BLACK in the Box (4 page)

A crash sounded from the kitchen, drawing Black’s attention to where Sylvia was at the sink. “When?” he asked quietly.

“How soon can you get down there? It’s the Home World store off the 405.”

“At this hour? Holiday rush? It’ll be a parking lot. At least…two hours. If I’m lucky. Will you be there?”

“With bells on, along with the client.”

“What’s his name?”

“Lawrence Jacobs. Goes by Larry. Owns a bunch of these places. High roller.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“You’ll have the run of the store. Happened on the night shift, so everyone will be there by eleven or so.”

“Even the…prized employee?”

“Mmm, don’t know. Let’s see what happens.”

Black hesitated. “Is he…involved with her?”

“The client’s married, Black. Three kids.”

“Fascinating. But is he boinking her?”

“How is that relevant?”

“I want to know what I’m getting into.”

“Why does it matter?”

“It could be clouding his judgment.”

“For the record, Larry assures me that he’s just worried about his employees, and doesn’t want to see a miscarriage of justice.”

“Regular Mother Theresa of retail, huh?”

“Why must you drag everyone to your level, Black?” Bobby covered the phone with his hand and spoke to someone else. “Gotta run, babe. See you when I see you. Can you find the place?”

“How hard can it be?”

“That’s the spirit.”

Black disconnected and moved into the kitchen. “Sylvia, I need you to promise not to go ballistic.”

She turned to face him, her eyes moist. “What?”

“I have to meet a client.”

She shook her head in disgust. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. But he’s paying me a small fortune…”

“To do what?”

“It’s just a one-day job.”

“Right now?” she asked, almost whispering.

Black nodded. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

She dropped the pan she was cleaning back into the sink. “I’m so tired of this, I can’t tell you.”

“I know.”

Sylvia glanced down at her bare ring finger and drew a deep breath. When she spoke, her words were evenly measured and her tone deadly serious. “If you leave, I swear I won’t be here when you get back.”

Black swallowed hard. “Isn’t that a bit of an overreaction? Escalating this to the brink?”

“You heard me. Take it however you want.”

Black looked over to where Mugsy’s corpulent frame was dozing in a cat carrier. “Will you watch Mugsy while I’m gone?”

“No. You leave, I won’t be here when you get back. I’ve had enough. I’m putting my foot down, Black.”

“Sylvia, don’t do this. Please.”

“What’s more important – the money or me?” she whispered, her voice tight.

“You know I’m in debt, Sylvia. This would cover rent, the holiday…”

She nodded and turned away. “Then you’ve decided. Take your cat and get out.”

“Sylvia…”

She pushed past him toward the bedroom. “I don’t want to talk to you. You’ve made it perfectly clear what I can expect. So now I’ll make my choice – and it doesn’t include babysitting your obese cat while you’re out on the town.”

“You know it’s not like that.”

The bedroom door slammed behind her. Black hesitated, debating whether to follow her, and then heard the knob lock snap shut. “I’ll only be a few hours.”

“Take as long as you want,” Sylvia called through the thin wooden panel.

“I’ll call.”

“Goodbye, Black.” The door opened and she glowered at him, tears streaming down her face. “What is it you Americans say? Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“You really want me to take Mugsy?”

The door crashed shut again with the finality of a gunshot. Black moved to the cat carrier, where Mugsy was watching him like Black was going to put him in the microwave. Black hefted the box with a grunt. “Christ. You weigh as much as a cement sack, you porker.”

Mugsy glared at him morosely and then closed his eyes, his repose more valuable than interacting with the idiot who occasionally fed him. Black grabbed his keys, sniffed one armpit, shrugged, and made for the front door. “She’ll get over it,” he muttered to himself, but he felt unsure. They’d been fighting more and more lately, and this was the culmination of several bitter disagreements that were in reality Sylvia’s impatience with his reluctance to propose to her. Neither of them wanted to directly tackle the issue, resulting in a spiral of passive-aggressive spats over tangential quibbles. “She will,” he repeated and set off down the stairs to where his car was parked, ignoring the sense of unease in the pit of his stomach as he strode, cat carrier in hand, the stiff breeze from the east tugging at his fedora.

Chapter 6

Black negotiated the route to the freeway in a snarl of traffic, the bumper-to-bumper, rush-hour gridlock in the City of Angels something every thinking person dreaded. His phone chimed as he sat idling at yet another light, and he moaned slightly when he saw the caller ID.

He tapped his earpiece to life. “Hi, Mom.”

“Artemus, how many times do I have to remind you it’s Spring?”

“Right. Hi, Spring. What’s up?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your number comes on the display, Mom. I mean, Spring.”

“Whatever will they think of next?”

“You don’t have caller ID?”

“We still have that phone your father bought, what, sixteen years ago.”

Black sighed. “What’s going on?”

“I called over at your house, but you weren’t there. Sylvia and I had a nice chat.” She paused, and Black’s heart sank. “She doesn’t sound happy.”

“Yes, well, sometimes people get that way around the holidays.”

“She says all you do is work.”

“We’ll figure it out. Why were you calling?”

“You know, you should really consider meditating – it’s very calming. Oh, and Chakra says he can recommend some books on Tantric sex. In case that’s the problem. It transformed our life.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Really! It’s amazing.”

“And you were calling because…?”

“What?”

Black closed his eyes and focused on remaining calm. “I asked why you were calling.”

“Oh, not you. It’s Chakra. He wants to talk to you.”

“Mom…”

“Please. It’s Spring.”

Black cringed as his mother dropped the phone, the pop as loud as a firecracker in his earpiece. Black’s father came on the line, sounding like a bad Donald Sutherland imitation, as always.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Spring, I don’t know if he can hear me. The phone might be broken,” Chakra called out.

“Oh, honey. I hope not,” Spring said. The line rustled as the phone changed hands. “Hello?” It was his mom again.

“Yes, Spring. I can hear you fine. Why are you calling?”

“Oh, good. Chakra, you just have to turn the volume up some. It’s not broken. Here,” she said, again not to Black.

“Hello?” his father’s voice rang out.

“Hi…Chakra. What’s up?”

“He can hear me,” his dad said to Spring.

“That’s wonderful, dear,” his mom replied. Black wondered whether he could simply hang up and ignore when they called back, but decided that with Christmas coming, he could afford to be patient with them.

Even if he was simmering with rage at the sound of their voices.

“Artemus?” It was his father again.

“Chakra. Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, we don’t celebrate that. Don’t you remember?”

“That’s right.” A memory of a Christmas morning from his youth flooded his awareness: of him staring out the window at other kids playing with their new toys, his parents choosing to celebrate a pagan mid-winter holiday instead – with no gifts. “So what’s happening?”

“We were thinking of flying in and surprising you, but after talking to Sophia…”

“Sylvia.”

“Right. Sounds like you aren’t…meeting her needs. That’s my read.”

“I appreciate the spin, Dr. Phil.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. We’re just having a tiff. Nothing more.”

“It’s important to give a woman what she wants, Artemus. Especially in the bedroom. If you don’t, someone else will.”

“That’s not the problem. But it’s probably not a great idea to come down, seeing as everything’s a little sensitive right now.”

“I’m going to mail you some books.”

“That’s super. It’ll be the first time I ever got anything for Christmas from you.” Black did his best to keep the bitterness out of his voice, and failed epically.

“How’s your anger?” Chakra asked.

“It was fine until recently.”

“Oh, that’s good.” He hesitated and his voice quieted. “You don’t…you don’t hit her, do you?”

“Christ, Dad. No, of course I don’t.” Black inched the car forward before stopping again. “But I am feeling suicidal.”

“Life is precious.” A pause as his father responded to something Spring asked. “What’s that? No, he says he wants to kill himself. I don’t know. I asked him if he hits Sophia, and he blurted that out. I think he beats her up.” Chakra came back on the line. “Spring wants to talk to you. Don’t do anything rash. And try not to…to act out.”

“I don’t hit Sylvia. And I don’t want to kill myself. It was a joke.”

“He says life’s a joke. First with the violence, then it’s all a joke. You need to talk some sense into him.”

Black moaned. Spring’s horrified voice called out in the background. “Oh, God, is he a hitter? We should have seen that coming. I always knew he had it in him.” She came on the line. “I knew we should fly down. I had this feeling.”

“It was a joke, Mom. I don’t hit anyone, and I’m not suicidal.”

“Spring.”

“Right. Listen, I might lose you. I’m on the freeway in a bad area. If I do, I’ll try to call back tomorrow.”

She called out again to his father, ignoring him. “Chakra, I think he’s going to go do it. He’s making excuses to get off the phone now.” Spring’s voice strengthened. “Artemus, we’ll get the jet warmed up. Just hold on. Things can seem overwhelming at times. Just remember you’re always a success in our eyes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that material accomplishment is temporary. It’s unimportant. What matters is what’s inside. And every life is precious, no matter how angry you get or how depressed. There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel.” She paused. “We can be there within three or four hours, Artemus.”

“I’m happy with my life. I made a joke. I shouldn’t have. Don’t fly down – I’m on a case, so I won’t even be at my house until tomorrow. I’ll call when I can.”

“Promise me you won’t hit Sofia any more. And that you won’t kill yourself.”

Black sighed. “I promise. And I don’t hit her. I’ve never hit her, Mom. Sometimes I have no idea what goes through your mind.”

“Spring.”

“Right.”

Chapter 7

Long Beach, California

Swatches of purple and mango painted the dusk sky as Black’s 1973 Cadillac Eldorado convertible rumbled off the 405 freeway after crawling from Los Angeles at a snail’s pace. He glanced at the fuel indicator, which was reading close to empty, and turned down the stereo. The big engine had guzzled almost half a tank of gas on the trip, which should have taken less than a quarter. Mugsy snoozed beside him as he exited the sea of late-model vehicles, everyone on the road angry and impatient as only the privileged in first world countries could be when delayed.

He was greeted by a flat wasteland of endless strip malls and characterless tract homes, and made his way toward the glowing Home World sign high atop a metal pole on his left. He executed a sloppy U-turn at the light and rolled into the parking lot, where a handful of cars sat in the vast space. His dash clock told him it had taken him three hours to get there with his pit stop for an In-N-Out burger and gas, and he wasn’t surprised to see Bobby’s new Tesla in the red zone at the front of the store, a low-slung white Bentley coupe behind it.

“Figures,” Black muttered as he pulled into an open slot, his power steering belt howling in protest like a wounded gull. He raised the top and left the windows down a few inches, the temperature still unseasonably warm, but not so much that he was afraid Mugsy would melt in the short term. “If I’m in there for long, I’ll bring you inside, you fat bastard,” Black assured Mugsy, who gave him the equivalent of a feline sneer before plopping his head back down and closing his eyes, the effort of digesting the cheeseburger Black had bought for him clearly commanding all his resources.

Black sniffed the air and his nose wrinkled. “Jesus, Mugsy. That’s foul.”

Mugsy snored indifferently. Black closed the driver’s door and walked to the entrance, his hat cocked at a rakish angle, buttoning the top button of his jacket as he approached to hide the belt holster containing his Glock 9mm pistol.

Bobby and a trim older man with hair dyed a chestnut color unknown in nature waited by the bank of registers, where customers with the resigned expressions of gulag prisoners shuffled past with carts filled with supplies. Bobby spotted Black and waved him over, his sunlamp tan in place, his teeth flashing white, his hair plugs artfully combed back.

“Black! Took you frigging long enough,” Bobby greeted him.

Black shrugged. “I told you traffic would be a bear.”

Bobby tapped his cheek and made a face. “You’ve got some mustard there.”

“Guy’s gotta eat. I just finished up an all-night stakeout.”

Bobby turned to the other man. “Larry Jacobs, meet…Black. Private investigator extraordinaire.”

Black offered his hand and Larry shook it, his grip confident in the way rich men’s tended to be. Black took in Larry’s three-hundred-dollar shirt and crisp slacks, his Rolex President worth more than Black’s car, and his Gucci loafers expensive enough to pay Black’s rent.

“Just Black?” Larry asked.

“That’ll work,” Black confirmed.

“Well, pleased to meet you. I hope you can help. Come on back to my office and we can talk,” Larry said, and Black could hear traces of New Jersey in his accent. He suspected Larry’s story was a common enough one in LA: tired of toiling away as a corporate attorney or a power broker, he’d probably moved out west, started a company, and done well. He wasn’t old money, that was for sure – the flashy car and attire tipped his hand as much as if he’d had his origins branded on his face.