I reached into my pocket and pulled out Pryce Patterson's business card, with Lionel Wright's phone number written on the back. I dialed and waited.
'Residence,' a soft female voice answered. I recognized Patch McKenzie's cultured English accent. I wondered what she was doing at his house. She was certainly beautiful enough to interest a hip-hop mogul. 'It's Shane Scully,' I said.
'Oh, we're so glad to finally hear from you. I'll pop off and get Lionel. I know he wants to talk to you.' And I was on hold.
She called him Lionel, not Mr. Wright. I suspected my guess was correct. After a moment, Lionel came on the line. 'What up, dog?'
'Thanks for bailing me out. You didn't have to do that.' 'You didn't have to save my life in that theater.' 'We need to meet.' 'Solid.'
'You're still in a lot of danger. I can't talk over this phone. I don't trust it. I have a six o'clock meeting I can't miss, then I'll be over. What's your address?'
'Thirty-four-fifty Bel Air Drive.'
'I'll see you around seven, maybe a few minutes before.'
After I disconnected I sat on the couch outside Neurosurgery and waited. It was only four o'clock. I had time to leave messages for Rosey Rosencamp and Dario Chikaleckio. I also called Tommy Sepulveda.
'I'm making progress,' I told him. 'Keep your cell phone on.'
Then I sat back and closed my eyes. I knew that my current blessings finally outweighed all my early disappointments. The dark, lonely past had been erased by a family full of love and, more important, optimism for my future. But now I was teetering again on the edge of desperation.
These last few days, I'd been having two visions of Alexa. In one, she was my beautiful wife, loving and smart. The person with whom I'd be blessed to spend the rest of my days. She was always entertaining, because even though she lived by a strict moral code, she was extremely creative, and inside that code was often able to surprise me. In this first vision, I was a grinning, dopey, lottery winner who couldn't comprehend the depth of my good fortune.
Then there was the second, darker vision. Alexa was lying inert on an operating table with half of her skull open, her scalp unattached, breathing through tubes attached to hissing pumps and machines. In this vision, she was lost in the vagaries of a vicious head trauma, asleep in a sea of anesthesia from which she might never be rescued. Worse still, there was nothing I could do but sit here with this damn computer on my lap and fight for her reputation, which, if things went wrong, she would never need again.
I kept bouncing back and forth between these two visions, unable to find a good place to stand, knowing the first vision was just a memory, while the latter was a tragic reality. I could deal with neither and was spinning uselessly in my own grease.
Chooch returned a little before six and Luther showed up exactly on time. The meeting was short.
'She's still stable,' Luther said. 'Her heart and respiratory system are normal, but she is still on the respirator. Right now, I'm afraid to disconnect any of her life support, so we have to wait and see. You guys should get out of here. Sleeping in this room doesn't help Alexa. Eventually, the press is gonna find a way past hospital security and you don't need any more negative press. I'll call you if anything changes.'
'I'm not leaving,' Chooch said quickly.
I didn't want to leave either, but knew I had to.
'Suit yourself,' Luther said to Chooch. There was a distinct chill coming off him.
'Luther, thanks for everything you're doing,' I said, trying to make peace.
'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.
