Page 75 of Hanging and Burning

The waiter brought our drinks. Piña coladas. The pineapple tasted fresh.

“That service was pretty wild,” I said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied sternly.

“Okay. What shall we discuss?”

She took a moment to appreciate what I said or, maybe, how I said it.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

“To eat?” I suggested.

“Most of the people who attend the Divine are a special kind of freak. They want to find some doorway where they can fuck you in the ass. After that they go home. Usually, there’s no dinner involved.”

“And… what did you expect from meeting with me?”

She considered an answer that was already formed in her mind. This took some time to find its way into words.

While she was thinking, the waiter—his name tag read KAREN—returned with our meals.

“I guess,” she said after the probable Russian had departed, “I suppose that you seemed different.”

“Different how?”

“You’re not the average freak. It was like—like you’d come there to meet me.” She was looking into my eyes, almost demanding an answer.

“That’s true.”

“Don’t you fuck with me now, Mr. Four Four Four.” Her smile was both reserved and sincere.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that, Ms. Fulton.”

Minnie sat back in the wood chair, rotating her chin to the left. A mischievous if nervous smile moved across her lips.

“How did you find out my name?”

“I have a friend named Oliya. She works with me sometimes. I asked her if she could find out the whereabouts of Minnie Fulton, the jazz club pianist. And here we are.”

“You were looking for me? I mean, the real me?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because a man named Arman Babylon is looking for his granddaughter and, in the search, I came across your name.”

This woman kept surprising me. I expected her to exhibit at least some distress when I mentioned Arman because, despite the lie I told drugged-up Melton, there is no statute of limitations on murder in New York.

But Minnie stayed in her seat. She even took a mouthful of the pasta, munching slowly while something like regret filled her eyes. It was as if she had been running from this encounter for her entire life and now it was finally time to surrender.

“How could a bastard like that even have a child?” It was a feral question from a bereft soul.

“I’m pretty sure that Arman never killed Dalia.”

“You know about that too?”

“Yeah.”