Page 40 of Hanging and Burning

“What—wha-what?”

“You sure the fuck didn’t have to drug that girl. She would’a given you what you wanted; why you need to knock her out?”

He didn’t know what to say.

I didn’t care.

“Pick up her glass,” I directed then.

He did as he was told.

“She drank only a few sips of what you gave her,” I observed, “and she’s all the way out. What do you think would’a happened if she’d downed the whole thing?”

He looked around the room, maybe searching for just the right answer that would save his life.

“Take a sip,” I said. “Just a little one.”

He seemed grateful, even grinned at the taste.

“Okay, now take another one, a little deeper.”

After two minutes I said, “Now take one more and put the glass down.”

He was bleary but not about to pass out.

“What do you want?” he asked. “What—what—what she mean to you?”

“I have a daughter her age.”

Three sheets to the wind, Malto Lamming blinked at me. He was confused. Was this very white girl my daughter?

“Tell me about Dalia Shorts,” I said.

“Who?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Malto.”

“The nigger?” he asked, as if for simple clarification.

“Yeah, sure. What about her?”

“She’s dead.”

“Did you kill her?” The question between my teeth seemed, somehow, to tighten my trigger finger.

“No. No. I-I-I, didn’t—didn’t.”

“Statute of limitations is over,” I lied. “You can’t be prosecuted for a crime from that long ago.”

He squinted then, brought his left hand up to his forehead.

“I only said to get rid of her. I only said for him to send her away. I swear to God I didn’t think he’d kill’er. Never.”

“Who killed her?”

“Arman… Arman.”

It was like being back at Rikers. I wanted so badly to kill that man. The weird thing was that I didn’t know why. Was it the girl who reminded me of my own child? Was it the Black woman slaughtered so long ago? Did I feel guilty for the crimes I’d uncovered?