White Sister

Chapter 53.

Dark Angel, My thoughts are always on you. We must meet tomorrow night. I can't go another day without holding you. You need to give me another floor score. I ache to see you. How about Crypto 457? Love Hambone When I erased the first, third and fifth sentences, it read: Dark Angel, We must meet tomorrow night. You need to give me another floor score. How about Crypto 457. Hambone The next one read: Dear Hambone, Time away from you is agony. This time Watts is the key. I can't be away from my Queen. It's all about lost performance and royalty. Don't make me wait, darling. I've got WYD and plenty of ammo. I'm in the cut, waiting. Edited, it read: Dear Hambone, This time Watts is the key. It's all about lost performance and royalty. I've got WYD and plenty of ammo. Originally, I thought Slade was talking about a love nest meeting in Watts, which is in South Central. Now I knew he was talking about Dante Watts and the missing performance fees and royalties. As I sat in the hospital waiting room, scrolling the e-mails on Chooch's computer, I realized that every communique was carefully worded to look like a love letter that cleverly disguised its true content. They detailed what Slade had learned in Stacy Maluga's bedroom and at Lethal Force, Inc. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Pryce Patterson's business card, with Lionel Wright's phone number written on the back. I dialed and waited. "Residence," a soft female voice answered. I recognized Patch McKenzie's cultured English accent. I wondered what she was doing at his house. She was certainly beautiful enough to interest a hip-hop mogul. "It's Shane Scully," I said. "Oh, we're so glad to finally hear from you. I'll pop off and get Lionel. I know he wants to talk to you." And I was on hold. She called him Lionel, not Mr. Wright. I suspected my guess was correct. After a moment, Lionel came on the line. "What up, dog?" "Thanks for bailing me out. You didn't have to do that." "You didn't have to save my life in that theater." "We need to meet." "Solid." "You're still in a lot of danger. I can't talk over this phone. I don't trust it. I have a six o'clock meeting I can't miss, then I'll be over. What's your address?" "Thirty-four-fifty Bel Air Drive." "I'll see you around seven, maybe a few minutes before." After I disconnected I sat on the couch outside Neurosurgery and waited. It was only four o'clock. I had time to leave messages for Rosey Rosencamp and Dario Chikaleckio. I also called Tommy Sepulveda. "I'm making progress," I told him. "Keep your cell phone on." Then I sat back and closed my eyes. I knew that my current blessings finally outweighed all my early disappointments. The dark, lonely past had been erased by a family full of love and, more important, optimism for my future. But now I was teetering again on the edge of desperation. These last few days, I'd been having two visions of Alexa. In one, she was my beautiful wife, loving and smart. The person with whom I'd be blessed to spend the rest of my days. She was always entertaining, because even though she lived by a strict moral code, she was extremely creative, and inside that code was often able to surprise me. In this first vision, I was a grinning, dopey, lottery winner who couldn't comprehend the depth of my good fortune. Then there was the second, darker vision. Alexa was lying inert on an operating table with half of her skull open, her scalp unattached, breathing through tubes attached to hissing pumps and machines. In this vision, she was lost in the vagaries of a vicious head trauma, asleep in a sea of anesthesia from which she might never be rescued. Worse still, there was nothing I could do but sit here with this damn computer on my lap and fight for her reputation, which, if things went wrong, she would never need again. I kept bouncing back and forth between these two visions, unable to find a good place to stand, knowing the first vision was just a memory, while the latter was a tragic reality. I could deal with neither and was spinning uselessly in my own grease. Chooch returned a little before six and Luther showed up exactly on time. The meeting was short. "She's still stable," Luther said. "Her heart and respiratory system are normal, but she is still on the respirator. Right now, I'm afraid to disconnect any of her life support, so we have to wait and see. You guys should get out of here. Sleeping in this room doesn't help Alexa. Eventually, the press is gonna find a way past hospital security and you don't need any more negative press. I'll call you if anything changes." "I'm not leaving," Chooch said quickly. I didn't want to leave either, but knew I had to. "Suit yourself," Luther said to Chooch. There was a distinct chill coming off him. "Luther, thanks for everything you're doing," I said, trying to make peace. "Yeah," he said softly, but the next thing he uttered told me his anger was directed at himself and not at me. He suddenly looked down at his hands. "God's tools, I used to call these." He shoved them deep into his pockets. "Maybe your friend is right. Maybe I'm just a crazy Jim Crow nigga after all."