Black

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

The phone rang like a fire alarm and Black turned to grope for it, the light peeking through his bedroom curtains the only clue to the time. He looked at the screen and then punched it on.

"What are you doing calling me at this ungodly hour? It's Saturday," he demanded.

"It's ten a.m., sunshine. Your client's got a big problem. He's going down," Stan greeted.

"What are you talking about? He made bail."

"Freddie died last night. So now it's murder. With about a dozen different video feeds of bully boy beating Freddie to a pulp as exhibit A."

"He's not my client anymore. We parted ways last night. This morning. Whatever."

"Probably a wise move."

"I think so."

"I was just giving you a heads up in case you wanted to be there when he got taken into custody."

"Nope. Not me. My work there is done."

"Fair enough, buddy. Go back to sleep. Sounds like you've earned it."

"Trust me. I have."

Black hung up and then stumbled to the bathroom, still groggy. He was flushing the toilet when his cell rang again.

"Black."

"Hey, boss."

"Roxie. Good morning." Roxie worked a half day on Saturdays and a floating weekday, assuming she hadn't played a gig the prior night.

"Whatever. Listen, you just got a call. Hunter's wife. She's freaking out. Wants you to call her."

"Why?"

"Sounds like Hunter's gone off the reservation."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently he's drunk, high, and waving a gun around."

Black swallowed hard. "A gun?"

"Some movie prop. Whatever. You want her number?"

"Sure."

"I just texted you. Should be there."

"Thanks."

"Lot of drama in your life all of a sudden, Black. Just saying."

"Gracias for the wise observations. I have to make a call."

"Whatever. Mugsy says hello."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he made a hobby out of your chair when I wasn't looking."

"No."

"See you later, boss. Gotta run."

"Roxie-"

Black found himself talking to a dial tone. His phone vibrated, and he thumbed the cursor to the phone number Roxie had relayed and pushed send as he hurriedly pulled on a pair of gray herringbone trousers.

"Thank God you called. He's gone nuts."

"Meagan. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But he's lost his mind. You need to come out here and help me."

"Call the cops."

"They're already on their way."

"Then what do you need me for?"

"Black. Please. I'm afraid he's going to hurt someone." She paused. "Or me."

Damn. "Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Please hurry."

The line went dead, and Black scrambled for a shirt and some shoes. He snagged a vintage navy blue Hawaiian shirt with stylized red hula girls dancing across the fabric, slipped on a pair of loafers, and made for the door, grabbing a black fedora and Ray Bans along with his holstered gun and keys on the way out. His phone rang yet again, and he answered as he took the stairs two at a time.

Colleen's agitated voice sounded tight. "Black. It's Colleen. We've got an emergency."

"I know. I just spoke with Mea - with Mrs. Hunter."

"She called me looking for you. Sounds like the fecal material's hitting the fan."

"I'll say. I'm on my way over there right now."

"Good luck."

The Cadillac started with a throaty burble and he revved the engine until the idle smoothed out, thinking that perhaps today would finally be the day when he took it in for a tune up. Then he pointed the big white hood toward Bel Air, where his former client was on a drunken rampage. Maybe he should have stayed in bed, but he'd always been a sucker for a girl in trouble, and you couldn't get much more troubled than, "Help, he's trying to kill me," or words to that effect.

When Black arrived at Hunter's estate, police cars were parked at angles around the outer gate, the officers taking cover behind their vehicles, weapons drawn and pointing at Hunter, who was standing on his front steps in a bright orange silk bathrobe brandishing a three-quarters-empty Scotch bottle in one hand and what looked like an 1800-era long-barreled revolver in the other, his hair askew and a crazed look in his eye. Several of the statues near the front of the house had bullet scars from where Hunter had fired at them, and he looked like a madman with his robe hanging open and his star power hanging in the wind. A uniform stopped Black as he approached and told him that there was a situation so he couldn't go any farther, and then he spotted Stan, standing by his car.

Stan saw him and waved; and then all hell broke loose as a gunshot rang out and a red blossom stained the breast of Hunter's robe, followed closely by a volley of shots. Slugs slammed into the aging film star and he jerked like a demented marionette before tumbling face forward onto the bloody marble steps, his body still twitching as the police continued shooting.

"Hold your fire! Everyone. Hold. Your. Fire," Stan yelled, and then repeated the command over his car's PA system.

The gunfire stopped and relative tranquility returned to the area. Black's ears were ringing as he instinctively edged closer to Hunter, and he regarded the downed actor sadly as three of the officers approached through the open gate, weapons still trained on the motionless form. One kicked the ancient revolver away and nudged Hunter with his foot. Stan shook his head and faced Black.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, speaking louder than usual because of the tinnitus.

"Just out for a drive."

Stan gave him a hard look.

"Mrs. Hunter called. She said that Hunter had gone berserk. I'd say that was pretty accurate," Black explained.

"She called us, too. Said the same thing."

They both regarded Hunter's inert body, and then Stan shrugged.

"Looks like he just saved the taxpayers a really long, expensive trial."

"Yup." They continued to watch the officers as they holstered their weapons. "I should have stayed in bed," Black said.

"I've found that the days I say that to myself when I wake up, I always should have."

"Then again, that's most days for you, isn't it?" Black asked.

"True dat. So I'd basically just become a five-hundred-pound shut-in."

"I'm working on not judging."

"Let me know how that goes for you. I gotta go scrape up my latest problem off the steps."

"And comfort the distraught widow, don't forget."

"I'll leave that to you."

"Not interested, thanks."

"This is your big chance. You can call her, tell her all's well, and then she'll melt into your arms."

"I'm going back to sleep," Black said, walking slowly back to his car, his shoulders slumped.

Stan's voice trailed after him.

"Never a bad idea."