CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Who’s that white man with all those black people?”
Two air traffic controllers were watching from the tower as the private jet landed at their private airfield and William, Reecie, and all five of their children rushed off the plane and hurried into waiting SUVs.
The older controller looked at the manifest book to see if he could figure out who they were. “Oh damn,” he said when he saw the name. “That’s William Webster, his wife Resheda Webster, and their kids.”
“They don’t look like no kids to me,” said the younger controller. “And who’s William Webster anyway?”
“You ever hear of Webster Syrup?”
“Of course I’ve heard of it. I use it all the time.”
“That’s William Webster. He’s the heir to that syrup fortune.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why would I not be serious?”
“But what’s with all those blacks with him?”
“I told you it’s his family. He married a black woman something like forty years ago when that interracial stuff wasn’t as common as it is today. And he caught hell for it too. They had six black kids like it was a fuck you to everybody that objected.”
“I only see five,” the younger controller said.
The older controller looked at him. “What?”
“You said they had six kids. I only see five.” Then he realized something. “Oh snap! Is he related to him?”
The older controller frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Hawk Webster was found almost dead in his house earlier today.”
“I heard about that. But what’s that got to do with this?”
“You think he may be related to William Webster?”
“I doubt it. But how should I know? I don’t follow that Hollywood shit.”
The younger controller quickly Googled it. Then he smiled. “I’ll be damn, it’s true. Hawk Webster is his oldest son. That’s why he’s here. Because of Hawk.”
“They’re related?” the older controller asked. “Geez. I had no idea. But you learn something new every day,” he said as they watched those SUVs speed off the tarmac and head, they both presumed, to the hospital where Hawk Webster was said to be fighting for his life.