Page 77 of Hanging and Burning

I gazed into her rageful glare and nodded.

Then I said, “I know that Melton was a rapist and proficient with drugs. You were probably hooked on something, and he used that to break down your common sense. One day he gave you a dose of whatever and, once you were high, he got you to set up a rendezvous with Dalia, just before you passed out. Or—or maybe you needed your fix and Malto said he’d give it to you if you’d tell Dalia some lie or other.”

It’s always a good thing to see, when rage turns to simple surprise.

“Did Malto tell you all this?”

“Malto’s a pig.”

A loud and brief burp of laughter escaped Minnie Fulton’s lips, telling me I was speaking to her heart.

She clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle the evil glee and then, a moment later, put her hands on the table and said, “When the cops brought me in for the interrogation, I wanted to tell them about what had happened. I wanted to, but—but back in those days heroin was a crime, not a disease. They were handing out life sentences for three-time losers, and in my mind, Dalia was already dead.”

“Did Lamming ever rape you?” I had to ask.

“Many times. Don’t ask me why. Back then, he was my connection. I would’a give him anything he wanted, but he felt all big doin’ it to a lifeless body.

“I loved Dalia. She was so pure. When I played behind her it was like heaven—heaven,” she said. Then she asked, “If she’s alive, why are you even talking to me? I mean, do I have somethin’ you want?”

“I’m just tryin’ to work it out,” I said. “Your experiences give me ideas about what to do next.”

“Is that all?”

“Well… Do you know why Malto wanted Dalia dead?”

“She had gone to the police and accused him of rape.”

“Yeah, I know. But back then it was hella easy to deny it. And, you know, a murder charge is not nearly that simple to get out from under.”

“I was either pretty high or sick back then. I didn’t pay attention to much that wasn’t gonna get me high. But I think maybe Malto might’a said that she had something else on him.”

“What’s that?”

“He didn’t say,” she said, looking into my eyes. “You know, back then, Arman never denied it when I blamed him for Dalia’s death. One night I got high and yelled at him until my voice was gone.”

“That there was the proof he didn’t kill her.”

Minnie looked at me for long seconds, realizing, after more than four decades, what that long-ago encounter really meant. Then she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said, dark wonder in her voice. “Because if he had’a done it he would’a killed me too.”

“Or he would have told Melton, and he would have had it done.”

“Have you seen Dalia with your own eyes?”

“No,” I lied. “But, like I said, I’m a PI, and experience leads me to believe that that’s the only answer.”

“We—we were friends. Why didn’t she call me?”

“Probably because Arman came up on her when she was in the place you set up to meet. She had to know that you were in on it. Arman told her about what Melton wanted him to do and she left the country without a word to anyone.”

Minnie Fulton’s shoulders fell, and her head hung down like a forgotten puppet strung up against a wall.

“I betrayed her,” Minnie said. “She was my friend, and I let her down.”

“You were on the H.”

“I knew that she had been to the cops about Malto. I knew what Malto would do when he asked me to make that date. I knew it. There’s no excuse for that.”