BLACK to Reality (21 page)

The real question in his mind was whether that was a good thing or bad. He figured he’d take it up with Kelso on the next call, and whatever the quack recommended, he’d do the opposite. Assuming he could tie the slippery therapist down. Kelso could avoid a direct answer more effectively than a politician, which Black supposed they taught first year in shrink school.

He pushed the front doors open, and Ed greeted him with a whoop. The party was already starting, and Black would have to pull his weight and take one for the band. Fortunately he was thirsty. Especially since Roxie had managed to do nothing but muddy the already murky waters, leaving him with even less direction than he’d had before talking to her.

Christina appeared wearing leggings and a purple tube top that would have gotten attention from a corpse. The camera caressed her like a lover, and Black acknowledged that she knew how to play the TV game as well as anyone.

“Come on, big boy. I’ll buy you a cocktail,” she said, mischief twinkling in her eyes.

“It seems rude to turn down a scantily clad woman bearing drinks,” Black conceded. “Let me go check on Mugsy, and I’ll be right down.”

“It’s a date, Sensei.”

Black hoped against hope that the exchange would get left on the cutting-room floor; otherwise he could expect more difficulty from Sylvia. But he had a part to play, and as they were nearing the finish line, it wasn’t the time to go conservative on the viewers. If he had to down some brews with a gorgeous nubile as a concession to ratings, what could he say?

After all. The show must go on.

Chapter 26

The morning of the recording session, Black was awakened by Terrence barging into the bedroom, a look of rage etched on his petulant face. Ed sat up, groggy, even as Black tried to assimilate what was happening.

“Where is he? I’ll kill him,” Terrence hissed.

“Who?” Ed asked.

“Yeah, Terrence. What’s up?” Black echoed.

“That damned cat.”

“Mugsy?” Black asked, looking around. Ed shifted the covers, and there was Mugsy, looking innocent as a lamb. “Why? What did he do?”

“I can’t breathe. He must have gotten into my room. I told you to keep him in here,” Terrence said.

“I have. He’s been confined to this room ever since you threw your hissy fit,” Black countered.

“He got in. Somehow. And now my eyes are swollen shut and my throat’s on fire. Listen to me!”

Black had to admit he sounded hoarse and raspy.

“Take a pill. If it’s an allergy, won’t that knock it out?”

“It’s not that simple,” Terrence whimpered. “You did this so you could win the round. You knew today was the big day.”

Black threw the covers off and stood. Terrence was about as threatening as the baristas Black jousted with routinely, all attitude and snark. “That’s a pretty ugly accusation, Terrence. Do you have any proof?”

“Listen to me. That’s the proof.”

“Maybe you caught a cold,” Ed said helpfully.

“Or maybe something else triggered it,” Black added. “But storming in here and throwing around wild accusations…Terrence, I think you’d better leave.”

“Make me,” Terrence said, his hands on his hips.

Black moved to Ed’s bed and hoisted Mugsy, holding the bloated feline in front of him like kryptonite. An expression of horror flashed across Terrence’s face and he fled. Black shrugged as he moved to the door, kicked it shut, and then tossed the cat back onto Ed’s bed. Mugsy, no worse for wear, promptly burrowed into the covers with an annoyed grunt and resumed sleeping.

“What’s with Sybil there? He can’t really believe we’d put Mugsy in his room to screw him over,” Ed said.

“Who knows? Maybe it’s that time of the month.”

“He did sound terrible.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean we slipped him cat dander.”

“Cat dander?”

“Never mind. Although…I mean, it’s theoretically possible that someone let Mugsy out, maybe when the cleaning crew was here, and he got into Terrence’s room…”

“But if so, that has nothing to do with us,” Ed said.

“Right. Which is why I’m not going to worry about it. We’ve got a big day ahead of us. Terrence can deal with his issues. We’ve got our own,” Black said, although privately he was wondering whether Terrence’s incapacitation couldn’t be the latest act of sabotage.

The ride to the studio took an hour, and when Last Call arrived, they were shown into the waiting room as two heavyset men unloaded their amplifiers and instruments. Rooster was already there, joking with the engineers, and again Black had a hard time envisioning him involved in anything underhanded. He seemed as excited by their wins as they did, and Black couldn’t reconcile the aging bluesman with the picture Roxie’s financial data had painted.

The cameraman recorded their arrival and setup, to be spliced into a montage for the show that afternoon once everyone’s sessions were over. Each band was in a different studio, but all were state-of-the-art, so there would be no difference in the finished product other than the abilities and performance of the artists.

It took thirty minutes to get tones on the bass and guitar. Ed announced he was happy with the house drum kit, which was already isolated, microphones in place. They ran a couple of practice tries at the song, instruments only, and cut the basic track in one take. Next, Black laid down the lead and a second rhythm guitar, which after three tries he was satisfied with, and then it was Christina’s turn. Black watched from the control room as she knocked out the vocals like a pro, requiring very few punch-ins to correct any inconsistencies. They finished with the background harmonies, which for expedience they blew through in two takes per chorus.

Rooster did a rough mix, with the final version that would be judged by the audience to be finished by the engineers as Rooster acted as producer. When the final tones had faded, Rooster gave Black a high five.

“Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about! You guys are magic. Really. That’s a solid ten performance. You should be proud.” He stood and moved to Christina. He hugged her and whispered in her ear, “You’re a star, baby. You watch. Audience is going to go berserk for this.”

That evening, all three bands gathered at a televised ceremony where they performed their renditions live. Terrence was still struggling, and Strobe’s performance didn’t come close to Bend in the Creek’s or Last Call’s. Even before the studio version of each band’s take was aired, it was obvious to everyone that Strobe was the night’s loser. Black felt sorry for Terrence as he wept quietly into his hands when the results were announced, but more than that, the niggling conviction that Strobe’s demise had been preordained had Black on edge.

The judges gave their obligatory pep talk once Strobe had been shown the exit, but it rang hollow in Black’s ears. They were now down to two bands, and Black suspected that whoever was rigging things didn’t have his best interests in mind. On the ride back to Malibu, Christina nudged Black with her elbow.

“What’s wrong? We did great.”

“I don’t know. It just seems like something fishy’s going on. Botched mixes, lost samples, food poisoning, now this…don’t you get the feeling we’re just pawns?” Black asked.

“What are you talking about? We won that last round fair and square.”

“True, but Strobe was taken out of the running. Terrence couldn’t compete. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying that he would have done better than us. I’m saying that he never got the chance.”

Christina frowned and shook her head. “I don’t get you. We’re down to the finals. Months of hard work are paying off. Why are you stressing over Terrence? You hated him. I could tell.”

“It’s not so much Terrence. It’s that if we’re not winning fair and square, the whole thing could be called into question at some point, and that’ll diminish everyone who’s participating. I want to win. But I don’t want to feel like I did because somebody fiddled the game.”

“I don’t know what’s eating at you, but I’m not going to let it affect me. We need to give a hundred ten percent for this last round, Black. That means everyone.”

He nodded. “I know. I intend to. Trust me on that. Maybe I’m just paranoid. They’re…the police are treating Rick’s death as a homicide.”

Christina’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“I have a buddy who knows somebody. Point is, the cops don’t think it was an accident.” Black watched her face for ticks or other giveaways, but got nothing but shock in return.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

The rest of the ride went by in silence as Christina absorbed Black’s news. When the van arrived at the iron gates at the bottom of the drive, Black wasn’t sure whether the bars were to protect the mansion or to imprison the residents.

But with the finals only two weeks away, he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

The cameraman filmed them as they filed through the door, their mood glum, completely out of keeping with a group that had just gotten its second perfect ten score of the show. Christina took the stairs two at a time as Black, Ed, and Peter moved into the kitchen for celebratory beers. After two bottles, Black went out on the pool deck and called Sylvia. The sound of her voice had a calming effect on him, and when Ed joined him, carrying an ice bucket with four more beers in it, he felt relaxed for the first time since he’d awakened that morning.

The beers came and went, and by the time Black mounted the stairs, Christina having never put in an appearance, his head was spinning, his best intentions trumped by Ed’s coaxing and a desire to numb his racing thoughts. When he opened the bedroom door, his movements clumsy, Mugsy eyed him with disapproval.

“Screw you, Mugsy. Don’t you dare judge me.”

Mugsy snorted and laid his head back on the pillow as though deeming any response unfit, and as Black brushed his teeth, the cat was already snoring, his conscience clear as a mountain stream. Black returned to his bed and studied the corpulent feline’s furry face before crawling under the covers, envying him the simplicity of his existence. Ed remained downstairs, youth working its miracle even as the soporific effect of the beer had its way with Black. The last thing he registered before he was out cold were Mugsy’s jowls puffing from breathing, the rumble of his emanations oddly comforting to Black as he drifted into oblivion, free for a brief while from his earthly concerns.

Chapter 27

The second season, the final elimination round would feature both acts playing two songs apiece – a concession to the prior year’s criticisms that one song was inadequate to crown a new champion. Each band would perform a song of its choosing along with one selected at random. Much discussion and strategy had gone into the choice, and after considerable back and forth, Christina’s unusual preference of a Gloria Gaynor classic made the cut: “I Will Survive”. Black was familiar with several versions that had taken the familiar tune and twisted it to serve new masters, and the band rose to the challenge over the next two weeks, imbuing it with new life. Christina’s logic in lobbying for the standard was that it was so far from a rock band’s comfort zone it would demonstrate the group’s versatility.

When they received their mandatory selection, everyone was agape at how to best pull it off. Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” was not exactly the stuff from which rock dreams were made, and it took several days of experimentation before they settled on a rendition that didn’t sound like a bag of cats.

Midweek before the finals, they were scheduled for a night out at a Los Angeles rock club, presumably so the cameras could catch the local wildlife in full roar. The group hit town at 11:00, and Black’s sense of dislocation grew stronger as the night progressed. The crowd was at least ten years younger than he was, and the few old timers looked worse for wear. Three beers into it, the headlining band was grinding away, and Black’s head had started to hurt. A shapely young woman in denim and leather had been flirting with him for half an hour, and when she suggested he follow her outside for a cigarette, his headache screamed yes even as his conscience said no.

Cigarettes won, although at the last minute guilt made him decline her offer of one. She lit hers with a dented steel flip-top lighter, and Black asked the obligatory questions. Stacy was a cosmetologist from the Valley, single, and loved to party. She had gorgeous eyes, Black thought, as he wondered whether it was the beer talking. He was musing that the band thing wasn’t so terrible after all when two youths in oversized basketball jerseys and baggy pants approached from down the sidewalk.

“Yo. Sweetness. You got a smoke for a playah?” the taller of the two said, eyeing her up and down.

“Um, no. Not really.”

“Come on, baby doll. Break loose for me.”

Stacy looked to Black, her eyes nervous. Black stepped forward. “She said she doesn’t have a cigarette.”

“What you lookin’ at, grandpa? I talkin’ to you?” the tough snarled.

“Hey, guys. We don’t want any trouble, okay?” Black said, hands raised in front of him, trying to defuse the tension. He barely registered the shorter youth swing a pipe at him, cracking one of his ribs as he went down. Both punks began kicking him, their construction boots thumping into his torso as he folded his arms to shield his face with his elbows. The smaller one hit him with the pipe again, but because of the angle it glanced off his forearm, instantly rendering it numb. He was waiting for Stacy to scream, but instead all he heard was her heels snicking against the sidewalk as she ran back to the club entrance. After sustaining a dozen well-placed kicks, one of the club bouncers cried out from the front doors, and the two assailants ran back down the street.

“You okay, buddy?” the heavyset bouncer asked as he approached. Black heard a motor rev and looked up just in time to see an old Chrysler K car peel away from the curb. He blinked, trying to focus as it rounded the corner and disappeared. Another vehicle pulled from a slot across the street – a Buick, Black thought, noting its lights were off until halfway down the block. He raised a hand to his mouth, and his fingers came away with blood. He flexed them to ensure he hadn’t broken one, and they worked, although he felt like his ribs and back had been run over by a truck.