Death Notes

fresh drink on the bar in front of Match.
    ‘Here babe, take mine.’
    He picked up a glass of what looked like ginger ale and absently handed it to her, then with a sly grin turned to me and asked, ‘How about it? You follow in the old man’s footsteps?’
    ‘Not exactly. I’m a private investigator. But I do burglar-alarm consulting. I guess you could say that’s close.’
    Blackie made a noise midway between a snicker and grunt. I handed Match my card. He glanced at it, then passed it to his wife. Sharon narrowed her eyes, read it, then tossed it into a puddle on the bar. She was eyeing me like I was trying to steal her man.
    ‘What about those rumors?’ I asked Match. ‘Somebody said you’re writing again.’
    ‘Yeah, oh, yeah. Well, I never could write much,’ he said, ‘but I got some new tunes I’m gonna play tonight. Saved ’em for last. We’ll see if they’re any good.’
    Sharon set her empty glass on the counter and stroked his narrow arm.
    ‘Sure they’re good, sweetheart. They’re the best you’ve written, honey. Ever .’
    The man could play like an angel and improvise with the best, but what really set Match Margolis above the rest were his compositions - songs straight from heaven that made you believe.
    The piano player up on the stand sprinkled the room with notes and the whole place started to get quiet. As soon as she heard the cue, Sharon said, ‘Come on now, sweetie. You’re up.’ She made for the stand without so much as a goodbye, dragging Match behind her like he was an old man, which I guess he was, but he didn’t act like one and she didn’t need to treat him like one.
    Blackie watched them go and shook his head in disgust. ‘Too bad about him.’
    ‘What do you mean? He seems to be doing all right.’
    ‘All right? The guy might be an ex-junkie, but fuck... I don’t know how he’s gonna stay clean livin’ with her. She looks like she could be a real pain in the ass.’
    Sharon was helping Match up the two steps to the bandstand. Match didn’t need any help. He walked upright and took the stairs in two strong, easy strides. Sharon looked ridiculous trying to keep up with him, much less assist him. ‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘I guess that’s love.’
    The room went dark. The murmurs died as Match mounted the lighted stage and lifted a gloriously engraved saxophone from its stand. Behind us, somebody coughed. Then, with all the gravitas of a high priest, Match spoke.
    ‘Here’s something nobody’s heard before.’
    He raised his arm and suddenly dropped it. The horns broke the silence first. The drums and piano burst in a half beat later. Then finally Match put his saxophone to his lips and blew.
    It was his new stuff - sweet and easy and low - entirely different from the numbers he’d done earlier in the night. A new style. A new sound. And better. He blew out the melody while the sidemen played around him, letting Match’s awesome talent convince every soul in the room that this indeed was magic.
    Every note lingered just the right beat, every song hit just the right chord, and every solo left us breathlessly aching for more. And Match gave us more. On and on he played, releasing everything he’d held back these last fifteen years. He filled us all with the sheer and simple beauty of sound as his music floated around us like a fine golden mist.
    I stuck by the bar with Blackie until this last set was over. Match finished it up with a sweet, melancholy solo that brought tears to my eyes.
    As the clapping and whistling and shouting died down, Match bent his ear to one of the guys in the band, listened for a minute, then threw his head back and laughed. It was a fitting finish to a grand performance.
    I wasn’t ready to leave and I guess neither was anybody else, so I ordered another beer with the rest of the masses while Blackie went trolling for the co-eds. We were all still packed in elbow to elbow, jostling and moving in the dark, charged up from the jazz and feeling good, secure in knowing we’d just witnessed the second coming of a great star.
    That’s why I didn’t notice at first when somebody pushed up against my back. I figured it was just another drunk customer stumbling around. But the pressure didn’t abate. I heard a grunt. Somebody grabbed my shoulder and hung on like I was a lifeline.
    ‘All right, all right,’ I said, fumbling to get the hand off my shoulder while I turned to see who it was. I pried his fingers out of my flesh