Page 70 of Hanging and Burning

My gullet was in no mood for input, but I drank the tonic down and kept it there. Then I sat up and lowered my head into the basket of my hands.

Five minutes later my condition had improved by at least 86 percent. My head and stomach, eyesight and hearing were all working well enough to be called good. The only thing lacking was strength. A ten-pound rabbit could have kicked my ass that early morning.

“You ready for my report?” Oliya asked.

“Thank you for saving my life, Ms. Ruez,” I replied.

“I just saw that automatic text you sent. I was in Manhattan already, so it wasn’t much to get to you. You want that report now?”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me.”

“I didn’t get much. The girl, Twyla, is nowhere that I could find. There was mention of her name in every borough but wherever she had been she had also left. Dalia Shorts disappeared one night in 1989. They pronounced her dead seven years later, but there was really no proof of foul play. Cedric Hargrove, the club manager, died of a heart attack in 2007, and Minnie Fulton is now a church organist in downtown Brooklyn. She’d been strung out and then went through a detox program, sponsored by the minister.”

“What church?”

“You won’t believe it,” Oliya promised.

“Hit me.”

“The Ministry of the Divine Orgasm.”

I fell asleep while laughing. I think Oliya lifted my legs up onto the sofa and said something about leaving.

“Daddy?”

It was a sweet word, a kind question after an extended period of indentured and chained-down service at the oar of an ancient longship. My throat was dry and my eyes rough with sand. I was still weak, strong enough only to achieve a seated position on the soft couch.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“What happened to you?”

I looked up at my daughter, Aja-Denise, clad in a tightly fitted royal-blue dress that went all the way down to her calves. Dark-skinned with good bones, intelligent eyes that had faith in me for no other reason than I was her father. There was a small blue hat perched at the side of her head, reminding me of Caledonia Reese, the serious and attractive manager of the Carnelian Oyster jazz club on Lincoln Boulevard in Santa Monica.

“Your grandmother,” I commenced… and continued until I had told her the entire tale of detective work and woe.

“You let her drug you?” she challenged.

“She was making me work for the information I needed.”

“Is that what they mean when they say somebody worked himself to death?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What would you have done if Oliya hadn’t responded to the auto-text you sent?”

“It was sent to Melquarth. He must have forwarded it to her.”

“You could have died,” Aja said, contesting my logic once more.

“Doubtful. Could you get me a glass of water, please, honey?”

“Sure.”

She went to the kitchen nook of her outer office. The small area had a double hot plate, a mini-fridge, and shelves filled with powders and packages containing snacks and drinks that were there to punctuate the long hours of research and detection.

Returning with a cup of Darjeeling tea and a plate of saltine crackers, Aja arranged the medicinal feast before me.

“What are you gonna do?” my daughter asked after I’d plowed through the much-needed meal.