White Sister (36 page)

"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."

Chapter
54.

I DROVE UP Sunset Boulevard into an orange sun, then turned onto Bellagio Road and followed it up into the hills past the Bel Air Country Club until I hit Bel Air Road. The houses here are among the most expensive in Los Angeles
large mansions, some with fairway views. Lionel Wright's house was not visible from the street, concealed behind an exotic seven-foot hedge that was full of thorns and stickers, which ran for half a block before ending at a massive gate. There were no initials, just twenty or more golden tipped wrought-iron spears that pointed skyward and looked impossible to scale without risking castration. I rang the buzzer and announced myself. Then, feeling like Goofy entering the Magic Kingdom, I watched while the magnificent gates swung wide allowing me to proceed.

The drive wound into a beautiful property surrounding an elegant, white wood-framed Georgian mansion, atop two tiers of rolling lawns. The residence looked to be around twenty thousand square feet with a sloping, cantilevered roof that shaded a large
,
Southern-style front porch. I pulled up under a porte cochere at the side of the house and got out, carrying my briefcase. Apparently, Lionel had reconsidered and was using the Fruit of Islam for personal security after all, because stone-faced Elijah Mustafa was waiting for me, still sporting a tan Kufi hat and a fifty-yard stare. He checked me for weapons, found I was unarmed, then looked inside my briefcase, which contained Chooch's laptop.

"Hey, dog, what it be like?" I said as he rummaged, trying to see which way he'd bounce.

"This way, please." Nothing.

He closed the case, handed it back, and turned, showing me his broad back. Then he led me toward the house. We went up some stairs and through the side door into a huge reception area. The sun was low on the horizon, and a high cloud cover had turned the light in the entry red-gold as it slanted through garden windows.

A very pleasant-looking, slightly plump, sixty-year-old African
-
American woman wearing a simple dress, expensive jewelry, and a red-brown shoulder-length wig was waiting for us in the massive, Tara-like entry hall. She offered me a wide smile and warm greeting.

"I'm Justine Lemon," she said, extending her hand. "God bless you, son. You saved Orlee's life."

"Lionel's mother?" I asked. The guy had so many names, it was hard to know which one to use when addressing her.

She smiled at me and nodded. "Finally back from my addictions and demons, thanks to our Lord Jesus."

"Amen," Elijah Mustafa said softly. It seemed a strange thing for a Muslim to say.

"Come in, please. Come in. Let's not just stand here in this drafty entry way. Orlee is in his office."

She led me to a sweeping circular staircase and we began to climb to the second floor. When we reached the landing, I saw a glass door that led to another wing on the west side of the house. The door was etched with the white letters WYD.

Unlike his sterile white-on-white office on Ventura, Lionel Wright's home was done in rich, antebellum colors. The interior design was classic and magnificent, as warm and textured as the office was cold and austere. Expensive turn-of-the-century paintings hung in lighted, recessed alcoves all along the upstairs hallway.

I guess I was gawking because Justine Lemon said, "She's a peach, ain't she?" smiling at my reaction, then added proudly, "The writer Sidney Sheldon used to live here." She pointed to the glass doors. "Wrote his novels in that wing where Orlee does his music now."

She opened the glass door, and with Mustafa trailing us like a cold, dark planet we entered Lionel Wright's inner sanctum. The long corridor leading to the music suite was festooned with gold and platinum records and music-industry awards. We reached an office the size of a basketball half-court. Vondell Richmond and Taylor Hays were waiting near the door and Vonnie nodded at me in a semi-friendly greeting. Whatever I had done at the El Rey Theatre seemed to have earned their respect.

" 'Sup, homes," Vondell said.

"How you doing, Vonnie?" I replied, as if we were buds.

I looked at Taylor Hays, who now smiled thinly in return. It was the first actual sign of recognition he'd ever shown me.

Across the room, talking on the phone, sat Lionel Wright. He was in jeans and a wife-beater tank, showing off a cut physique and arm muscles that bulged. He stood, took off his headset and handed it to Patch, who was looking especially good this afternoon in a short, cropped top and skintight jeans. I definitely preferred these people in this less formal environment.

"Come on in, Shane," Lionel said graciously, crossing to me. He reached out and gave me a dap.

I'm not good at soul grips because I'm so used to shaking hands the old-fashioned way. I always get it wrong and it comes off awkward. After fumbling the handshake, we stood there smiling.

"That was righteous, what you did for me last night," Lionel said.

Since I couldn't remember exactly what I'd done, I explained that problem and ended by saying, "I only remember diving into the elevator and getting stomped."

Lionel filled me in on what happened, explaining that I'd jerked him to the floor and saved his life before I dove at the two Sixtieth
Street G's, knocking them backward and foiling their assassination attempt. As he spoke, flashes of that event filled my head, completing most of the lost memory. He explained that the two bangers had managed to get away in the midst of the riot, but something told me that was B
. S
. It seemed more likely that they were taking a dirt nap somewhere.

Then Lionel turned to Vondell, Taylor, and Mustafa. "Could you guys help Mama hang those new paintings? I've got some business here with the detective." Not wanting, I guess, to expose his mother to the grittier aspects of the hip-hop music business.

Mrs. Lemon smiled at me and again said, "God bless." Then she, Mustafa, and the two leg-breakers exited the room, leaving only Patch to witness what came next.

Once they were gone I said, "Thanks for the bail. It meant a lot. I needed to be at UCLA, and without that cash, I wouldn't have made it."

"Your wife?" Lionel said. "How's she doing?"

"I'm not sure."

He gave that a moment's thought, then turned and moved back toward his desk, which sat near a wall of windows. The house sat on a hill with a gorgeous view overlooking much of West L
. A
.

"You said something about me being in danger. I appreciate the concern, but in my work you usually either end up kissing somebody or dissing somebody. Right now it seems I got some twelve
-
gauges bustin', but I'm used to it 'cause I been at risk since I was fifteen. Best way to stop my shine is to get police involved."

Patch shifted slightly. She finally moved over and sat on the sofa where she began to study me closely.

"There were some e-mails on my wife's computer," I began. "They were disguised to look like love letters." I then proceeded to tell him about David Slade being planted inside Lethal Force by the LAPD, and how he'd been sending information to Alexa via computer. I ended by saying, "I think that's what got him murdered."

"That still doesn't answer how the Malugas found out Curtis was switching labels," Lionel said. "Nobody but me, Curtis, Patch, and now you know about that."

"Somebody from Floor Score may have let it slip," Patch said.

"Curtis is a blowhard. He's got no street smarts, despite his upbringing. I never felt good about him keeping quiet." Then she added, "If Maluga knows, then those twenty songs are gonna be a problem."

"What twenty songs?" I asked.

"Floor Score has recorded twenty songs that nobody knows about except the Malugas, and now me," Lionel said. "They're un
-
released. That's enough for two new Curtis Clark albums. The way the copyright laws are written, the songs belong to the publishing house that holds the artist's contract at the time of his death. That means if Curtis dies before he switches labels, Lethal Force has the copyright on two posthumous platinum albums worth at least thirty million in sales, plus they'll never end up paying Curtis his disputed fees and royalties."

Nobody had to express what we all were thinking. Thirty million dollars and a label defection was certainly a good enough murder motive for a pair of psychopaths like the Malugas.

"Since he went to prison, Lou and Stacy have been marginalized," Lionel said. "Now that he's out, he's trying to rehabilitate his ghetto rep. The man's focused on all the wrong things
one week he's throwing charity banquets in Malibu, tryin' to make nice with L
. A
.'s movers and shakers, next week he's in some dust up at a concert, threatening somebody's life. Worse still, he took his eyeballs off his arts."

I raised my eyebrows and Patch explained, "Artists."

"Right. And the acts don't like it," Lionel added.

"For instance, Curtis is annoyed because Lethal Force's marketing is bad and he's not getting big movie deals like Fifty Cent and Ice Cube," Patch continued. "Hip-hop has become one big casting couch where everybody's trying to get a role in a movie. The Malugas fell behind that curve. WYD already has two film projects set up for Curtis in the fourth quarter of next year."

"You said you needed to show me something," Lionel said, cutting this off and changing the subject.

I opened my briefcase, removed the laptop and pulled up the last e-mail Slade had sent to Alexa. Lionel leaned over my shoulder to read it aloud.

" 'Dear Hambone: I guess it's over. If you don't come through by Sunday night, floor score is gonna RIP. Sorry you can't see the big issues, but that was always a problem for us. S
. M
. will be laying in the cut flippin' switches. Play it my way or I'll mess you up. It'll be an Oasis Award beat down with nobody left standing, especially the dude. We reap what we sow. Dark Angel.' "

Lionel finished reading and said, "What is this?"

I explained the code to him and read it aloud for them again.

" 'If you don't come through by Sunday night, floor score is gonna RIP.' Rest in peace," I added. " 'S
. M
. will be laying in the cut flippin' switches.' S
. M
. is Stacy Maluga."

Lionel nodded. "And 'flippin' switches' is street slang for shot
-
calling, running a criminal operation."

I read the rest aloud.

" 'It'll be an Oasis Award beat down with nobody left standing, especially the dude.'"

"I'm The Dude," Lionel said. "It was my baby G street handle. I hated it. Took me five years, but I finally plowed that under."

"They missed at the Oasis, but I don't think they're through trying," I said. "If they were going to try again, where would it be?"

It didn't take him long to answer.

"This Tuesday night at Mandalay Bay in Vegas," he said. "It's a WBO title fight between Lenny 'Lights Out' Moore and Austin Sugar. WYD Fight Management is promoting it. World press will be there, international news coverage. That's where Curtis Clark and I are gonna announce that Floor Score is leaving Lethal Force and switching labels."

"If I was you, I'd change my plans," I told him.

"I'm not running from the Malugas," he said, getting angry. "Rap's gotta be more than just niggas wearing fresh Bally kicks and gold chains getting their heads shot off. Rap is a street corner conversation, which right now represents fifteen percent of the entire music market. That's billions. So if the Malugas wanta step up and work it, then my message to them is bring it on, baby. I'm out here every day."

Chapter
55.

WE MET IN my backyard in Venice. It was three o'clock the following afternoon. Rafie and Tommy both reread the last e-mail from Alexa's computer, while Rosey and Dario stood in the afternoon heat contemplating the sunlight reflecting silver-white off the mirror-flat water in the still Venice canals. Sally Quinn sat in a lawn chair, fanning herself with a handful of gang intel reports. She had been very quiet since arriving ten minutes ago. I had a strong feeling she was busy reevaluating our potential partnership. I had already run all of my theories by everyone here and I wasn't getting much in the way of positive feedback.

"Tell me again, what we're supposed to do about all this?" Tommy finally asked, after he finished reading the edited messages for the second time.

"Shane is looking for backup," Rosencamp interjected. "He thinks we're gonna be his posse." He was showing me a game face that I couldn't read at all.

"Except these rappers all have their own private security," h
e c
ontinued. "We ain't gonna get close 'cause cops make these dirt
-
bags nervous. 'Less they're dirty cops. Which we ain't."

"The whole thing comes down to street cred," I countered. "Lionel doesn't want to look weak to his own people, so despite the threat, he won't cancel this event. He intends to go to Vegas and make the announcement tonight as planned. I'm pretty sure the Malugas are gonna do everything they can to stop it. Lethal Force can't take another big defection like Floor Score. It would signal weakness; other acts would bolt. Everything is on the line for them. That's why I think they have to make a careless, violent statement. They have a financial motive as well."