Page 68 of Hanging and Burning

“To your health,” she toasted, raising her glass.

I clinked with her and took a sip. It was, I must say, a very welcome libation, seemingly crafted from every major liquor in the bar along with enough sugar to ease the stiffness from hours of squatting in the woods.

“So,” she said after a second sip. “You know my grandfather and recognized me, at night, walking down a crowded street after seeing a picture taken a dozen years ago, when I had dreads and wore a T-shirt.”

“All of that is true,” I said, still happy with my hard-earned drink.

“But?”

“When your grandfather got to know my grandmother, he told her that he had a granddaughter somewhere in New York, that he was worried about her because they had fallen out of touch. Grandma B told him that she had a grandson, me, and that she’d be very worried if she hadn’t heard from said grandson at least once every one or two weeks.”

The hardest thing for a man like me to manage is being able to tell the truth. Lying is easy. Lying is akin to playing a game when you know the moves of all the pieces and the only goal is victory. But telling someone something, any part of which might contain a grain of truth, is like being a nineteenth-century miner working with jury-rigged nitroglycerine. In other words, the odds of attaining a successful conclusion when attempting to impart truth are always a toss-up.

One hope for a good score is to keep the person who needs this truth involved in the conversation.

“So,” she asked on cue. “Somehow my grandfather talking to your grandmother, three thousand miles away, allows you to recognize me, at night, among dozens of others?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“Well, first, um, LA is only about twenty-five hundred miles away, and my grandmother told Arman something.”

“What was that?”

“That her grandson is a private detective in New York and that I’d do anything she asked me to… if, of course, the client, your grandfather, was willing to pay the bill.”

The look on Twyla’s face was heartening. She seemed impressed by the route I must have taken to get to her. She smiled. Thinking back on it, I realize that the ease of that smile should have been a warning to me.

“But,” she said in friendly challenge, “you say that you saw the picture of me in Los Angeles.”

“Grandma B and Arman are residents in the same hospital.”

“That makes sense,” she said in semi-agreement. She didn’t, however, seem convinced by the display of logic. “But you are here, at a bar on Amsterdam in New York City.”

“I had gone out to LA to see Grandma B.”

After moving her head in a doubtful manner she asked, “So, what were you supposed to do when you caught up with me?”

“To tell you that Mara Macintosh is not your blood mother, and that Arman would really like to see you. But if you couldn’t—or maybe wouldn’t—go there, at least you could call him.”

“And are you supposed to take me to him?” she asked.

“No. I was just supposed to tell you about Mara, and—and… You know, I think I should have eaten something before scarfing down that tea.”

Twyla was looking closely at me. I was beginning to suspect that she was wondering why I hadn’t gone unconscious yet. I wanted to yawn, to maybe lean back against the buttress behind the booth’s bench.

“I’m gonna have to think about what you told me, Joe,” she said. “I mean, this is a lot to take in.”

“Don’t I know it.” I sat up straight and felt quite a bit better, for maybe three seconds. “And even once you hear it out you’ll still have more questions.”

I took out my phone, pressed an icon and then another. When I looked up, Twyla was on her feet. I tried to stand, but when she pressed lightly against my chest, I fell back onto the bench on my side of the booth.

This time there was a question in my eyes.

Leaning over me, Twyla asked, “Do you have a business card on you, Mr. Oliver?”

“Shirt pocket,” I said.