White Sister

Chapter 38.

WE SAT IN the parking lot for a couple of minutes while I tried to figure out a profitable course of action. For some reason, Bodine was now ranting about the African slave trade in the eighteen hundreds, which he called the Black Holocaust. I tuned him out and tried to piece together a plan. The tape I just made sounded like a plot against Curtis Clark and Lionel Wright set to go down tonight. The problem was, if I tried to book it into evidence and get a case number, I'd be signing up for a boatload of trouble with the department. Nothing on the tape was admissible because it had all been illegally acquired. With no warrant or even correct paperwork from Sally to get the bug installed at ESD, we would both get hammered. As John's voice continued to drone on about slave traders in 1820,1 tried to come up with a solution that wouldn't land me and Sally Quinn in a jackpot. My tape was worthless in the criminal justice system, but it had to be worth something to Curtis Clark and Lionel Wright. Maybe it would buy me a place at the table. If I was going to clear Alexa!s name, I had to find a way to somehow get to the inside. Chooch told me that it was common knowledge that Maluga had been feuding with Curtis Clark, but he didn't know why. From what I'd just overheard, it seemed the feud was over stolen royalties and back performance pay. John kept ranting. "African slavers was kidnappin' our tribal warriors an' hiding them in the jungle in this old abandoned French village my great-great-grandfather, Chief O, chased 'em there. That village was a Dantean nightmare." Dantean nightmare? Where did he get this stuff? Had he actually read both Thomas Mann's Tonio Kroger and Dante's Inferno? I dialed 411 and the exchange operator said, "City and state, please." I told her what I wanted and she gave me the number, which I dialed into my phone. John kept trying to get my attention. "Hey," he said, but I ignored him. "Hey, I'm talkin' at you." "WYD Productions," a woman's lilting voice answered after two rings. "Lionel Wright's office, please." "I'll connect you to his assistant, Miss McKenzie." As I was being transferred, Bodine got frustrated and slipped into one of his high-volume rants. "This here be my legacy," he shouted. "It's what my life is about. I'm talkin' about a criminal catastrophe the fuckin' Black Holocaust and all you can to do is blab on yer phone!" "Shut up, John," I shouted back. "I've got a situation here!" He fell silent and began to pout. "Lionel Wright's office," a woman with a clipped British accent said. "This is Detective Shane Scully with Homicide Special at the LAPD. I need to speak with Lionel Wright or Curtis Clark." "I'm sorry, Mr. Wright is not available and Mr. Clark doesn't record for us. Try Lethal Force, Inc. They can give you a number." "Lady, this is a police emergency. Your boss is about to get murdered tonight. I have a surveillance tape he should listen to. If you want him and Curtis Clark to see the end of the week, you'll put me through." There was a long pause. "I'm sorry, what?" "You heard me. If you'd rather let them get assassinated, I guess that's your call." I was putting some stress into her day. Her cool efficiency disappeared. "I c-can't promise anything," she stuttered. "Mr. Wright doesn't " "You call him. Tell him what I just said. I'll meet him anywhere. House, office, street corner. He can pick." "Where can we reach you?" "I'll call back in ten minutes." I hung up without saying good-bye. John Bodine was staring at me wide-eyed. "Bust A Cap is slammin'!" The Black Holocaust seemed lost in the wake of Lionel Wright's celebrity. "You know him? That half-stepper is pure cheddar, man! You really know him?" "Not yet, but I think he's in my future." Since the WYD phone number had an 818 area code, I put the Jeep in gear and headed toward the 818 section of the city, which was generally the Valley. Bodine stayed strangely quiet as I drove. Ten minutes later, I dialed WYD. I was again put through to Lionel Wright's assistant, Miss McKenzie, who sounded anxious now. "Mr. Wright will meet you at his office. Go to our underground parking garage on Sunnyslope off Ventura and ask for the private elevator. One of his security assistants will meet you there." "What about Curtis Clark?" "We're trying to contact him." "Give me an address." "It's Wright Plaza on Ventura Boulevard between Greenbush and Sunnyslope. We're the whole block. Call me from the garage." "See you in ten," I said. "We gonna go see Bust A Cap?" John gushed. "I love that half-stepper." "John, pick a corner you like, 'cause you and I have finally reached the end of our time together." "This is one nigga don't get his ass peeled like no black banana. I got some mojo workin' here." "Okay, then I'll pick one for you. Ah, yes, how about this one?" I pulled over and put the Jeep in park. Then I went around, opened the passenger door, and dragged him out of the car by his collar. I yanked too hard and he stumbled and fell, landing on his hip. He grabbed his wound and screamed in theatrical pain. "I'm gonna sue!" "Have your guys call my guys." I got back into the car and for the second time since yesterday, left him in the street. Even as I drove away, something told me I hadn't seen the last of him.