Page 22 of Hanging and Burning

“I didn’t look for her at all.”

“Then how did you meet her? She’s a busy woman.”

“Caledonia didn’t tell me why she struck up the conversation. The only thing I can think is that I’m a private detective by profession and Ms. Reese is on the lookout for anyone that might have the potential to upset her delicate applecart. I was standing alone, taking in the ambience, and she came up to me.”

The night caller took a few moments to digest my well-constructed almost-truth.

“Who are you working for?”

“Like you said, Arman Babylon.”

“He’s investigating the Carnelian Oyster?”

“He’s looking for his granddaughter. I found out that she had been in LA recently and decided to see if the Oyster contained a pearl.” It was a little slim, but I think I was doing pretty good for four in the morning.

“How did you find out about Twyla being in LA?”

“I went to Paulie Antonucci’s son’s security office. I couldn’t get to Junior, but the receptionist recognized the photo I had of Twyla. She said that she’d come by with a guy named Blast, something like that.”

After another moment of digestion, Malto asked, “Where’s Arman?”

“He’s being treated for cancer at a clinic in Florida.”

“Which clinic?”

“Sorry, Mr. Lamming, but I can’t just give out his information like that.”

“I don’t know why not. All I have to do is call all the big research hospitals to come up with a name.”

“That would be true if he was in a big hospital and if he used his own name. But don’t worry, I’ll tell him you wanna talk first thing.”

“That sounds reasonable. And would you like to get together later today? Share intelligence?”

“That sounds great. I’m free after three.”

“Good. I’ll be doing a camera shoot on Ivan Hill Terrace in Silver Lake. Come there around three. The shoot’ll be over by then. The photographer’s name is Pettis—Finley Pettis. I forget the address, but you could google it.”

“You having a portrait taken?”

“I guess I am. They’re putting me on the cover of the World of Night magazine, and this is one of the photographers they use.”

I tried to get back to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes it seemed as if those ticks were waiting for me, speaking the name of blood in their alien and otherwise indecipherable clicking language.

So I went up to the roof of the hotel and swam laps for around forty minutes. After that I took a steam bath and then went to my room, where I struggled through half an hour of RCMP exercises.

At eight thirty I went down to an outside table I’d reserved for four. But even though the booking was for nine, my guests had already arrived. They were different races, body types, and sizes, but they were also cut from the same mercenary cloth, all dressed in cheap, loose-fit two-piece suits of varying dark colors.

“Gentlemen,” I said as I took my seat.

“Mr. Oliver,” the Hispanic strong-arm said. “Mr. Frost sends his regards. I am Rodrigo and this is Chin and Bob.”

Mr. Frost, Melquarth, was a recovering crazed killer who lived in a deconsecrated church in the middle of Staten Island. He had taken many lives and committed the worst crimes that even an FBI profiler could imagine. I once arrested him and then refused to lie about the circumstance of his arrest on the witness stand. For inexplicable reasons these actions created a kind of revelation in Melquarth. My honesty felt to him like a challenge. He was still way out from the rules, ideals, and conventions of the modern world, but he no longer raged for no reason. If Melquarth killed you, it would be because he was defending himself or because you had broken some kind of fundamental law or convention. If he robbed you, what he took would have already been an ill-gotten gain.

When I found out there might be serious players in the search for Twyla, I had called Melquarth and he sent word to these men.

Rodrigo had copper skin and a build like some favorite uncle with a big belly and a pocket full of your best-loved candies. Only a scar on the left side of his mouth and how it warped his smile gave a glimpse of the inner man. His light accent announced that Puerto Rico was at least part of his background.

Chin was thin, Chinese, and at least six three. His black hair was cut short and there was a tattoo that looked like a metal cactus that wrapped around his left wrist and continued down to his pinkie. Chin was young and exhibited no expression whatsoever.