Page 42 of Hanging and Burning

That early morning, I was the only mourner in residence.

I’d taken a seat closest to the lobby and just sat there, wondering what it was that I thought I was doing. My client was my grandmother. Her cancer-ward friend had told her that he wanted to find his granddaughter, but all I had discovered was a decades-old murder and a witness who said, while drugged, that Grandma B’s friend was the murderer.

But the granddaughter was real and possibly being sought after. I owed something to someone, though I wasn’t quite sure to whom—or what that debt was.

“Mind if I join you?” a man asked.

He was tall and slender, white and well past seventy. He stood erect and seemed to be able enough to navigate everyday life despite the years.

“Not at all,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’d appreciate the company.”

He took a seat in the white chair facing mine.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Not really. You?”

“I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the fall of Saigon.”

“You served?”

“Took me three tours to figure out that I was on the wrong side.”

It was a pleasure to hear about a problem that I didn’t have to solve.

“Why you say that?” I asked.

“Dead women and children,” he said as if beginning a quote from some religious text. “Old men and women molderin’ in the mud. And there I was, fightin’ the communists to protect the dictators. Dyin’ side by side with blue-collar boys while the ones with money stayed home and got high.”

I tried to think of some response that might show my commiseration and compassion, but that felt as if it would be an insult to the vet’s hard-won understanding.

“What about you?” he asked.

“The only war I ever experienced was when I was a cop in New York.”

“What part?”

“Brooklyn mostly and Manhattan some.”

“Well,” he said. “I guess you at least knew what side was right.”

“Neither one,” I agreed.

“May I help you gentlemen?” a younger man’s voice asked.

It was the night valet making his rounds.

“No, son,” the vet said. “We’re just two old soldiers, grousin’ about things that don’t mean a damn.”

“I could use a drink,” I said. “What about you, Mr.…?”

“Peters—Fenster Peters.”

“Joe Oliver,” I said, and we shook hands.

“I can order drinks and charge them to a room,” the hotel employee offered.

I gave the young man my room number and our orders.