White Sister

Chapter 58.

THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS lit the basement corridor as the footsteps of thirty people echoed against its hard, cold surfaces. We passed extra chairs and stage flats stacked in alcoves. It felt gray and claustrophobic down here. Everybody, even the hardened street G's, had stopped talking. After walking for almost two hundred yards under the mammoth hotel, we stopped at a freight elevator and Elijah Mustafa turned to face the crowd. "This leads up to the main level," he said. "Then we will have to make a short trip through the kitchen and across the casino floor to another elevator that leads to the Foundation Room at the House of Blues. I don't expect trouble and our people have been screening upstairs, but it's a large casino and it's impossible to check everyone. If something goes down, one of us will yell 'Ragtime.' If you hear that word, scatter. Make your way back down to this place. There will be security positioned here to help you." "I'm sorry about all this," Lionel said. "But after what happened at the Oasis Awards, I don't want to lose anybody. Just stick close together." "It's cool," a street G called out. "I got this savage life down, brotha." Nervous laughter followed. There were about fifteen tan hats standing around, and when the elevator arrived and the door opened, it was easy to see it wasn't going to be large enough to handle all of us at one time. The first glitch in Mustafa's plan. "We're going to have to make two trips," he said unfazed. "Half will stay behind with Mohammed Sayid." A tall, muscular FOI security guard raised his hand and people started to divide up into two groups. Mustafa put his hand on my arm and pulled me into the first elevator. "Stick with us," he said. Maybe I was beginning to grow on the guy. Sally Quinn and Rafie also made the first group. We were wedged in there with Lionel and Patch, Vonnie, and ten party guests. Then the wood slat door was pulled down and the elevator started up. As we approached the first floor, I could hear pans banging and people talking. We got out into a large pantry area where a dozen men, mostly Hispanics, wearing red coats, were filling food trays. Mustafa sent the elevator back down for the second group. I looked into the kitchen at a dozen more people working on food orders. I wondered if Mustafa's people had checked them all. "I don't like this," I said to Sally, who had moved up next to me. She nodded and clutched her handbag, which I knew had her thirty-eight police special inside. Then Rafie whispered in my ear. "I'm gonna stay toward the back, cover us from behind." I nodded at him and he separated from Sally and me. Our four remaining FOI security guards stood on the perimeter of the group watching everything, their eyes on the kitchen workers. The elevator returned with the second group. The rest of the party joined us and started milling around in the busy, food-staging area. Everyone seemed to sense the danger and was wearing different versions of the same tight smile. Then our group of thirty, with ten guards herding us, headed out of the kitchen and into the casino's main area for the short trip across the casino gaming floor to the Foundation Room elevator. This was the most dangerous section of the journey. Once we got upstairs, we would have better control. I could see Mustafa in front, talking quietly into a small lapel mike. Rosey, Rafie, Tommy, Sally, and I had split up again and were spread out as we moved along, trying to provide as much perimeter security as possible. Slots rang loudly, and occasional winners shrieked in joy. All of us, hardened street G's included, snapped our heads with each shrill noise. Then the gamblers on the first floor started to notice the strange procession making its way across the casino. A few shouted, "It's Bust A Cap!" or "There goes Curtis Clark from Floor Score!" People started surging toward us. I hoped they were just autograph seekers. Halfway across the floor, somebody caught my eye. He was tall with light black skin and braided cornrows. As we neared, he spun away from the slot machine he was playing, and I could then see an under-shot jaw. Half of his left ear was missing. It was DeShawn Brodie, aka Little Poison, from Croc Smith's crew. He lunged toward us, pulling something out of his coat. I couldn't see what it was, but wasn't about to take chances. "Gun!" I shouted, and all hell broke loose. People started screaming and immediately, the Fruit of Islam closed ranks, grabbing Lionel and Curtis, shielding them from danger. Two other FOI guards dove forward and grabbed Little Poison, throwing him to the floor. The room was a spinning mass of confusion. Some in our group were trying for the exits, others were starting to pull weapons. Mustafa yelled, "Ragtime!" as they hustled Lionel and Curtis across the casino. I left Sally and Rafie, bolting after. All the while, I kept thinking something about this was wrong. The attempt by Brodie was clumsy. I began to wonder if DeShawn was only there to turn Lionel and Curtis, to get us heading back toward the kitchen where the real danger was. I hurried to catch up, pulling my Airlight revolver as I ran. By then, Mustafa and five of his security had already reached the pantry. "Listen, something isn't right. Slow down a minute," I shouted. But Elijah Mustafa was too busy herding everybody into the freight elevator. I managed to push in with them. He got the door closed and we were heading down into the basement. "We need to slow down," I said again. "Bring up the car," Mustafa called into his radio mike to one of his drivers. "Pull it up at the entrance. We're coming out." The elevator door opened and we were again moving fast, running back through the two-hundred-yard cement tunnel in a desperate flight toward the garage. Even though I thought we were making a mistake, I couldn't get Elijah's attention. We arrived in the parking structure just as one of the black Navigators screeched to a stop nearby. There were two tan-suited Kufi hats in the front seats. Curtis piled in and I dove into the back seat next to Lionel. Just then I heard a rash of gunfire echo in the garage a few feet behind me. I turned to see the obese shape of Crocodile Smith standing close, holding a MAC-10 still wearing his cool chrome shades, black wardrobe, and yellow crocs. As I turned, he knocked the Airlight revolver from my grasp using the barrel of his weapon. The gun flew from my hand. Then Smith fired again. Elijah Mustafa went down, his chest riddled with red. "Go! Go! Go!" Lionel yelled at the driver, but the Navigator didn't move. Croc Smith jumped into the car and pulled the door shut. "Git rollin'," he yelled, and only then did the SUV lurch away from the basement entrance. When I looked toward the front seat, I saw that the FOI security guard on the passenger side was pointing an automatic weapon back at us. "Once we're out, go right," Crocodile Smith ordered. The Suburban powered up the one flight. It was then that I focused enough to realize that the gun-wielding FOI guard was KZ, one of Stacy Maluga's steroid twins from Malibu. The other one, Insane Wayne, was driving. They all threw their Kufi hats on the floor as the SUV shot out of the garage onto the street. The Croc pointed his gun at Lionel and Curtis. "You a couple a dead niggas," he said, angrily. For a moment, I was the only one in the car who didn't have a gun pointed at me. I was about to try something stupid when I felt cold steel touch the back of my skull. Somebody had risen up in the seat behind me and pushed what felt like a double-barrel shotgun against my head. "Don't be a hero," the White Sister said.