Death Notes

my job.’
    He seemed genuine, not a thick-skinned oaf like other reporters I’d spoken to.
    ‘How long have you been a reporter, Mr Faddis?’
    ‘Three years. I used to practice law. Criminal defense.’
    ‘Then Hollywood called?’
    ‘I do good work, Ms Ventana. Investigative work. Like you.’ Out of nowhere, a group of Chinese kids swarmed around us as they passed by, their chatter a mix of English and Cantonese, laughing and smoking cigarettes like it was their first time. They all looked way under age but they were probably grad students somewhere out for a night of letting off steam. Once they passed, other people seemed to follow. It was like somebody had opened up the gates.
    I turned back to Faddis.
    ‘What do you want?’
    He glanced around at the steady stream of people squeezing past us on the narrow sidewalk.
    ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
    ‘No, thanks. If you want to talk, you can do it here.’
    With a practiced, graceful motion, he whipped out a little notebook and a Mont Blanc pen.
    ‘There’s a rumor going around, Ms Ventana. A rumor that says Match Margolis whispered his killer’s name in your ear before he died.’
    ‘Were you there Saturday night?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘You’re not a fan of jazz?’
    ‘I was working on something else. Undercover. What did Match say to you? What were his dying words?’
    ‘Where’d you hear this?’
    ‘It’s common knowledge.’
    ‘Do you want an answer?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He fixed eager eyes on me, fingers tense as he poised pen over tablet.
    ‘Then tell me who told you.’
    ‘A source. I can’t reveal a source.’
    ‘Nice talking to you, Mr Faddis.’
    I turned and started down the street toward my car.
    ‘Wait!’ He jogged to catch up with me. ‘Okay. You win. It was an anonymous call.’
    I studied his face.
    ‘I don’t believe you.’
    He blushed deep red and turned instantly sheepish.
    ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying. Look, you’ll tell me if I tell you?’
    I’d already said as much.
    ‘You’re wasting time, Mr Faddis.’
    ‘Okay, okay. It was Yvette Fields.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Match Margolis’s daughter.’
    ‘I didn’t know he had one.’
    ‘She’s illegitimate. Lives in the Richmond. Her mother died of an overdose.’
    ‘Was she there Saturday night?’
    He nodded, then paused, waiting.
    ‘So? What did Match say?’
    ‘The rumor you heard? It’s just that: a rumor. There’s no truth to it at all. Match didn’t say a word.’
    He stared at me, mouth fixed in a straight line, fighting his own annoyance at being duped. Finally, he broke out in a good-natured grin and chuckled.
    ‘Okay. You won that round.’
    ‘If you’re looking for a story, Mr Faddis, why don’t you find out why Match’s illegitimate daughter is spreading that rumor. And when you find the answer, let me know. Goodnight.’ I started back down the street for the third time and he chased me again.
    ‘Hey,’ he said when he caught up with me. ‘Here’s my card.’ He slipped it into my hand. ‘Have you got one?’
    ‘I’m in the book.’
     

11
     
    I ’d been on my way to Malone Junk, but if Yvette Fields was telling anybody who’d listen that I knew who killed Match, she suddenly shot to the top of my list.
    She was easy enough to find. Just like me, she was in the phone book. Twice. The first address was in a residential section of the Avenues in the Richmond. The other was in the Tenderloin, the San Francisco neighborhood that played host to most of the city’s resident released sex offenders, winos, and a lot of just plain poor people, not to mention a growing and thriving, hardworking Vietnamese community of families.
    In the business phone listing, after Yvette’s name, were the initials CMT - certified massage therapist. But, given her address, I didn’t think massage was all she offered.
    The store front was the picture of good taste: a poster of a recumbent, big-busted brunette in a bikini lolling on a bunch of brightly colored pillows. With a smile. And a blue neon sign that flashed: MASSAGE NOW!
    I opened the door and stepped into a linoleum-tiled room the size of a bathroom stall. An exotic-looking woman sat at a card table with a cash box, a ballpoint pen, and one of those slider gizmos you need to process credit card sales. The harsh light from the bare bulb overhead didn’t diminish her beauty. Her features were vaguely Asian, but she was full-bodied and was dressed like a hooker. She had Match’s cheekbones