Page 15

“Then why you here?”

Antonucci had not shaved in a day or two. His particular brand of whiteness had a yellowish undertone that indicated too little sleep combined with too much alcohol. The curdled skin was loose, but his childlike gaze gave the impression that he was about to burst.

“He hired me to find Twyla, his granddaughter.”

“I didn’t know she was missing.”

“You know her?”

“She came to a couple’a parties with Arman, back when I still lived in New York. We went on a date or two, but nuthin’ came of it.”

“You ever hear from her?”

“Not for years.”

His loose shirt of purple, yellow, and gold was not roomy enough to hide his gut.

“Anybody you know that might’a seen her?”

“What’s Baba want with her?”

“She’s his granddaughter.”

“I thought she was in New York.”

“Somebody say that?”

Junior moved his head a little to the left and tucked his chin in, like an animal that’s suspicious of anything that might be a trap.

“I don’t remember,” he said.

“How about Mara Macintosh?”

“What about her?”

“You seen her?”

“Not for twenty years. What’s all this about?”

“I’m tryin’ to find Twyla for Arman. You know, the guy you brought tobacco and a thirty-eight.”

The security expert winced and then sneered, straightened up his slanted posture, then turned quickly, going back past the doorway that he probably came in through.

The door slammed behind him.

That type of retreat was always the best way to end a conversation, but it left behind it a definite scent of guilt. But guilt about what?

“Excuse me,” I said to the white-on-white receptionist.

“Yeah?”

Taking the small framed photo of Twyla Macintosh/Mann from a pocket, I handed it to her.

“You seen this young woman?”

“Umm,” she considered. “Maybe. Is this an old picture?”

“Eight, ten years.”