Page 8 of Hanging and Burning

“If that’s what you call the cops.”

“So the cops killed Paulie?”

“Somebody did,” he said on a philosophical note. “We knew the danger. I loved Paulie. His son, Paulie Jr., is the one who brought me the cigarettes and the gun.”

“He in New York?”

“Naw. He’s out here tryin’ to squeeze a few pennies outta Hollywood.”

“Protection?”

“Yeah, but not the old kind. He and a few of his people hire out as bodyguards. Gotta company called Star Shield.”

It was a lot to take in. But my grandmother was right. Arman Babylon was my kinda people.

“So,” I questioned, “did your old partner have anything to do with Twyla?”

“He—he knew her, but like I said, he’s long dead.”

“What about his son?”

“When he was back in New York, maybe he did a little. But he hasn’t seen her in ten, twelve years.”

“So, all I have to go on is the not-mother, Mara Macintosh, and your granddaughter, Twyla Macintosh, nowadays going by Twyla Mann?”

“Can you do it?”

“Why now?” I asked, even though I thought I knew what he’d say.

“Why what now?”

“You lookin’ for Twyla. I mean, she’s all grown.”

“And here I am,” he said, “dying.”

I nodded. “Yeah. There’s a good chance I could find her and say those things.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.”

In the hall outside room 3122 I took out my cell phone to check out the silent texts I’d received earlier.

The first message read I’m ready to come home.

The second said To you.

I managed to walk back down to the nurses’ station without stumbling or losing my way.

Molayo was still at her desk.

“How was the visit?” she asked.

“Interesting.”

The punked-out nurse pulled her head back, like some small mammal that had just come across a snake. “That’s a weird answer.”

“Why you say that?”