Page 2 of Hanging and Burning

“Armstrong’s mentor was Joe Oliver, who they called King Oliver. What’s your name?”

“Molayo.”

“That’s Yoruba, isn’t it?”

Her brown eyes showed surprise, and she said, “It means strength. My daddy named me.”

“He from Togo or sumpin’?”

“Nah. The Philippines. My mom’s people are Scottish.”

“Where’s Africa come into that?”

“Dad used to say that we all came from Africa originally and that my name was in praise of that truth.”

“Your father knows somethin’.”

A woman had come up behind me, but Molayo was in no hurry.

“I can see why Abbington sent me your information and said I should take care of you. You charmed that old bitch.”

Feeling pressure from the woman behind, in other circumstances I would have hurried the young hipster along, but I had been lonely for over a year and this young woman’s patter offered welcome, if brief, relief.

“It’s my job,” I replied.

“To charm women?”

“Excuse me,” the woman behind me said.

“I’ll be right with you, Miss,” Molayo responded in a friendly enough tone. And then, “Well, Your Highness, do you see the hallway behind me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If you walk to the end, you’ll see room 3122 on the right.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You can thank me by stopping by on your way out and telling me where I could get a job charming people.”

“I can’t believe this,” the woman behind me declared.

The door to room 3122 was open, so I walked in.

It surprised me that there were four stations in the spacious sickroom, a bed in each corner. Three of these locations were being either visited or ministered to. The only patient who was alone sat beneath a large window that looked upon the hills marking the border between Los Angeles proper and what they called the Valley. This patient fit the description I’d been given.

I was surprised because this monstrosity of healthcare mostly served wealthier patients, most of whom had private rooms. I knew this because my ninety-six-year-old grandmother was doing time here. She had a whole suite of rooms that her boyfriend, Roger Ferris, arguably the richest man in the world, had paid for. I was out in Cali visiting Grandma B because if there was any true royalty in our bloodline, it was her.

My grandmother Brenda Naples was also the reason for this visit to the eighth floor.

I looked around for a moment or two and then headed for the solitary patient.

He was old, very much so, and distracted, I thought maybe by pain.

“Mr. Babylon?” I asked. “Sir?”

When he looked up from his seated position at the raised head of the hospital bed, I wondered if he remembered his own name. He stared for a long moment and then, surprising me, he said, “Mr. Oliver?”

“Yes.”