“What’s that?” he asked.
“This whole X and Bernie thing. It just doesn’t make sense to me. X was a radical Muslim, right?” Vegas nodded. “Now, from everything we’ve been able to put together, and from what Elijah told us, X was taking orders from Bernie Goldman. Not just a Jew, but a Hassidic Jew. What radical Muslim is going to do that?”
Vegas shrugged. “Hey, maybe it was all money related. I mean, Elijah did say Bernie put a million dollars on the table to kill Pop, and X took it. Plus, don’t forget Elijah said some other brother was at their last meeting, ordering X around, so maybe that’s who was really in charge.”
“Yeah, that’s what worries me. Something tells me this whole thing is far from over.”
Vegas
54
Once the war was over and word got out that Pop had returned home and may never recover from his coma, people he’d known for years began stopping by to pay their respects. Frankly, we were growing tired of the stream of visitors and wanted time alone just to be together with our family, but LC Duncan was a legend and deserved to be honored. They came from as far away as Australia and India, Europe and South America, and they all said the same thing: that our father was an honorable man who they knew they could count on. He had a reputation for saying what he meant and meaning what he said, and that alone made him stand out in our business.
People talked about their desire to continue working with him. No one mentioned him being on death’s door, or discussed how long he was expected to live. In fact, all anyone wanted to talk about were the moments he had touched their lives. Pop was decidedly old school about the way he did business with a simple handshake, but once you took his hand, you were not going to mess things up.
“When your father shook someone’s hand and looked them in the eye, they did whatever it took to make sure they stayed good on their word,” Willie Hopkins, a good old boy from Texas, raved as I walked him out to his car with Junior, Orlando, and Daryl. He and Pop had worked together almost from the beginning, so Willie considered him more than an associate.
“Vegas,” Willie said as he got in the back of his chauffeured Bentley, “if you turn out to be half the father that LC is, then your son is a lucky boy.”
“Thank you, Willie,” I said as I closed the door and waved good-bye.
Willie’s comment got me thinking about Nevada. I hadn’t had enough time to spend getting to know my son yet, although his cousins, and especially Ma, were already crazy about him. As the oldest grandchild, he seemed to have plenty of patience with his younger cousins, who wanted to monopolize all of his time. At first Paris was a little hostile because suddenly she wasn’t the only one with a male heir in the house, but even she had been won over by Nevada’s charm. That boy certainly reminded me a lot of myself. The whole thing happening the way it had was weird. Great, but weird. Now, if I could just get Consuela and Marie to make peace with each other.
“Hey, isn’t that . . . ?” I turned to look at whatever had caught Daryl’s attention. Our security team was directing a familiar black Mercedes truck to park in front next to London’s Rover. Minister Farah got out of the car and came toward us, followed by a bodyguard.
Minister Farah greeted Daryl and me with a quick embrace. “Gentlemen, I’m here to pay my respects. I hope you don’t mind. I also wouldn’t mind meeting that son of yours, Vegas.”
He reached over and shook Junior’s hand. They hadn’t seen each other since our first visit to Harlem, when we went to him for advice. With everything that had happened since then, it felt like a lifetime ago.
Orlando stepped up and introduced himself. “How are you, Minister Farah? Orlando Duncan. Nice to meet you.”
“So how are you doing, Minister?” I asked.
“I’m surviving, thanks to the grace of Allah. How’s your father?”