Chapter 30
Jackhammer pounding from Black's front door reverberated inside the cramped apartment. He sat up and his head swam. Nausea overwhelmed him, and he had to choke back the sour bile that threatened to seep out of his nose as he fought for breath. A tight band of agony had been fastened around his head, a medieval torture device fit for the Inquisition, and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting from the pain.
"Black. Yo, man, what up, homeboy? You in there? I ain't got all day. Some of us got to work for a living, you know?"
Cesar's voice sliced through the walls and into Black's brain like a lance of white-hot agony, and it all came back to him as he forced his eyes open. He was lying face down on his bed, his shirt bunched up around his chest, his slacks now wrinkled beyond salvation.
The Cadillac. Being responsible. Taking care of business.
Black sat up and swallowed the metallic taste of partially metabolized whiskey and cigarettes. He vaguely recalled the series of bad decisions that had led up to him passing out, but the knocking from his front door interrupted his quiet introspection.
"Crap. Just a second, Cesar. I'm in the can."
"Okay, homeboy, no problem. Man's gotta do what he's gotta do, an' all," Cesar answered, a man of boundless discretion.
Two minutes later Black's crusted red eyes peered through a crack in the door as he winced away the worst of the harsh morning light. The Earth must have moved nearer the sun while he'd been sleeping because the glare was blinding. Black avoided looking directly at Cesar's goateed face, two tears tattooed below his left eye, and handed him the Eldorado key on a ring with his The Club key. Cesar appraised him and nodded knowingly after taking in his matted hair, dusting of beard, and face lined and creased from the folds of the blanket.
"Sorry, man. I...I got the flu," Black said, his voice sounding phlegmy and gravelly, cracking on the final word.
"Yeah. We all been there, man. Lot a that going around, you know?"
"So I hear."
"Awright. I'll take the boat into the shop and letchou know what the damage is later on today, okay, vato?"
"Sure thing. Just call whenever. You know the number."
"Yeah, uh huh. And you got money, right? We straight on that?" Cesar asked.
"Sure. Of course. I'm flush this week."
"Cool. Okay, then. We good."
Black shut the door and turned to face his living room, then leaned against the door and slid until he was sitting on the floor. What the hell had he been thinking? Good God almighty. What was it? Tuesday? It wasn't his birthday or Christmas, so why had he gone out on a bender like that and gotten obliterated?
The only good news was that he had no work, no clients, and no prospects, so his phone wouldn't be ringing. He exhaled as if confirming that his pulmonary system was still functioning, then willed himself off the carpet and back into the bedroom.
He was just composing the text message to Roxie alerting her that he had an offsite meeting that day when his windows rattled from a concussive blast out on the street. Stunned, he staggered back to his front door and threw it open, stumbled out onto the second story walkway, and looked toward the front of the complex. A pillar of black smoke was pouring from a point down the block. Black barely registered the rough concrete stairs on his bare feet as he descended to the ground level. Once there he increased his pace, the whirring in his head receding as adrenaline flooded his compromised system, and by the time he passed Gracie's door, which was swinging wide as she emerged to investigate the commotion, his heart was thudding like he'd run a four-minute mile.
The Cadillac was barely recognizable, the doors blown off, flames belching from the interior and from under the hood. It looked like a giant hand had swatted it, causing the body to distend like a pregnant beetle. There was no trace of Cesar. The force of the detonation had obliterated him as though he'd never existed, vaporized in a fireball.
Other residents were slowly shuffling to the street, and Black felt Gracie's clawlike hand on his arm as he surveyed the burning remnants of his beloved vehicle.
"Oh, my sweet lord...was that your car, Black?"
He didn't respond, so she asked the question again, her voice like the grating of metal wheels on a railroad track. He couldn't do anything but nod, and then his wits gradually returned and he raised his cell phone to his ear to call Stan.
Sirens keened in the distance while he waited on hold, and the fire department and police were rolling up when he finally reached him and explained what had happened.
Stan told him to stay put, and that he would be there in twenty minutes. Black nodded, grunting assent, and then hung up, watching his pride and joy burn to the frame. The one surviving tire popped like a rifle shot and the chassis shuddered as it dropped, the hangover now the least of his problems. Gracie eyed the car with a kind of rapt fascination as the flames licked at the branches over it, and then a powerful torrent of water streamed at the inferno and firemen were screaming instructions to one another. Black turned toward the shattered windows facing the street and dialed Colleen's number, unsure of who else to call and tell. Roxie wouldn't be in yet - she was usually at least ten minutes late most mornings, and Cesar had been early.
Cesar.
Poor bastard. Never knew what hit him. One second he'd been there, of this world, and the next, nada. A wave of sickness hit him and he staggered back as though he'd been gut-punched, then straightened up when Colleen's voice answered.
"Hey, babe."
"Hey."
"You don't sound so great. What are all those sirens? Black? Are you all right? Have you been in an accident?"
"Um, yeah, I guess I am. And yes, something happened. My car just blew up."
"What?"
"Exploded."
"Are you okay?"
"I am. My mechanic, though...I think he's dead, Colleen."
"Good God. I'm so sorry..."
"Yeah. So am I." Black realized that he sounded like an automaton; like he was in a daze. He forced himself to focus. "But that wasn't the reason I called..." He fought for clarity, and then remembered. "That's right. Hunter."
"What about him?"
"I was out at his place yesterday evening, and found blood."
"I'm sure that wasn't hard, given the number of bullets he took."
"No, what I mean is, I found blood of someone besides Hunter."
Colleen's voice changed, quieted, a chill in her tone. "What do you mean?"
Black was momentarily distracted by Gracie, who was pointing to him and talking to a uniform who had arrived thirty seconds earlier.
"We...the police think there was a shooter there. Who maybe got hit by a stray. A ricochet. They've got a decent amount of blood, and they're working on it..."
"Are you sure about this?"
Colleen sounded strangled. He could relate.
"Positive. It looks like Hunter was murdered. Oh, shit-" He slapped himself in the head, grimacing at the pain. "How could I forget? Freddie was murdered, too."
"Black-"
"No, listen. I don't mean by Hunter. He was murdered by someone else. The cops found poison in his system. Somebody got to him in the hospital-"
Black was interrupted by two LAPD officers, one of whom was carrying a clipboard and a pen.
"Hey, buddy. That your car?"
Black lowered the phone. "Yeah. I mean, yes, officer. It is."
"Any idea what happened?"
"Damn. Hang on a second." He returned the phone to his ear. "Col, listen, I've got to call you back." He hung up and looked over the cop's shoulder at his burning car, now mostly extinguished.
"My mechanic was going to take it into the shop today..."
Fifteen minutes later, the police had filled out the incident report. Stan called in the middle of it to apologize for not being able to get away from the office, and Black told him not to worry about it, that the police were already there.
"You were lucky that you didn't start it this morning, buddy," Stan said.
"No kidding. But Cesar...not so lucky."
There wasn't much to say to that.
"It could have happened at any time. It's a miracle you're still alive, Black."
"Doesn't feel like one."
"You're still breathing, aren't you?"
"Put that way, I can't argue."
"You need anything? I have to be here for another half hour, at least. Maybe an hour. Impromptu staff meeting. No calls, and no excuses. Completely blows."
"No. I...damn. I can't believe this. It's..."
"Just another day in La La Land. Dude. It sucks. I'm sorry your mechanic's dead. But you're not. That's the good news. I'll break away from this as soon as I can. Don't worry. Things will work out."
"My car...Cesar."
"Right. Okay. Hang in there, buddy. Keep your phone on."
Black punched the call off and found himself facing Gracie.
"You want a bracer, Black? Of any day, this would be the one," she said. He knew she was trying to be generous, her solution to everything to have another belt, but the thought of a drink made him gag.
"Um, no thanks, Gracie. Not now. I have to...I need to go find my insurance papers and deal with this."
"Offer's open, darling. Oh, and don't worry about a car. You got La Bomba. You can use it as much as you need."
He softened, touched by her simple words. "Thanks, Gracie. Looks like I'll take you up on that."
He followed her to her unit and waited outside while she got him the keys. The old Mercedes was parked in one of the few stalls in the rear of the building, off a driveway that was more an afterthought than an access point. He thanked her again and returned to his apartment, and had just texted Roxie with the news about the explosion when his phone vibrated, indicating he'd received a text.
Black thumbed the scroll button and opened the message, and then all the blood drained from his face as he read. He blinked to ensure he wasn't hallucinating.
He wasn't.
He slipped his shoes on, grabbed his belt holster and wallet, slammed the door behind him, and tore down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him, dialing Stan's cell as he ran.