Page 12

“And you think this Mr. Babylon is okay?”

“I wouldn’t’a had ya talk to him if I didn’t. But if you question it, I ain’t gonna hold it against ya if you don’t wanna help. That what it is? You worried ’bout sumpin’?”

“No. I mean… I’m pretty sure he’s not telling me everything, but in this business, unless somebody’s tryin’ t’hide some kinda crime, there’s no reason for me to expect him to tell it all.”

“So, then—you gonna look for his granddaughter?”

“I’ll look into lookin’ for her.”

The indomitable, seemingly immortal Brenda Naples reached over and patted my knee.

“That’s the right thing, baby,” she crooned. “Wanna play me a game’a chess? You know I been sharpenin’ up on your cousin.”

“Naw, Grandma, I’d rather play hearts.”

3.

AFTER LOSING THREE games of hearts in a row, I left Grandma B happy and ready for a nap.

From the West Hollywood hospital and treatment center, I drove my rented junker, a bright yellow classic VW bug, to my temporary Beverly Hills residence.

Because I was in LA on Roger Ferris’s dime, he let me stay at his upper-floor suite at the Royal Palace Hotel. Within a day the staff was familiar with me and my habits. As my father used to say to me before his prison stint, Nice work if you can get it…

Sitting in the living room of the seven-room suite, playing Fats Waller’s greatest hits, I sipped on a shot of Angel’s Envy bourbon and pecked at my laptop. Arman Babylon had one entry from a defunct New York newspaper. This was a single sentence excerpted from a larger article that read… Cedric Hargrove, the club manager, Minnie Fulton, the club pianist, Arman Babylon, aka Mr. Smooth, and Malto Lamming are the four persons of interest in the disappearance and possible murder of chanteuse Dalia Shorts. There was no date associated with the snippet.

The twenty-one-year-old Dalia Shorts was what the Post called a torch singer. She played mainly at the Carnelian Oyster Bar and Restaurant, somewhere in Midtown Manhattan. After her last set on a Saturday evening, she took a private limo, one would think home to Brooklyn, and was never seen again. That was on August 12, 1989.

I’d never heard of the Carnelian Oyster Bar. It no longer existed. And if I wanted more information about Ms. Shorts, the Carnelian Oyster, or Arman Babylon’s involvement with either, I’d have to make my way back to New York.

But I wanted to see my grandmother at least once again before I left, and in the meantime there was more that I could cull from the Internet.

Paulie Antonucci Sr. was second on the list.

Mr. Antonucci was shot down outside a Szechuan restaurant called No-No Kitchen, located in downtown Brooklyn. He was slain early on a Tuesday morning, April 1982. The time was somewhere around 2:00 a.m. and there were no eyewitnesses to the slaying. It was suspected that Antonucci was playing in an illegal craps game in the closed restaurant, but none of the other players were ever identified.

He was shot seventeen times and pronounced dead on the scene.

The paper didn’t have much information on Paulie. He was alleged to have been involved with organized crime, but that was the extent of even a hint of criminal history.

Paulie Jr. was born two months after his father’s death.

Currently, Paulie Jr. was listed as a co-owner of Star Shield security services, of West Hollywood. Star Shield provided bodyguards and protected transportation for mainly singers, actors, and those who produced and represented singers and actors. Their offices were on Santa Monica Boulevard near North Gardner.

After taking a bath in the deep porcelain tub, I dressed in charcoal trousers and a scarlet T-shirt, topped off with an aqua sports jacket. I was just about to walk out of the room when my cell phone chirped.

Without looking at the caller’s number, I answered, “Hello?”

“Hi.”

I froze. The woman’s voice was known to me. Her strong, lean limbs and dark, healthy eyes were all I had thought about for three months after her departure to Alaska. She fled the tristate area soon after her ex-lover and my father’s best friend and personal Judas, Andrew “Gatormouth” Williams, died from a self-inflicted gunshot.

“King?” the caller prompted.

“Hey, Leaf, hi. How you doin’?”

“Fine. You?”

“Pretty good.”