger and complete submission, and Black was sorely tempted to close his eyes again and let her take him to heaven - but some part of him that was still sane and sober enough to know better made him stiffen and gently push her away.
"Meagan. I...I'm here to see your husband. He'll be here any minute."
"Don't worry. We have a...an open marriage. Sort of. How much time do you need? We can use the powder room," she whispered hoarsely, her voice thick.
"That's not a bad idea. But I'm thinking I need to use it alone," he said as he rose, twisting away from her, and set his glass on the coffee table before crossing the big room. "Is it over here?"
"Getting warmer," she said, disappointment in her voice, and then she knocked back the rest of her margarita in a single swallow. "First doorway on that hall, to the right."
Black found it easily enough and flicked the lights on as he bolted himself safely in. The room was done in soft orange Venetian plaster with a rustic finish, and he studied his reflection in the ornate mirror before rinsing his face with cool water, letting it drip from his chin as he leaned forward over the onyx vessel sink. His eyes stared back like vats of dirty oil as he reached for a thick towel, the powerful glow of the tequila still warming his belly even as he fought an internal struggle against his hormones. He had zero doubt Meagan would have let him take her right there, standing up in the small space, and the thought sent an erotic charge down his spine that didn't stop till it hit his toes.
Whoa, big boy. Earth to Black. Time to put your unit back in your pants and keep it there, not work out the odds of having a quickie before your client gets home.
He took several deep breaths and shook his head. What was he thinking? This wasn't some booze-fuelled porn film. This was reality, and reality was that even if Hunter's wife was an alcoholic nympho - not that there was anything wrong with that - he was there on business. So she was off limits, even if they had an open marriage, which he took to mean that Meagan screwed everything male that crossed the threshold.
Two minutes later he emerged from the powder room, whatever madness had gripped him now banished, and as he returned to his seat he heard the noise of the garage door closing and then a slam from the end of the opposite hall. Meagan looked up from where she was refilling her glass in the kitchen and winked at him before carrying her drink across the great room. Hunter appeared and she gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and sauntered to the stairs with a wave to Black.
"Nighty-night, Mr. Black," she said, managing to make the words sound husky and sexually charged. Hunter ignored her innuendo and lumbered to the kitchen, his gait heavy. He fixed himself a drink - single malt Scotch, Black noted - and then seated himself across from Black, glancing at the half-empty margarita glass before knocking back two of the three fingers of The Macallan.
"She's quite a girl, isn't she? Don't let her spook you. She's a show horse, only happy when there's an appreciative audience," Hunter said. "But you want to watch those margaritas. They're pure heroin."
"Yeah, I sort of got that after a few swallows." Black sighed and crossed his legs. "Tell me what happened today. At your press conference, and with the police. Don't leave anything out."
Hunter looked up at the ceiling and then fixed Black with a level stare.
"Only a few people knew about this event. My entourage - my PR people, my agent, my manager, my co-stars, and three members of the press, all hand-selected and known to me for years. We're giving exclusive interviews to the most influential networks in preparation for the premiere on Friday. So it was hush-hush, invitation only. Apparently, a couple of paparazzi got wind of it, and snuck into the hotel. Don't ask me how this crap happens. It shouldn't have. But it did." He took another, smaller sip. "But the joke was on them. Apparently there was an explosion in the room they were hiding in, and then an electrical short that wound up electrocuting them."
"And the police don't think that was accidental."
"No, they don't. Long story short, I went to the john around the time the explosion happened, so they suspected me. They pulled the video, though, and I was clearly on my way to the can when the power went off, so there's no connection between me and the explosion. Mainly because I didn't know anything about it, and I don't go around killing people, even if they're paparazzi."
"You have to admit, it's kind of awfully coincidental that paparazzi keep turning up dead in the vicinity of you and your movie, given how vocal you've been about your dislike for them."
"It gets even worse. They believe the two that got fried are from the same group that the two chasing Melody were from - FSA, which is the company I sued. Freddie's gang." Hunter took another healthy slug of Scotch.
Black leaned forward. "What precisely do you want me to do?"
"I need someone to watch my ass, line up decent security, and make sure there are no more disasters. I've got a lot riding on this film, Black. More than anyone knows. This has to go off without a hitch, and it seems like someone's doing their best to screw it up for me."
"I don't know about that. Any publicity is good publicity, right?"
"To a point. But not if they think that the lead actor and director is a bad guy, and that's the way it's shaping up in the only court that matters to me - the court of popular opinion."
Black nodded. "I told you how it has to be. I work alone, with no strings, and I pursue whatever lines of inquiry I see fit. In other words, I don't answer to anyone, and I don't offer daily reports. I'll contact you when I have something to report, and not until then. If you can't deal with those terms, you got the wrong man."
"Okay, okay, tough guy. I told you, I agree. We'll do it your way."
"I charge two hundred dollars an hour. Five grand retainer against a minimum twenty for me to take the case. At two grand a day, on average, that will buy you a couple of weeks, max. I cover my own expenses."
"Fine. I'll have my bookkeeper cut you a check in the morning. What do we do first?"
Black noted Hunter's amped demeanor, and thought for a brief instant that he might be on something stronger than alcohol. Maybe uppers of some sort? Whether prescribed or off the street, didn't matter. It was just another data point to tuck away, and if Black's hunch was correct, it would make Hunter even more unpredictable. Much as his wife was...
"I'll find you a decent security head. Like I said, I know some people. They're professional and highly competent. Let me make some calls mañana. What's your schedule like?" Black asked.
"Another marathon. I've got a meeting with a distributor for the international rights at eleven, but I'm trying to keep that out of the limelight because I'm also negotiating with his biggest competitor. That's how it's done in this town. We're going to hook up in the Valley, at a breakfast place a lot of the Harley crowd hangs out at. Stubbs. You know the joint?"
"Sure. I've been there, though years ago."
"That's my first meet tomorrow - everything before will happen over the phone. Beyond that, I have to head over to the studio to make preparations for the sneak preview on Wednesday, and then the premiere on Friday night. I can get you a full itinerary in the morning, along with the check. My production office opens at nine over at Paramount. Think you can find it?"
"I've heard of the place." Black took a final taste of his margarita and then rose. "Sounds like I've got my work cut out for me. By the way, a good security chief will run about four grand a week. You can go cheaper if you want him long term, but that's about the going rate for high end. Any problem with that?"
"No. All I ask is that he's competent and trustworthy."
"I'll put the guy I have in mind directly in touch with you tomorrow. Probably early. You up by eight?"
"I'm in my gym by five-thirty. And I'll have my phone with me."
"Then we'll talk then. I'll be at your office at nine. Copy me on the email authorizing the check. In the meantime, I'll get to work digging down and see if I can make any sense out of this."
Hunter grunted assent.
"Did you ever find the cards of the detectives that stopped by here?" Black asked, remembering the loose end.
"Yeah. Let me get them. Same pair that pulled me in for questioning," Hunter said, standing. He disappeared down the hall to his office, then returned and handed Black the two cards. Black studied them, his face blank, and passed them back to Hunter.
"You're in luck. I know one of them. I'll add touching base with them to my laundry list."
Hunter offered his hand and Black shook it, noting again the overcompensated squeeze.
"You gonna finish your drink?" Hunter asked, his gaze on Black's still half-full glass sitting on the coffee table.
"Nah. Too sweet for me."
Hunter's focus drifted to the ceiling - the upstairs, where Meagan presumably awaited his arrival, if she hadn't passed out already.
"It's an acquired taste."
"I'll take your word for it."
Black found his own way out, having left Hunter to his thoughts and his bottle. As he neared his car, he heard a scrape of leather on stone to the right. He slowed, and then stopped when he saw the daughter, Nicole, staring at him accusingly from near his fender.
"I saw you," she said, her voice dead.
"I know. It wasn't what it looked like."
"No, that's clear. A strange man kissing my father's lovely, honest young wife."
"More like her kissing him, not to be too technical."
"Just to be clear, I'm not blaming you. She's a whore."
Black took her measure. Her speech was slightly slurred, but that could have been the result of her injuries.
"I try not to judge others."
"Listen to Solomon here. I don't have any problem judging her. She's a whore, always has been, and my dad deserves way better. And he can do better. He should."
"Maybe. And maybe he loves her."
"Trust me, that died a long time ago. My money's on Dad this go 'round."
She turned and gimped away, the rubber caps of her crutches making soft thumping sounds as she went. Black watched her disappear into the dark, and wondered what sorts of demons could drive such a young thing, someone with everything - money, looks, status - to methodically destroy herself.
Which quickly turned into introspection. He'd been young once, with the world in the palm of his hand, and he'd managed to screw it up pretty badly. His problem had been rage. Hers was chemicals. Everyone found their own personal hell if they went looking, he supposed.
He cranked the ignition and coaxed the big car through the gates, wondering how many of the mansions he was passing had similar dramas playing out behind their privileged façades. Probably more than anyone could imagine, he thought sadly.