Page 23 of Hanging and Burning

Bob was the Black member of the contingent. Maybe five eight, he weighed somewhere north of three hundred pounds, but you’d have to give him a full autopsy to find any fat therein. Bob had a serious countenance. He’d probably been in something like prison since the first grade, when they had put metal detectors on the only open entrance to the school.

When introduced, each of the men reached over to shake my hand. This expression of civility was doubtless based upon the respect they had for Mel.

Even though we were in an isolated corner, the conversation rarely rose above a murmur. I gave them my schedule for the day and informed them where I was likely to be at risk. Nothing was written down or recorded.

Before leaving, Rodrigo handed me a brown-paper parcel.

In my room I unwrapped the Wilson SFX9 nine-millimeter pistol. Along with the gun, I was given enough ammunition for a daylong standoff.

I wasn’t planning to shoot anyone, but sometimes a gun can help to avoid rather than instigate violence.

I secured the weapon in a secret compartment of the briefcase I intended to use that day and then left the hotel for my grandmother’s hospital.

Leaving the briefcase downstairs with the guards, I went up to the twenty-sixth floor and sat down to play hearts with Brenda Naples.

“What’s wrong with you, baby?” she asked after winning her third hand in a row.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Joe. You know I can smell a lie at twenty paces.”

“I thought when you get old enough the nose starts to weaken.”

“What’s wrong?” she insisted.

“There’s sumpin’ hinky about your friend Babylon,” I admitted.

“Hinky how?”

“Thirty-seven years ago, the NYPD suspected him of murder.”

“Ten years ago, the NYPD arrested you for rape—framed you for it.”

“Yeah, I know. But I talked to one of Babylon’s partners from the New York nightclub, and I talked to the son of his old partner Paulie Antonucci. They both actin’ like they got sumpin’ to hide.”

“Dangerous?”

“Stickin’ a plug in the wall can be dangerous.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I got it covered, Grandma. I’m okay. I’m just sayin’ that maybe what Babylon wants is not what he’s tellin’ us.”

“You want me to send Rags with you?”

“No. I got a few friends helpin’ out.”

Grandma B studied me for a minute.

“You bein’ careful?”

“That I am.”

“Anything I can do?” the beloved cancer patient asked.

“Maybe ask if Arman could be transferred to the South Tower. That way I won’t have to be worried about him.”

“Okay then. Okay.”