White sister

Chapter 59

The Navigator turned right and headed out of town. I couldn't believe how brazen this kidnapping had been, and yet somehow, they'd pulled it off.

"You can't be serious with this," I said impotently. "It's never gonna work."

But something told me it would.

I saw Lionel out of the corner of my eye watching Croc Smith, who hadn't stopped glowering at him. His corpulent jowls were quivering with rage, finally ready to get even for the shooting at the Barn where his brother had died. He was seconds away from dropping us when Curtis started up.

"What's goin' on here?" he said, hysteria creeping into his voice. "This ain't right, mama." He was looking at Stacy, pleading with her.

"You best shut your punk-ass mouth, Curtis," Croc said. "Ain't about you. You just a pay down. It's about Orlee here." He glowered at Lionel. "Yours is finally comin', my brotha."

Despite his girth, I was surprised that Smith's voice was high-pitched, almost feminine. Even so, he was hard to ignore, holding a MAC-10, still dripping red with Elijah Mustafa's blow-back.

Curtis cranked around further in his seat toward Stacy.

"Mama, whatchu doin'? I thought we was pumpin' fresh."

"Croc, shut this fool up," she snapped.

Without warning, Smith backhanded Curtis, knocking him sideways into me.

"This ain't right," he whined.

I could see dismay and disbelief on his face. It had finally replaced his insolent glare. He couldn't believe Stacy was doing this to him.

"Come on," pleading now. "This shit ain't right. I didn't do nothing but what you told me. How come I get caught up in this?"

"You think I'd really cross Lou? I was setting you up, nigga. You and Lionel. Me and Lou played ya. Lotta shit gets settled tonight."

I looked into her savage blue eyes and I knew she was lying. I had too many pieces of the puzzle, I'd overheard too much on her pager. She was telling a different story to everyone. But I still couldn't see what her game was, so I kept quiet.

Curtis was starting to panic. I looked over at Lionel who had a ghetto dead expression on his face, showing nothing.

"Mama, you can't be doing me this way," Curtis whined.

"Shut the fuck up, Curtis," Stacy hissed.

"Mama, your nigga had went to jail when we dropped the Savage Bitch album. When that went platinum, he kept taking his forty percent. The brotha was off doing his bit and still taking his ducats. You the one told me that wasn't right. You the one told me he was holding back my payments and such. Now you throw me under the bus? I don't get this. Whatchu be doin'?"

Stacy discharged one of her shotgun barrels into the back of the Navigator seat where Curtis was sitting. The seat ate up most of the bird shot, but some of the pellets got through and he screamed in pain as half a dozen riddled him. Blood started seeping out of the back of his shirt. I couldn't help but wonder why she had bird shot instead of double buckshot in the weapon. It had probably saved Curtis's life.

"Mama, come on. Mama, don't be doing me this way," he sputtered.

"Shut up, Curtis," she yelled. "I can't listen to no more a your whinin'."

I looked over at Lionel and saw that while he was as frightened as I was, he wasn't panicked. He caught my eye and raised an eyebrow in a "can you believe this?" expression.

The car rolled steadily out of Vegas, breaking no laws, moving with the flow of traffic. The Croc stayed hunkered in the well by the door with his gun trained on Curtis who had been finally frightened into silence. Stacy stayed behind us in the back and reloaded the right barrel of her shotgun. This time I saw that she thumbed buckshot into the cut-down 12-gauge, known on the street as a ghetto stick. As we drove down the strip, the smoked windows on the black Navigator gave our kidnappers visual protection. People strolled the sidewalks in groups, going from one casino to another, completely unaware that a few feet away, three people were being held at gunpoint on their way to certain death.

I knew that sooner or later, I had to make a play. Then I looked at the seatback in front of me and spotted Curtis Clark's Floor Score baseball cap that he'd stuffed into that seat pocket before entering the Mandalay Bay. I suddenly realized this was the same car we'd ridden in on the drive from the airport.

I looked over at Lionel. His eyes were still on Crocodile Smith, but he felt my gaze and shot a look in my direction. I glanced down at the floor where I knew David Slade's Beretta AR-70 was wedged under the seat. I made a surreptitious gesture, miming a gun with my index finger, cocking my thumb back and forth. I glanced down again at the floor and then he nodded slightly.

Message received.

One of us had to get to that Beretta before Stacy, Wayne, KZ, or The Croc blew us to shreds.

Ten minutes later we were clear of downtown Vegas and heading up onto U. S. 95. There wasn't much I could do to get ready. Too much depended on geography and circumstances. I'd have to read the layout once we got there and make up my plan on the fly.

I knew it would be a long shot if I ever survived this, so I sat there and tried to prepare to die. I reasoned that if Alexa didn't make it, then at least I would be joining her. I told myself that Chooch could survive on his own now. He had his values in place. I tried to get comfortable with the idea that at least I could go to my death knowing that I had reclaimed myself that I was finally a better person than I had started out to be. I told myself all of this, but underneath the logic, my survival instincts were churning. I just didn't want to die.

As we headed into the desert, I tried to fill in the rest of the pieces that had led to this. I had been right when I guessed Little Poison had just been in the casino as a diversion to send us all running toward the garage. Stacy, KZ, and Wayne had jumped the two FOI security guards who were watching the cars. They had relieved them of their tan hats and radios, then stolen the Navigator and pulled up as we ran out. Mustafa was shot in the chest and looked dead as he fell, so it seemed safe to assume that with him out of action, our FOI backup was trashed. If we were going to survive, it was up to Lionel and me. Curtis might lend a hand, but he looked pretty shaky.

Now we were speeding out of the city into the desert. The moon was high over the highway, glinting off the hood of the Navigator. Wayne continued driving at exactly the correct speed limit, obeying all traffic laws. After we passed a small shopping center Stacy told him to make a right turn. We swung off the highway onto a narrow, two-lane desert road and Insane Wayne slowed the Navigator so he wouldn't overdrive the headlights.

We continued on for almost fifteen minutes, then lights flashed ahead of us in the dark, and Stacy motioned with her shotgun.

"Out there," she said. "See 'em? That's Lou. He's gonna follow us to the spot where I had the graves dug."

"Got it," Wayne said.

The SUV slowed and a black, four-wheel-drive Humvee pulled out and followed close behind us along the highway, its headlights illuminating the back of our heads.

After traveling for another ten minutes, Stacy pointed to a small desert road.

"Out there," she said.

Wayne turned the Navigator, and the Hummer followed. After about a mile the road ended and Stacy directed us to a spot in the desert where our headlights picked up three freshly dug graves.

Two armed Crips wearing blue do rags were waiting, still holding shovels. Their Hertz rental was parked a few feet away with its high beams illuminating the scene. We pulled to a stop and Smith opened the side door. When Lionel and I climbed out I saw Lou Maluga exit the Humvee holding his big Desert Eagle.

Curtis didn't want to leave the Navigator.

"This ain't my doin'" he said to The Croc, who was trying to get him out of the car. "That shit at the Barn didn't have nothin' t'do with me, brotha. I'm just a singer, man. I don't put no smack down."

"Get your crybaby ass outta there," Smith screamed, pulling back the slide on his automatic and shoving the gun into Curtis's face. "This be Louis's play, so it gonna happen."

"I was never really gonna change labels. He's gotta believe that!"

I saw insanity flash in Smith's eyes and thought Curtis was going to die right there. Then Lou Maluga arrived at the Navigator side door and put a hand on Crocodile Smith's shoulder, pulling him aside.

"Come out, Curtis," he said softly. Then without warning, Lou reached inside and with one quick powerful jerk, yanked Cutis out of the SUV. He rolled onto the sand at Maluga's feet. Then KZ yanked him upright.

"Stand over there," Stacy ordered.

The three holes had been dug next to a stand of Joshua trees. We were led over and each of us was forced to stand next to one of the graves. I looked down into a sandy, three-foot-deep hole in the ground and wondered if this was where my precious remains were going to rot for eternity. I'd planned on something a little more formal.

Curtis started begging again; this time he seemed close to tears. "Louis, I can make this right, brotha. I didn't want any a them old performance payments. I never would a known about any a that if it weren't for Stacy. She told me everything." Then he turned to the White Sister. "Why'd you put me up to this then back down on me? I don't get none a this."

"Shut up!" Louis said. "You gotta pay what you owe, nigga."

I was getting ready to add my testimony, tell everything I'd picked up on the VXT, when Louis raised the Desert Eagle and thumbed back the hammer, freezing me in mid-thought.

"You think you can kill me and Curtis and just walk away?" Lionel said softly. "This ain't like Dante Watts, where nobody gave a shit. This is L. A. Times front page, Lou. This is network, baby. You gonna be watching this every night on CBS till they hook you up and star you in the broadcast."

Something in that sentence jogged my brain. I needed to come up with something usable fast and it needed to be something I could prove. Lou wouldn't believe what I'd overheard on the pager because I didn't have the tape with me to play as evidence. As I stood looking at the three holes in the ground, something started buzzing around in my thick head. They had set this up to kill Lionel and Curtis. Stacy sent her two Crip grave diggers out here this afternoon, but nobody knew I was going to stumble into the mess.

"Listen up, cuz. I got a play here. This gonna ring solid." Curtis was pleading again. "I got two albums worth of songs already cut. I give them all to you, baby. Okay, I give all that wax away. Do ya feel me? I'm tryin' hard t'make this right."

Louis Maluga was street gristle who couldn't take much more of Curtis. I saw the same murderous look in his eyes that I'd seen in Malibu when we'd faced off in his African print living room. He was ready to throw down. I knew once the shooting started, it wouldn't stop until all three of us were dead. Stacy had way too many stories. I had to knock one down. It was now or never.

"Hey, Louis," I said. "When's the big day? You and Sable pick a date yet?"

He looked over at me with a dumb look on his round face. Under the circumstances, it was probably the last thing he thought anybody would ask.

"What?" he said, trying to understand why, seconds from death, I would ask that question.

"You and Sable." I tried to smile, but my jack-o-lantern grin was stretched thin across dry teeth and felt phony. I pressed on. "I put a bug in your ride, man. I been listening to you and her snuggle. Good stuff there."

I turned to Stacy. "You gonna be the matron of honor? Carry some flowers? Maybe wish the bride well with a nice toast at the reception?"

Stacy looked at me with such a strange, angry frown that I knew I was in fertile territory.

"Shut the hell up," she growled. "Whatta you bringin' this up for?"

" 'Course with a wedding on the horizon, that means you and Stacy gotta get a divorce," I said. "Couple a things here don't quite add up, Lou. For instance, how're you two gonna divide up your company in divorce court without going broke? California is a community property state. Once you get through paying your long-term capital gains, most of your assets are gonna go to pay for the war in Iraq."

"There ain't gonna be no divorce and no wedding," Louis shouted. "Where'd you get this shit?" He was pressing, leaning too far into it. His body language screamed lie.

"She knows, Lou," I said. "She knows you're getting set to dump her. That's why we got one too many graves out here."

I was flying half-blind, clawing at loose ends hoping to unravel this knot. I could see from their expressions that I'd started something. Stacy fumed while Louis frowned. He was working on it. He had survived in a brutal, deadly street world by trusting his instincts. Stacy glowered at me, still holding the shotgun in her delicate hands, but in her anger, it seemed almost forgotten.

"What're you talking about?" she yelled.

"One hole for Lionel, one for Curtis. But who's this third one for?" I asked.

"It's for you, motherfucker!" she was screaming now.

"I don't think so. You didn't know I was gonna be here. I was a last-minute add." I pointed to the Crips with shovels. "These guys were out here digging hours ago."

"Lou, I'm gonna put this guy down!" Stacy growled and raised the shotgun until it was pointing at my stomach.

"No," Louis said. "I want to hear him out. Let him talk."

It was hard to focus on Lou while Stacy was twenty feet away, pointing a cocked shotgun at me. But I forced myself to turn and face him.

"This third hole is for you, Louis," I said soberly.

"You're outta your mind!" Stacy screamed.

Her reaction said I wasn't. I figured I was dead anyway, so I just plowed on. I looked at Stacy.

"What's he good for anyway? Lou's a record company disaster. A dinosaur. No acts want to record for him anymore. You built this label, Stacy. You're not gonna watch it go down in a divorce so this guy can marry some silicone Barbie from the Valley. You got this beat down started. You riled up Curtis, leakin' stuff till he got so upset he decided to change labels. That sets up Lou's motive for Curtis's murder. But Lou, it only works for her if you also die in the shoot-out. That way, she inherits 'cause you're still married." I turned to Crocodile Smith. "You're the designated shooter, Croc. You've got a motive and you're gonna die with the murder weapon in your hand. You all die and leave the cops to sort it out. God knows there's enough bad blood between you all to justify it."

"He's lyin', Lou."

Louis wheeled on her, his face contorted with rage. "You been leakin' our accounting to Curtis to force all this?"

Suddenly, Crocodile Smith pointed his gun at Lou. But Lou was ready, and spun and fired, blowing him backwards into the sand. Lou and Stacy were now faced off with guns drawn on each other, about to execute a street divorce. It was a moment that lasted no longer than a heartbeat but seemed frozen in time.

Nobody was paying attention to Lionel, who moved slightly to his left, closing the distance between Lou and himself.

Then without warning, Lionel dove at Louis, and knocked him backward into the nearest grave. Lou rolled up into a sitting position, poking his head over the top of the hole. As he did, Stacy fired both barrels at him and blew his head clean off his shoulders.

I turned and started a zigzag run back to the Navigator as weapons started discharging all around me. I heard Stacy slam the double barrel closed.

A reload.

The shotgun fired again and a double-load of heavy buckshot flew by my ear, its wind ruffling my hair. In front of me, the side window of the Navigator turned to crystal as the pattern hit.

I yanked open the door, rolled into the backseat, and grabbed the Beretta AR-70. The case fell open and I pulled the heavy weapon out, jammed in a clip, threw myself to the ground, and rolled under the car. I heard guns firing and people screaming. I jacked a round into the tube and started spraying lead. For an instant Insane Wayne was in my sights, but I remembered the note that he'd passed that saved my life, and I held my fire. He ducked down as more guns barked in the dark. Barrel flashes illuminated everybody's positions. I fired the Beretta until both clips were dry.

Then I heard the 12-gauge bark again and Lionel Wright screamed. Seconds later, I caught sight of Stacy, lit by moonlight, running across the sand carrying her shotgun. I got up and ran after her, passing the carnage at the gravesite on my way. I couldn't see Insane Wayne but glanced again at Louis Maluga, flat on his back in one of the graves, his head blown from his shoulders. Smith was on his back. He'd died like he lived, with his yellow crocs on. The two grave diggers were both wounded and trying to crawl away, leaving red trails in the sand. Lionel lay in one of the holes clutching his leg, which was pumping blood from a hole in his thigh.

"Put a pressure compress on that," I yelled. "Use your belt and tux jacket. I'll be right back."

Then I took off after the White Sister, chasing her across the desert in the dark. She had set this all up and I was determined she wouldn't get away. I didn't know where Curtis Clark or KZ were, but I kept running in the deep sand until my legs and thighs burned. I finally stopped near several rock formations and listened for any sound, trying to decide which way to go.

That was when I heard the click of both shotgun hammers directly behind me.

I was toast.

"It's still gonna work out," she said. "Smith still goes down for all of this. You got enough baggage to fit the frame. Motive. Method. Opportunity." Her voice was high and manic. She was in a state of agitated panic, overdosing on adrenaline.

I turned slowly and then I saw her standing beside a large rock outcropping about ten feet away, holding the shotgun. It was perfect spacing. Far enough away so I couldn't get to her, but close enough so she couldn't possibly miss with a double load of buckshot.

As we faced each other I glimpsed a shadow move in the rocks beyond her.

"Any last words?" she said, my imminent death glittering in her pale, blue eyes.

"Just four."

"Say 'em."

"Look out behind you."

A dark figure was silhouetted against the rock formation, ten feet from her. I could just make out a man holding a MAC-10.

She panicked as she spun, pulling the triggers. Both barrels on her ghetto stick barked. The man behind her fired simultaneously.

Her pattern just missed.

His didn't.

Stacy's left leg blossomed red and she screamed, pitching forward into the sand. She flopped back and forth, screaming profanities.

The figure stepped away from the cover of the rocks, and I saw it was Wayne Watkins. It was the second time in two days that he'd saved my life. I wondered why.

"Los Angeles Sheriff's Department," he said.