White Sister

Chapter 41.

IT WAS A little past two by the time I left Wright Plaza. I got into Chooch's Jeep, opened the envelope I'd just lifted, and extracted the backstage pass. The awards show was something called the Tip-Top Hip-Hop Oasis Awards. The performance segment was called: star wars. Given what I knew, probably an unfortunate choice of words. A separate printed sheet said that the show started at eight p. M., but instructed all of the performing acts and their visitors to be in the El Rey Theater by seven p. M., when the backstage doors would be locked. Sound checks were from seven to seven-forty-five. The El Rey was in the Mid-Wilshire district. If somebody wanted to kill Lionel or Curtis, what better place to do it than a music awards show where there was a long history of past gang violence and where members of rival Crip and Blood gangs would be in attendance? There'd be enough beef jerky standing around to fill Dodger Stadium and half of them would be strapped. For the shit to jump off, all that needed to happen was one insult from a guy wearing the wrong colors. Once the guns came out, confusion would reign and people could easily die. Even though there would be hundreds of people, there'd be no witnesses because everybody from the hood is gunshot-blind. There was nothing else I could do before seven o'clock, but I wanted to visit Alexa. I needed to hold her hand and tell her how much I loved her. I knew she wouldn't be conscious, and if the cops from PSB were there, I might get busted. But still… I headed down Ventura and turned onto Coldwater. Half an hour later I arrived at UCLA Medical Center where I parked in the main structure, went through the double glass doors to the elevators, and rode up to Neurosurgery. No cops, no trouble. So far, so good. As I walked down the corridor, it occurred to me that this was exactly the kind of dumb-ass move I'd been making my entire life. Break the rules, ignore the consequences, go down in flames. Repeating the same behavior while expecting a different result my own definition of insanity. I spotted Chooch in the partially filled waiting room studying his USC playbook. I cleared my throat and when he looked up a concerned look passed over his face. I indicated I needed to use the bathroom, then headed toward the men's room down the hall. A few seconds later Chooch arrived. "Dad, what are you doing here? They're gonna see you." "I needed to come." We hugged each other, and then he reported that Alexa's condition still had not changed. The doctors were keeping her in a drug-induced coma that would continue until just before the operation, when the anesthesiologist would take over. "They won't let anyone but her doctors and Luther see her," Chooch concluded. "I know, but I'm gonna try, anyway." "Dad " "I've got to, son." He looked at me for a long moment. "You know all this stuff on TV where they're saying your mom was in a relationship with Slade?" "That's a total lie," he said, hotly. "I know, but for a few hours yesterday, I was buying into that. I had some time when I didn't believe in her. Now I feel horrible about it." "Dad, if you go back there and they catch you, they'll call security. You know where you're gonna end up." "Just go to the front desk and keep the head nurse occupied. I'm going to find out where they keep the gowns and masks. Nobody will recognize me." "Don't do this, Dad." "If this goes bad tomorrow, I've got to at least tell her I'm sorry and how much I love her. It may be my only chance." He held my gaze. "What room is she in?" "Six-ten." I found a supply closet down the hall and grabbed a set of green surgical scrubs, a cap, mask, and paper slippers. I returned to the men's room and gowned up, then walked back toward the waiting room and nodded at Chooch. While my son went over to the nurse's station and started an animated conversation, I crossed to a side door, opened it, and quietly slipped inside. Alexa looked much smaller than before, like she was slowly wasting away under her surgical dressings. Her head was wrapped in gauze and she was attached to a mile of plastic tubing. Stuff was gurgling and hissing all over the room. Pumps and machines were keeping her alive. I found a chair and sat next to her bed, then took her hand in mine. I could hear my own steady breathing through the mask, feel her delicate pulse under my fingertips. I remembered how it had started for us just five short years ago. I had hated her on sight back then. She'd been prosecuting me at Internal Affairs for a crime I'd been falsely accused of. She was I. A.'s number one advocate prosecutor with a stellar record of convicting dirty cops. Beautiful and self-assured, she was determined to get my badge. As things turned out, she got my heart instead. Now I watched her lungs slowly filling with air, her chest rising and falling slightly with each mechanical breath. I marveled at the soft texture of her subtle beauty. What would I do if I lost her? Even though I had doubted her, I'd never stopped loving her. That had to be worth something. "I'll always love you," I whispered softly. The machines gurgled and hissed, while her heart monitor kept the rhythm. It was ugly, foreboding music. A concert of despair.