Black
Authors: Russell BlakeNarrator: R.C. Bray
Duration: 7H 23m
My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐🌑🌑
Tags: Detective - Comedy - Thriller
Strangely enough that all action-oriented and sci-fi, zombies-around books - R.C. Bray would take a female-oriented romance.
I wasn’t able to follow what was going on there. I was too annoyed with secretary attitude. Ok to pass the time because of jokes and time passing.
Special piece of art was conversation with barista about coffee ordering.
I’ll also include my favorite part about coffee ordering routine here, because how awesome it is:
The woman in front of him approached the counter and issued an elaborate order involving Italian adjectives,
sugar-free chocolate, an admonishment against fat of any sort, and a precise specification of the sort
and amount of foam with which she wished her concoction crowned, before moving further down the line to pay,
again eyeing Black like he was going to try to steal her purse. The aloof barista, a young man with plentiful
tattoos, the jaundiced skin of a junkie, and a way of repeating back orders while managing to make them sound
like an insult and simultaneously seeming disapproving of the choice, greeted him with a company-issued courtesy
nod that conveyed a heady mixture of contempt, anger, and apathy.
“May I take your order, sir?” he asked, in a tone that made it clear he’d rather teabag a hobo.
“Medium cup of coffee and a small chai.”
“Mmmmmedium cup of daily roast and a short chai. Would you prefer Guatemalan New Year or Ethiopian Splendor?”
“Whichever is better.”
“They’re both excellent.”
“Then give me whichever is more popular,” Black said.
“The Guatemalan is a darker, richer roast, whereas the Ethiopian has more interesting secondary flavors.”
“Guatemalan, then.”
“Very well. Would you like room for milk or cream?”
“Sure.”
It was all Cliff, per his nametag, could do not to roll his eyes. Cliff paused for a moment, radiating ennui,
and Black could sympathize with him after listening to the woman’s order, a passive-aggressive cosmic minuet,
a stylized choreography more intricate than a ceremonial kabuki dance, this ordering of coffee and desire to
create a designer-beverage experience, the instructions as precise
as the assembly of a thermonuclear warhead or the splicing of DNA.
“How much, sir?”
Black had lost the thread. The people behind him shuffled impatiently. He was now guilty of the most despised
offense: the wasting of other people’s time, important people with places to go.
“I’m sorry…”
This time the barista couldn’t help himself, and allowed one eyebrow to cock a quarter inch, signaling that he
understood he was dealing with someone of sub-custodial intellect, or perhaps an unfortunate who’d suffered a
childhood brain trauma that prevented him from processing normally.
“How much room, sir? For cream. Or milk, if you like.”
The elevated eyebrow had aroused within Black an irresistible urge to make the young man’s life more difficult.
The beverage-ordering equivalent of meeting his ante and raising him two seemed an appropriate gambit.
“Do you have soy milk?” Black asked, not the slightest trace of mockery evident in either his tone or his inflection.
“Of course, sir.”
“Because I’m lactose intolerant.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I also suffer from low-level celiac issues,” he confessed, as though sharing an intimacy with a lover.
“So you’d like soy milk, sir? In your drip coffee?” the server asked, spitting out the final two words like
a curse, Black’s frugality now established for all to despise in a land of abundant plenty.
“It’s not that vanilla or flavored soy milk, is it? I’m not inclined that way, if you know what I mean. Not
that there’s anything wrong with that.” Black resisted the urge to wink.
“No, sir. It’s just soy milk.”
“Well then. I’ll take it with soy milk, but I’d like you to warm it up if possible.”
“Warm…” The young man repeated the request without a hint of disbelief.
“Yes, but not hot. Just warm. Like in a toddler’s sippy cup.” Black’s countenance could have been carved
from alabaster, his brow’s ability to convey emotion botoxed away, his expression that of an inscrutable
Easter Island monolith, lacking the capacity for humor, much less duplicity.
The barista understood it was game, set, and match, and merely nodded before calling the order to the next
employee in a staccato jargon that sounded like a foreign language or a technical description of
impossible complexity.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Do you accept traveler’s checks?”
“Mmm, no sir. I’m afraid not.”
“Personal checks with no ID?”
“Only cash or credit cards.”
“Not debit cards?” Black asked in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. Of course. And debit cards.”
“Because you only said credit cards.”
“I realize that could be confusing, sir. That’s why I amended it.”
“Well, how much is it, then? I’m in a hurry, if you don’t mind.”
“Six twenty-five, sir. You pay over there, at the register.”
“Remember. Warm like mother’s milk. Not scalding. I break out in hives if you burn the soy milk.”
“We’ll be very careful, sir.”
Black detected a final flicker of rebellion in the young man’s studied stoicism,
and went in for the kill.
“Can I get a complimentary glass of water?”
The barista’s gaze hardened, his eyes black as a shark’s as he realized he’d been bested;
spanked like a bitch by a master.
“Certainly, sir. Paper or plastic?” For all the scuffling, Cliff was resilient –
Black would give him that.
“I don’t want to do anything harmful for the environment. Is the paper recycled?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Never mind, then. Recycling consumes far more energy than milling new cardboard,”
Black announced in triumph, having played not only the politically correct card,
but also swooping to snatch the young man’s ability to snipe further interrogatives
from him with the alacrity of a rocket-fueled hawk.
The line behind him exhaled an audible groan of relief when Black moved to the next
register and paid the perky and always friendly Asian cashier with a ten-dollar bill.
The drinks arrived without delay, and he juggled them as he moved to one of
the overstuffed seating areas to savor his victory drink.
Quotes:
Black kept his expression neutral and averted his eyes. His potential client’s trophy wife was coming on to him. Which could have been nothing, just a habit she had, the kind of thing bored, hot women did instinctively to any male within range. He knew the type, and while she was definitely exuding sex appeal like a Rainbird sprayed water, he got the feeling that it was equally unfocused, and he just happened to be the nearest target.
Life was too damned short to subject himself to the kind of abuse that would be a constant part of that job, and he knew better than to accept a position that would make him miserable.
Because I want to kill. I want to slake my thirst for blood and become the angel of death, snuffing out innocent life on a whim – the most vicious killer the Army has ever seen
He existed in a kind of celebrity purgatory where he was a known quantity, but despised for how he made his living. Paparazzi were like insects, swarming over the still-warm carcass of whatever object of fascination had attracted the public’s interest. And he was the king roach. He didn’t kid himself, and there was no self-loathing. Freddie was accepting of his station. But he’d gone from owner to towel boy overnight, and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t curse Hunter and his bitch of a daughter for ruining his good thing.
Fridays were big ones for trauma physicians all over town, as drug deals went south and passions ran hot ahead of Saturdays, which always set records for man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. Something about weekends brought out the killer instinct, the desire to rob that liquor store, jack that car, teach that bitch a lesson.)
You can’t make the world perfect, Black. It’s always been a messy bowl of crap, and always will be. Take it from a guy who’s spent his life scooping it up after the fan sprays it everywhere. Take the wins when you get ’em, because you’re gonna have more losses than wins in the end. If you aren’t losing, you aren’t trying.