White Sister

Chapter 44.

A POUNDING RAP song was being performed on stage for a sound check as I stepped inside the theater. "Follow me. Stairs are faster," Vondell said, and started climbing up a narrow back staircase. We arrived at a door displaying a sign handwritten in Magic Marker that read vip lounge passes required. Vondell opened the door with a special key card and we entered a large room filled with guests. The lounge featured red and gold decor and was dominated by a long, dark oak bar being worked by two beautiful, coffee-colored twins in strapless evening gowns. The area was populated by hip-hop celebrities and beautiful women turned out in trendy, body-baring creations. The vibe was electric, Everybody engaged in animated conversation. Vondell pushed me firmly up against a side wall and said, "Okay. Listen to me. This is a strained situation in here. Some of these brothers got bloody histories. Only thing keeping this in line is most a these people is hopin' to take home some brass for their trophy cases. See if you can stand here without starting a riot. I'm gonna round up my posse." Then almost as if he'd been beamed down from the crystal chandelier, Taylor Hays appeared and hovered at my elbow. "Stay with him," Vonnie instructed. "You seen Lionel?" "Sound booth," Taylor said. "Scully, fill my man in," Vonnie said and hurried off. "Four uninvited guests, all packin' MAC-tens." I pulled the police mug shots from my back pocket and showed him the grainy faces of DeShawn Brodie and Jordan Kendal. "These are two of them." "I know these niggas. Bloods, off Sixtieth," Taylor said. "They're all wearing baggy jeans and loose black windbreakers." A minute later, Vonnie reappeared with two other guys and a brother in a tan suit who was introduced to me as Elijah Mustafa, head of FOI security. He was a large, no-nonsense-looking brother holding a small Handi-Talkie radio to communicate with his FOI guards who were all wearing NSA-style earpieces. Vondell motioned us to follow him. I fell in behind Taylor, who flexed through the crowd rolling his shoulders. We exited through a side door in the VIP lounge and walked along a glass-lined corridor that overlooked the empty theater below. It was getting close to eight o'clock. The doors to the theater would open soon. There were rows of center aisle seats marked off with ribbon for VIPs and their guests. One entire side section was set up for the press. On stage, a female rapper and her backup singers were pounding out a hip-hop number while the sound engineer adjusted levels from the booth. We passed through another door and climbed a set of metal stairs backstage, finally arriving at the sound control room, high up in the rear of the theater. The door to the booth was open, revealing a cramped space outfitted with a state-of-the-art digital mixing board. Three video screens hung from ceiling brackets overhead, allowing the director, producer, and sound tech to monitor what was happening on stage. Lionel Wright was leaning over the board with an engineer, finessing the pots, adjusting levels. He was in stage makeup and had rejected his own Bust A Cap running gear in favor of a Sean John warm-up suit with diamond earrings and gold rope chains. "Man, Twista Sista got a slammin' cut here. We shoulda opened with this," he said and leaned down into the microphone. "Okay, that's tight, Latisha. We gotta wrap it up now. You guys sound great." On the overhead screen I saw the stage manager escort the act offstage. Lionel turned to me, and I handed him the two mug shots. "These guys and two others showed up here ten, fifteen minutes ago. Your old shot caller, Crocodile Smith dropped 'em off." "Sounds like you been doin' peeps at my past, Scully." Then Lionel turned to Vondell. "That old-school G is probably down here tryin't' mess up the bang." "Forget the show," I said. "They're here to put a bullet in you." "I've survived this asshole for two years. Tonight's not going to be any different." "This isn't good," Mustafa said. "This place is a maze of basements, corridors, and rooms. They could be anywhere. Come out when the lights dim and go to work. Gonna be hard to stop 'em." "We need to sweep the building," I said. "I agree," Vondell chipped in. Then in the damndest display of criminal audacity I've ever witnessed, everyone in the room, except me, pulled out a hunk of German iron and started checking clips and chambering rounds. "Hey, hey, hey," I said, taking a step back. "You can't do that." "Whatta you want us to do," Lionel said. "Hit these G's with pepper spray?" He turned to Mustafa. "Find your guys. Give them a heads-up and get a sweep going." He pointed up at a monitor that showed the doors were open and the audience was now streaming into the concert hall. "I got audience already moving in downstairs. We gotta try and sift through all these armed people without starting a riot. "I'm on it," Elijah Mustafa said and took off. I heard him clamber down the metal staircase as the rest of us trooped out of the booth and back along the corridor overlooking the theater. The audience milled below looking for seats as we descended the stairs to the lobby. Taylor peeled off and moved in the direction of the op+en theater. Lionel followed, and I grabbed his arm and stopped him. "You can't go in there," I warned. "There's too many sightlines. You're the target." "I'm not gonna hide from these bustas," he said, showing good street cred. The lobby was now packed to overflowing as guests with tickets were herded in from the street and squeezed against the large lobby bar where five more female bartenders, who looked like models, were serving drinks to rap stars, music execs, and flashy-looking wannabes. I surveyed the teeming mass of human flesh and counted several members of the Fruit of Islam positioned among the partygoers. Their tan suits and Kufi hats made them easy to spot. People began to recognize Lionel. As they surged forward, we were pushed even tighter against the bar. "What up, family?" one guy said in greeting, pushing close. It felt dangerous. Out of control. We were trapped, unable to move. Lionel grinned, waved, and shouted greetings to rival record execs and rap stars. "There's a secure room in the basement," Vondell said. "Let's hole up there till Mustafa gets this locked down." I nodded my approval. "I can't hide in the basement. I got a show to produce," Lionel said. Vondell and I ignored him. He took Lionel's arm and, with me out front clearing a path, we tried to make our way toward the basement doors at the side of the room. It was tough going. I was pushing people right and left. Vondell propelled Lionel along behind me. As we approached the double doors at the back of the lobby more people jammed in around Lionel, impeding our progress. Some had deals they wanted to discuss, others wanted their pictures taken with him, a few tried to give him CDs. Then he was pulled away from me by a big guy dressed in purple. "Hey, cuz… I want ya t' peep my new act," the man said. I got blocked and in seconds was separated. Vondell stayed with Lionel. I tried to follow, but a vise-like grip clamped down on my arm and I was spun around. I found myself looking directly into the round, basketball-sized face of Louis Maluga. He was dressed in a black suit. His huge arms bulged the sleeves of his jacket. Around his neck was a gold rope chain displaying one ornate, diamond-encrusted word: KILLER. "You seem to get around," he growled at me. "How you doing, Lou?" I pointed to the necklace. "Advertising?" "Go sell your wolf tickets to somebody who gives a shit," he said ominously. "I'm not selling wolf tickets. I'm here 'cause I love music that threatens your life in four-four time." I looked over and saw a very hot-looking woman in a low-cut gown. It had slits going up to her hips and down to her navel. "Is this the lovely Sable Miller?" I said. "She's beautiful. Nice goin', Lou." "You best pump your brakes, Chuck. You lookin' to get served, keep it up." "A guy on parole shouldn't engage in verbal assault on a police officer," I said. Then somebody grabbed Louis by the shoulders and gave him a hug. "What up, cuz?" the man said. "We gotta jam." Lou held my gaze a second longer. Just before he was pulled away, he said, "You been warned, asshole." I watched him disappear into the milling crowd. He was so huge, I didn't lose sight of him until he was halfway across the lobby. I turned to look for Lionel, but now the lights were flashing and people surged more energetically toward the theater. I was swept along with them. I finally spotted Lionel and Taylor Hays moving toward the elevator heading back up to the production booth on the second floor. Lionel was flanked on both sides by Fruit of Islam security, who were warding off approaching guests. They were almost at the elevator when the doors opened and I saw Krunk and one of the other teenage shooters standing inside. Their windbreakers were closed and the Fruit of Islam guards, not realizing the danger, reached in to yank them out of the elevator. "Look out! It's them!" I shouted, plunging toward the elevator. Krunk and the punk next to him pulled back their coats exposing MAC-10 machine pistols. As they swung the guns up, I lunged forward. Lionel was seconds from death. I was only a few feet away, so I reached out and jerked him aside. Then I dove past the two FOI guards and crashed into the elevator, hitting Krunk chest-high with a sort of half-assed flying tackle. I managed to knock him sideways, throwing off his aim and bringing him down just as he squeezed off a burst from the machine pistol in his right hand. Then the other G started firing. Bullets whizzed around in the crowded lobby and people began screaming. From the staircase area, another gun opened up. I couldn't see it because by then I was on the floor of the elevator on top of Krunk while people were punching, screaming, and kicking my head. Another burst of gunfire erupted, but I didn't see what happened since I was rolling around, trying to dodge the kicks while getting the stuffing pounded out of me. I rolled right, then left. Finally, I got my feet under me and pushed up. When I was vertical, I couldn't see Lionel, Taylor, or the FOI security. But Krunk and the other G were still on the floor of the elevator with their guns out fighting for their lives. I heard someone scream, "Freeze! Police!" Two more guns started firing. I've been in some pretty amped-out situations, but nothing that ever came close to this. I caught a glimpse of the action in the lobby and saw what looked like a hundred men whirling and throwing punches. Crips, Bloods, civilians, and cops were all locked in a senseless free-for-all. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Krunk and the other shooter being dragged out of the elevator. Then I took a shot to the jaw and dropped to one knee. I managed to struggle up again. But this time I was facing a uniformed cop. "Thank God," I said, just before I caught his swinging nightstick to the side of my head. That was the last thing I remembered about the Oasis Awards show.