Free BLACK Is Back by Russell Blake

it?”
    “Might want to make sure it’s loaded. You ever fire it?”
    “I’m actually a pretty good shot.”
    “Sure you are.”
    “I am.”
    “I believe you. Cough cough not cough.”
    “I’m pretty sure that the head of a big-time record label isn’t going to get into a gun battle with me at his studio.”
    “I’ll start working on a eulogy.”
    “Thanks. That’s very reassuring.”
    “Try to stand sideways at all times. Present a smaller target. I saw that on TV.”
    “Good advice. You do realize that TV isn’t real, right?”
    She affected a look of shock. “It isn’t? What about Animal Planet? CNN? Sixty Minutes?”
    “Maybe those are.”
    “I thought you just said they weren’t.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “You never answered my question about the boozing. But never mind.”
    “I didn’t answer it because it was ridiculous,” Black said.
    “Hic.”
    “I’m leaving now.”
    “The bullets come out the end of the gun with the hole in it.”
    “That’s priceless. Thanks. Email me with anything you find on Moet. It’ll take me a while to find the studio.”
    “You realize that most cars built in the last fifteen years have a GPS in them, right? Just a thought.”
    “I don’t need any GPS. I know this city like the back of my…what’s that thing connected to my arm?”
    She returned her focus to the screen. “Do you have any preference for headstones?” she asked.
    “Good bye, Roxie.”
     

Chapter 11
    The streets leading to the freeway were congested, midday traffic clogging the arteries with overloaded semi-rigs and workers trying to slip out early for lunch. Eventually he took the I-5 south, then got off near Olympic Boulevard and worked his way east, the neighborhood degrading with each passing block. Low-rider cars in neon hues prowled the streets with Latino thugs inside, their shaved, tattooed heads announcing their criminal affiliations as clearly as signed confessions. Storefront signage segued from English to bilingual and then finally to Spanish only, as the pavement deteriorated along with the air quality.
    Black knew the area well enough to stay out of it, but circumstances had dragged him there and he was determined to put on a brave face. Still, he wasn’t insane, and he kept the top and his windows up, the doors locked, and a sharp eye out at each stoplight for potential carjackers.
    He circled the block where the studio was located and rolled to a stop in front of a dilapidated iron gate with razor wire strung in loops across its top; the gleaming wire continued along the top of the ten-foot-high walls that encircled it. A solitary steel pole with a keypad and intercom stood at the side of the driveway, and Black was just able to reach it and press the black communication button.
    “Who’s there?” a baritone voice boomed from the speaker.
    “Black. I have a meeting.”
    The box clicked off and the gate lurched to the side, sliding on a lubricated track to allow his car in. A man stood with his hands in the pockets of his baggy leather jacket near the other vehicles – a black Bentley coupe, a Land Rover, and an Audi Q7 SUV. The moment Black’s Cadillac was across the track, the gate began sliding shut again, and Black noted that the man’s eyes didn’t leave the opening until it had closed with a heavy thunk . Discretion seemed the prudent course, and Black took his time shutting down the engine and unbuckling his seatbelt, allowing the man sufficient opportunity to scrutinize him before he got out of the car.
    “You heah for Moet?” the security man asked with a Caribbean lilt once Black opened the door and slid from behind the wheel.
    “Yeah.”
    “In deh, mon,” the man said, pointing at a heavy steel door in the brick façade. “You packing?”
    “Nah. Left it in church.”
    Black walked to the door and pulled it open, only to find himself facing another door eight feet beyond. Framed gold and platinum records lined the walls of the small