White Sister (24 page)

"Shut up, John."

"You're just a skeezy nickel slick who plows over po folks who's just minding their business, crossing with a light." He'd miraculously added a traffic light to our accident. "But 'side from that, and 'side from you gettin' me gizmoed for walking around with too much a your green in my jeans, I gotta tell you, for a po-lice, you ain't half-bad. You gimme food and ya don't just throw me away, like most a the shit birds I meet."

"Maybe if you didn't steal their stuff, that wouldn't happen quite so often."

John ignored that and kept going.

"I ain't insane neither. Was Edgar Allan Poe insane 'cause he drank himself to death? Was Van Gogh? That crazy Dutchman cut off his ear and today folks pay millions for one a his silly-ass, don't-even-know-what-it-is charcoal sketches. What is insanity? I challenge anybody ta give me a definition. Can't be done."

"Insanity is when you keep repeating the same behavior while expecting a different result." A definition that fit him perfectly, but it didn't slow him down. He just changed subjects.

"I hear dead people's voices. Okay? So big deal. But my voices tell me stuff. Like, Chief O. Half-stepper died in the African plague of oh-six, but he told me your old lady's lyin' in a coma. All the time we spent together since ya ran me over, and you ain't once told me that your old lady was about to catch the bus. I hadda hear it from a crazy old African chief been dead a hundred years. See what I'm sayin'?"

"You saw it on the TV in the ER like everyone else."

"Them docs clockin' your old lady at the hospital got no faith and less vision. You want a definition of insanity, how 'bout a bunch a bozos tryin' to change what's written in the big book? Tryin' to change what can't never be changed while all the time thinkin' it's their job to change it. That's insanity!"

"Can we please go back to sleep?"

"When you got princely powers, you get a library card, lets you see in the Big Guy's book. Some of it be hard to understand, but I got my dead peeps like Chief O whisperin' down, explainin'. When he tells me your old lady ain't supposed ta go, then you can bet it ain't her time."

"John, please."

"I ain't kiddin', Shane."

I sat up to look over the seat at him. It was the first time in two days that he'd actually called me Shane.

Then, without missing a beat, he segued again. "L
. A
. ain't my home, anyway. This just a place where I been sent for a few years to learn some lessons. I been learning the natural order a the universe so I can guide dumb shits like you around. I already know some of the Big Guy's secrets. Like check this one out. When someone dies, their soul gets handed off to some random dude in the afterlife, and he flings the soul as far as he can. It sails over an endless sea and awakens in another time and place. The weight of the soul and strength of the toss determines how close to the center of heaven the spirit lands."

"Sort of like a game of celestial lawn darts," I deadpanned.

"When you get to the crossroads and them God wannabes at UCLA puts it to you about yer ole lady, you remember what the Crown Prince from Cameroon just tole ya."

"Okay, John. I'll remember. Can we go back to sleep now?"

"I gotta take a dump, first."

With that, my personal guide to the universe threw open the Jeep's passenger door and blundered up into the trees to do his business.

Chapter
37.

IT WAS SIX-FORTY-FIVE in the morning and I was driving down the hill, away from the Greek Theatre. John had refused to get out of the Jeep and was asleep in the backseat.

"The hell you doing?" he growled, waking up momentarily as I braked too hard.

I stopped at a Micky D's and picked us both up some coffee and Egg McMuffins, then got on the 134 heading west. It was early and the Sunday morning traffic was light. I got off the freeway at Malibu Canyon Road and headed into the mountains, up the twisting two-lane highway toward the ocean. By seven-forty-five I was again parked across from the Maluga estate, half a block down from the ornate gate, safely tucked back in the trees out of sight. With the Jeep stopped and the windows up, the smell of our breakfast started to permeate the interior, popping Bodine out of his princely slumber.

"Man, that smells better than teenaged pussy," he said, sittin
g u
p and looking over the seat at the McDonald's bags on the passenger seat beside me. I handed him one, along with a cup of coffee.

"Breakfast in bed, your highness."

"More like it," he yawned.

As he bit into a McMuffin and sipped the hot coffee, he looked around at his surroundings and spotted the wrought-iron fence that fronted the Maluga estate with its acres of rolling lawn beyond.

"Pricey digs," he said, fumbling his sandwich. It dropped on the backseat, but he picked it up and ate it anyway.

"Don't make a mess back there. This is my son's car."

I reached into my glove box and took out my Sony miniature tape recorder. I hooked it up to the VXT radio receiver to again record conversations from Stacy's bug. I activated the system and listened through my earpiece. Nothing yet, just a low hiss. Stacy obviously wasn't near the equipment.

"Okay, John," I said. "This could end up getting dangerous. I can't be responsible for you. It's only about a mile walk down the road to the Coast Highway. I want you to get out. You can relocate at the beach. Since nobody knows you down there, maybe they won't kill you. Or if you want, I'll give you enough cash to call a cab and get you wherever you want to go."

"I thought you told that ER doc you'd take care of me."

"I just said that to keep you out of the mental ward. We're not gonna be roommates, so get out."

"I got a six-inch hole in my gizzard. I can't be walkin' a mile to the beach," he whined.

"I'm on police business. I don't want you back there. Don't make me throw you out."

Then a crafty look came into his eyes. "You ain't gonna be doing no such thing," he said.

"Why not?"

" 'Cause any fool can see you up here spying on these poor rich folks. Got yer little tape and all. Maybe I just rings their bell and gives them the four-one-one. Bet there'd be a big thank-you check in that." Then, without pausing, "You gonna eat that last McFuckit?"

"As long as we're on it, I'm getting real tired of this endless stream of profanity. I like a good four-letter word just like the next guy, but man, you need to clean up your act. It's hardly any way for the Crown Prince from Bassaland to talk."

"How the fuck do you know? You ever been to the Bassaland? You even know where Cameroon is, you ignorant sack-a-shit?" After that we both sat in silence for a long moment. Then he said, "I ain't getting out a this car. You throw me out, I'll get all up in yer bidness here."

This really wasn't working, but I didn't trust John not to blow my cover in search of a reward, so I decided to wait and ditch him once we were safely away from the estate.

"Suit yourself," I said. "But if this gets strange, you're on your own."

"Don't you go worrying 'bout Prince Samik Mampuna," he pouted. "I be on the scene with my gangsta lean."

I'd never be rid of him. This guy would be at my funeral.

So we waited as the sun made a slow climb up into the eastern sky, cooking the top of the black Jeep. It was going to be a hot day. John repositioned himself to the front seat and I put down both windows. We had an argument over the radio. He wanted some progressive jazz station so high up on the dial only dogs could hear it. There was no compromising with him, so I left the radio off.

At eleven-thirty-eight exactly, I heard voices over the VXT earpiece. The conversation was muffled because the pager was probably still in Stacy's purse. I got ready to move.

Twenty minutes later, I heard the Servo-mechanisms on the gate start to click, then heard the wrought-iron monster begin to creak open. I was determined not to repeat my mistake from before. Most people have a favorite route when they're going to town. I was betting Stacy would take the same one as yesterday, unless she was heading to the Valley, in which case, she'd drive right past where I was parked. At least I was in a different car this morning. Over the earpiece, I could faintly hear gangsta rap playing and wondered if she was in the Rolls. When the rap music started to fade, I put the Cherokee in gear and pulled out, heading toward the Coast Highway.

I accelerated to catch up, came around a sharp bend, and saw th
e b
ig tan Phantom at a stop sign a hundred yards ahead. I slowed abruptly, throwing John into the dash.

"The fuck you doing?" he complained.

"Police work."

He leaned forward to peer into the car, which was only a few yards ahead. "Some dangerous job you got here. Nothing but one itty-bitty little Platinum fox drivin' that thing."

I stayed several cars back as I again followed Stacy into Hollywood. She made her way to Wilshire Boulevard and headed toward the Miracle Mile District, a very expensive section of commercial real estate between Fairfax and La Brea Avenue. The high-priced developments are near the L
. A
. County Museum of Art and many are architectural statements, earning that stretch of real estate the moniker of Museum Row. Several huge talent agencies and television production companies had moved their offices out of Hollywood into this glittering business center.

Finally, Stacy pulled into a lot a few blocks past Hauser Boulevard and parked. I slid in just seconds behind her and found a place two lanes over. She got out of the Rolls, locked it, and walked up to the sidewalk on Wilshire. She was dressed in a tank top and skin-tight black jeans with heels. Her platinum-blond hair shimmered in the bright sunlight. I watched as she entered an office tower in the middle of the block, then I looked over at John.

"Will you get out now?" I asked.

"Since I don't got no self-instruction, I ain't bringin' no self
-
destruction."

"I assume that's a no," I said. "Okay. Then at least make yourself useful and keep an eye on that Rolls. If I get ditched inside and it leaves before I get back, give me a heads-up. Use Chooch's car phone and call me at this number." I wrote down my cell and gave it to him.

Then I got one of Chooch's ball caps out of the backseat and put on my dark glasses.

"Good disguise," John sneered. "That oughta fool 'em."

"If you steal the phone, radio, or airbags outta this car, I will hunt you to the end of the earth and break your legs," I promised. He fixed a worried frown on me but seemed to get the message.

I got out of the Cherokee and walked along the sidewalk to the front of the huge brick-and-glass structure that went up thirty floors. I passed through inch-thick glass double doors fronting the lobby and walked into a cavernous reception area that had no sign of Stacy Maluga. A security guard watched me warily from behind a fortress-sized marble desk as I studied the building directory.

Halfway down, under L, I saw Lethal Force, Inc. Their offices took up two entire floors, twenty-six and twenty-seven.

I headed to the elevator and the cop on the desk called out, "Gotta sign in, sir."

I turned and walked over to him, pulled out my tin and flashed it. "How's this working?" I said.

He held both palms out in a gesture of surrender and I took the elevator to twenty-eight. I got out into a brokerage firm's lobby, then found the fire stairs and went down one flight. I stopped just outside the twenty-seventh floor, then put the earpiece in and listened. Either I was too far away from the bug or the poured concrete walls were too thick, because all I heard was the soft hissing. I went down one more flight, paused behind the door on twenty
-
six, and listened again.

Now I could faintly hear Stacy Maluga's voice, tinny and far away in my ear. I rotated the receiver, trying to tune her in.

"I still got all my mad skills, baby," she was saying. "You gotta trust me." I turned the unit again and finally got slightly better reception. Then I hit record on the tape. "This ain't gonna go away 'less we fix it," she continued.

"Yeah, but you talkin' about doggin' out Curtis and Lionel. Lotta heat gonna come down on that play," Louis Maluga answered. "You a good milk shake, baby, and nobody says you can't bring boys ta the yard, but we go up on those niggas and the cops gonna be in my face. I'm still pullin' a tail." Talking about being on parole.

"Curtis went and got hisself some white boy accountants an' lawyers," she persisted. "They going after all those back royalties and performance payments and such. The fool's even talkin' about enforcing his key man escape clause over Dante Watts. I'm tellin' ya that Boon Johnny about ta raise up on us. If he can force an audit, them books won't hold. Fraud is a felony too, Louis. They file on that, you gonna get violated and be back in Q just the same."

"Shit," Lou said.

"Look, sugar, we ain't got much time. Once Curtis files a lawsuit, we can't do nothin' but watch that boy pick us clean 'cause if we move on him then, we'll look guilty. That means we gotta do this tonight. These two niggas ain't in no choir. Lionel may wear them nice white vines now, but he still just a street G went to city college. He still got that buncha nosebleeds on Sixtieth to deal with. We set this up right, it won't hit us. Hear me out, baby. Let me run it for you."