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“Oh, I see,” my ancient elder said.

Nodding at my cousin’s words, I went on, “She’ll tell Malto that I claimed that he’d assaulted women in his Brentwood home—women he’d met at the club. She’ll say that she didn’t believe me but pretended that she did. Malto will think that it’s a setup to have him assassinated.”

“Assassinated? Really?” Rags doubted.

“I’m pretty sure that that’s the way he thinks about himself.”

“What then?”

“Then we’ll see what we can see.”

From the hospital I drove out to Los Angeles International Airport, LAX, to pick up Leaf. After about an hour she came out to the luggage delivery area wearing a pale green dress and leather slippers that looked almost as if they were made from paper.

She ran into my arms and held me tight, her face buried against my shoulder.

This might seem normal for most lovers, but there was nothing commonplace about Leaf Alyssandra Morton. She was powerful of mind, in control of almost any situation she encountered. But that very strength, that ability to comprehend and overcome almost any problem set before her, turned against her when she experienced the death of a loved one—someone she could not save. It was not sorrow but anger at herself that she felt.

“You got a bag?” I asked.

“Yeah, two. I didn’t know how long I’d be here.”

Her two suitcases were also green. The first one tumbled down onto the baggage conveyor belt, and she grabbed it. A young Black man ran up to help her with the second bag. I was a little embarrassed that I didn’t do that, but it seemed to me at the time that the more Leaf was physically in charge, the better she would feel about herself.

When Leaf and her new friend came up to me she said, “This is Byron. We sat next to each other on the plane. Byron, meet Joe.”

The young man put on a smile and held out a hand. He was tall and good-looking, in the kind of good shape you develop in a membership gym.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

I nodded and accepted the gesture.

“Are you Leaf’s uncle?”

“Um, no.”

“Oh,” the young man said, feeling a bit awkward and wanting to ask me what my connections were to the beauty.

I have to say here that Leaf is in her thirties but looks a decade younger than that. Byron was actually in his twenties, and I was north of forty-five.

“Naw,” she said, grinning and taking me by the arm. “This here’s my sugar daddy.”

I regret my laughter.

Without saying another word, Byron went down the conveyor-belt lane, looking for his own lonely bag.

“We gonna go?” she asked.

“We have to wait for somebody else.”

“Who?”

An hour and a half later a flight from JFK had landed.

Gladstone Palmer was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, straw sandals, khaki shorts, and a wide Irish grin. He brought no suitcase and just a small blue cloth shoulder bag for carry-on.

“Joe,” he called from across the luggage hall.

“Glad,” I called back.