Curtis Clark had settled in the second row and was glowering insolently. "If that busta and his white mama try doggin' me out, I'm gonna buck down on his ass. Them two is gonna curl up like bitches."
I glanced at him, but I didn't see any danger in his opaque eyes. He was just scared and talking trash.
Mustafa turned the lead vehicle onto the strip and we rolled in a showy, black procession toward the Mandalay Bay Hotel. A skyline of memorable building profiles passed outside our smoked glass windows: Harrah's, the MGM Grand, the Luxor, with its Sphinx and Egyptian pyramid motif. Off on the other side was the shiny new Wynn Las Vegas, a fifty-story sliver of glass. We were hardly sneaking into town. Our showy procession was turning heads all up and down the glittering strip.
Then the glass-fronted, forty-three-story, Mandalay Bay Hotel appeared out the front windshield half a block away. We turned into the underground parking structure and started down the ramp to the sub-basement where there was a secure entrance, which Mustafa had chosen in advance. Our line of black Navigators pulled up in front of four new Kufi hat-wearing security men.
Mustafa turned to look in at us. "Local brothers," he said, pointing at the men who, true to form, were all wearing NSA-style earpieces. "Stay here until I check the downstairs corridor." Then he exited the vehicle as Curtis Clark took off his blue Floor Score baseball cap and stuffed it in the seat pocket.
The tension in the car grew. Everybody knew that once we got out and headed into the hotel, there would be a million sight lines and no turning back. Several minutes later, Mustafa returned with a Las Vegas police sergeant.
"Okay," he said. "All clear. This is Sergeant Bowman with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police. He's in charge of the law enforcement contingent."
As promised, I left the street sweeper under the backseat of the Navigator and followed Lionel and the rest of his party into the Mandalay Bay Hotel.
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 wardrob
e, 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.
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.
White Sister (2006) Page 28
