White Sister

Chapter 56.

ON THE WAY to Van Nuys Airport I called Chooch at the hospital. He told me that Alexa's condition was unchanged and that Luther still wanted to keep her on life support, which didn't sound to me like a very good sign. I told Chooch where I was going and what I was trying to do. "Dad, be careful," he warned. "I can't lose you both." "Don't worry. You won't lose either of us," I said, knowing that promise would be out of my hands as soon as I hit Las Vegas. "Mom's gonna make it, isn't she?" Chooch sounded lost. It was as if he'd become a little kid again, holding on to a desperate hope. Hearing him like that almost broke my heart. I told him I didn't know, that it was in God's hands. Then I said I loved him and, after a few empty promises, hung up. It was hard for Chooch being caught in limbo like this. Hard for both of us not to know what was waiting for us in the weeks ahead. So much depended on Alexa's survival. I tried to get my mind off these troubling thoughts and focus on the danger that lay only hours ahead in Vegas. When I glanced in my rearview mirror, I could see Rafie and Tommy's maroon Crown Vic in the diamond lane, tracking behind me followed by Rosey's blue Toyota and Sally Quinn in a brown, department, plain wrap. Several times during the last few days, I'd been wondering about Insane Wayne Watkins and the note he had written in blood that had saved my life. Rafie had told me outside of Stacy's mansion that he didn't know where Watkins came from. That he was new. Maybe it was time to find out. I radioed dispatch and ran him. He came back empty. "Maybe Wayne Watkins is an alias," I said to the RTO. "Run me a deep cover check and get in touch with gang intel. Maybe he's in the gang book under his street handle, Insane Wayne." I gave the operator my cell call-back number and hung up, looking for my off ramp. Lionel had given me specific directions to the airport, instructing me to exit the freeway at Roscoe Boulevard and go to Aviation. I was to look for a Syncro Airplane Interiors sign and turn left toward the field. From there he told me to proceed to the Syncro facility located at the end of the drive next to the runway. FOI security would check me through. I had informed Lionel earlier that I might bring a few people with me. He hadn't told me the size of his plane, or how many people he was bringing. The only information I had was the tail number: November-25-Lima. I hoped he would have enough room for all of us. I spotted the Syncro sign and turned as directed, pulling up to a field gate. After giving an airport guard our names and the tail number, he opened up and waved all four cars through. We pulled up in front of Syncro, which was housed in a series of factory-style, bow truss buildings that looked like they'd been built during World War II. Elijah Mustafa and two of his tan-suited, hat-wearing brothers were waiting. They glared impassively, as always. I wondered if they had classes at FOI where they practiced that look in front of a mirror. I waved at Mustafa, who ignored my greeting, so I parked, pulled the case containing the Beretta AR-70 out of my trunk, and walked toward the building. He grabbed my arm as I passed and pulled me back. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said. "Where you going? Whatta ya got there?" Sally, Rosey, Tommy, and Rafie were out of their cars and in a similar face-down with his other two stone-faced guards. "This guy doesn't really think he's gonna pat me down," Rosey said, looking at the man in front of him. At six-foot-four, weighing at least two-fifty, Rosencamp towered over the FOI guard. "You best step off, little brother." "We've got strict orders to check people we don't know for guns," Mustafa said softly. "Open that case." "Let's not go down this road," I said. "These guys are all LAPD. We're not gonna get shook down like a bunch a street G's at a concert. Make an exception." It was a tense situation until Mustafa reconsidered. He nodded to his two guys and they stepped away from us. "Let's go," I said, and we headed into the building. Once inside, I could see why Elijah Mustafa chose this place. There was a large, narrow hallway that led to an airplane hangar in the back. One way in, one way out a perfect layout to control security. The walls were lined with photographs of plush airplane interiors that Syncro had installed. Through an open door I saw long upholstery tables where airplane seats were waiting to be covered in fire-retardant, FAA-approved fabric that someone once told me cost thousands of dollars per yard. The building had been cleared of all employees, so no one was working. We entered a vast enclosed hangar. The floor space was painted shiny white and the building interior was as sterile as an operating room. In the center of the hangar sat a huge, snow-white Boeing Business Jet, a corporate 737. It had been foolish to wonder about passenger accommodations because the plane was large enough to carry a college marching band. Painted on the jet's tail in gold letters trimmed in black was N-25-L. Rosey came up behind me and whispered in my ear. "Nobody but an asshole would pick a jail sentence for a tail number." He was right 25 with an L was known throughout the criminal justice system as a twenty-five-year-to-life sentence. The lunacy of that was underlined by the fact that the rapper Snoop Dogg had been the first one to coin the phrase. A group of about twenty well-dressed men and women were clustered under the wing of the jet. The mostly African-American men were all done up in Melrose fashions. The women were of various shades and sizes. Beautiful and sexy, they all looked straight from the Victoria's Secret catalog. White seemed to be the color of the day. Aside from the jet, Lionel Wright was dressed in a white tux. Holding his arm and looking spectacular in a glittering, white sequined mini-dress was Patch McKenzie. Lionel spotted me and broke away from her, his heels echoing on the hard shiny floor as he approached. "That's some posse you got, brother," he said, looking at Rosey, Tommy, and Rafie. "Gonna have t' bag you boys some bitches." Right now he hardly sounded like a guy with a business school degree. He was in his Bust A Cap persona, talking street. I introduced him to everybody. When I got to Sally Quinn he said, "Okay, this is working." Grinning at her, using a wide, bad boy smile. Getting some swerve on. As he reached for her hand, Sally took it and said, "Watch where you try and put that, 'cause I'm packin." "I like this girl," Lionel laughed. Just then, Elijah Mustafa called for attention. Everyone fell quiet. When Elijah spoke, people seemed to listen. He never cursed or used slang. That was part of his quiet force. "I'm Elijah Mustafa, with Fruit of Islam Security," he began. "We've been hired by Mr. Wright to guarantee your safety at this event tonight." Everyone stayed very quiet to hear him because he had barely raised his voice. "We believe that Mr. Clark and Mr. Wright may be in some danger. I know that some of you are aware of this fact and have brought weapons. I won't embarrass us all and attempt to take them away from you, but I'm asking you to please, leave them behind in your vehicles and let us take care of your safety. The flight to Las Vegas is approximately one hour and forty minutes. We will land at McCarran International at the executive jet terminal. After we deplane, ground transportation will be provided by the Fruit of Islam and will consist of twelve well-trained men and a caravan of ten Navigators enough for all of us. Once we are in the hotel parking structure we want everyone to stay in the SUVs until my team can clear a secure path into the pre-party being held at the Mandalay Bay Hotel, in the Foundation Room of the House of Blues. "Fruit of Islam security personnel will all be wearing hats similar to mine." He pointed at his African Kufi. "Please bring any concerns or observations regarding security to our attention and do not attempt to deal with them yourself. Anything you want to add, Mr. Wright?" Lionel smiled and then announced loudly, "Everybody, we're here to have a party. So like Elijah said, leave your pistols and choppers in your cars and let's all go to the bang." This was followed by cheers and a smattering of applause. It wasn't lost on me that nobody went back to his car to ditch a weapon. I spotted Curtis Clark standing with a small group of admirers over by the boarding stairs to the plane. He was scowling, his normal expression. Lionel turned to me. "Listen, cuz, despite all the drama here, I'm askin' you not to bag up on any half-loads tonight." "Do what?" I said, wondering what he was getting at. "The man is telling us there's gonna be drugs," Rosey clarified. "He don't wanta face no twelve-ten prosecutions." "Don't worry," I said. "I've got priorities here. Besides, once we get out of California, my badge doesn't work anyway." He slapped me on the shoulder and everyone began to board the plane. The BBJ comfortably accommodated thirty. The jet was divided into three main seating groups and there was a separate owner's suite in the tail, complete with a queen-sized bed and a bathroom with a stand-up shower. Two caterers were busy working in the forward galley, serving food and drinks. The interior decor was lush. The cabin was outfitted with gray, dove leather club chairs, long, tufted sofas, and mahogany and gold tray tables that lifted effortlessly out of wall pockets. As the plane filled, laughter and conversation surrounded me. I found myself somewhere in the middle of the cabin in a seating group of club chairs with Rosey and Sally. I'd lost sight of Rafie and Tommy when we boarded, but then saw them sitting with four exotic-looking women near the front of the plane. "Anything to drink before takeoff?" a beautiful Asian flight attendant asked, leaning down and favoring me with a whiff of designer perfume. "Beer," I said. "Heineken, if you have it." "We have a full bar menu." Then, hoping to upgrade my tragically blue collar order, she added, "We have a fresh supply of Alize I could recommend. It's a French beverage that Mr. Wright stocks. It's quite an expensive aperitif made from passion fruit and cognac." "As much as I love passion fruit, I think I'll stick with the Heineken." The flight attendant frowned and hurried away to get my order. "I think you ruined her perfect day," Sally said. The plane was pulled from the hangar by a tug. Once we were out of the building, the engines fired and five minutes later we were thundering down the runway and lifting up into a smoggy, late afternoon sky. People all around me chatted and laughed. They sipped exotic drinks made with passion fruit and cognac. Sally, Rosey, and I sat quietly, contemplating the trip we were embarking on, pondering the insanity that had brought us here. The black case containing David Slade's AR-70 rested ominously at my feet.