Death Notes

height, Blackie? His build?’
    ‘Middleweight.Five-six, eight. Maybe ten. Average build, maybe bigger. Hell, Ventana, I’m drunk. I’m not supposed to remember shit.’
    ‘I know, I know, Blackie. You want coffee?’
    He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin.
    ‘How about a beer?’
    After he’d swigged down half a cold Anchor Steam, I said, ‘You’re sure you didn’t twist or sprain anything?’
    ‘Yah, yah.I been through worse, doll. Say.’ He slipped a smoke from his pocket and fixed me with his handsome blue eyes. ‘You step in some shit, or what? What the fuck’s going on here?’
    I’d gotten a beer for myself and sat at the table I use for a desk, my legs pulled up underneath me. I told Blackie about my visits with Yvette Fields, Malone and Teagues and how nobody was owning up to what I was starting to think of as my ‘death warrant’ rumor.
    ‘Want me ta talk to ’em?’
    Blackie flexed his right hand into a massive fist.
    ‘I still need to see DuPont and Tobinio,’ I said.
    ‘Just say the word, doll. I’m your muscle.’
    I told him about Teagues’ observation that Match had seemed nervous. Blackie listened, massaging the stubble on his chin again while I talked and sipped my beer. The cold, malty taste was honest and comforting.
    ‘Didn’t seem like it to me,’ he said, when I’d finished. ‘How ’bout you?’
    ‘Come on, Blackie. We spent all of three minutes with the man. Teagues has known him for decades.’
    ‘Yah?’
    ‘I think he could be on to something. I’m going to ask these other two guys when I talk to them tomorrow.’
    Blackie had a satisfied smirk on his face. I knew he was thinking of Philly Post.
    ‘Don’t say it, Blackie.’
    He rasped out a chuckle, blowing smoke as he exhaled. ‘Fuck.’
    Blackie’s cigarette hissed when he dropped it into his empty beer bottle. ‘You don’t want to jack with Malone, doll. I should have told you before. He’ll fucking put you away.’
    ‘For what? I’m just a messenger. As disgusting a guy as he is, he strikes me as smart enough to know you don’t shoot the messenger.’
    ‘Whatdya expect?’ Blackie said. ‘You’re it. The fuck who did Match thinks you’re on to him.’
    ‘But if I knew, if Match told me who killed him, I would have told Post. He’d be in jail already.’
    ‘Fucks don’t think like that, doll. The asshole probably figures you’ll put the squeeze on him yourself.’
    ‘Blackmail?’
    ‘Tell it to the judge,’ Blackie said, suddenly looking around the room like he’d misplaced something.
    ‘You got another beer?’
    ‘All out.’
    ‘Fuck. Time to roll.’
    Blackie stood up and started for the door.
    ‘Keep your eyes open, doll.’
    ‘Blackie?’
    He stopped midway and turned to look at me, bleary-eyed but smiling and content.
    ‘It’s three in the morning, Blackie. What were you doing downstairs, anyway?’
    ‘Fuck! I almost forgot.’
    He pulled something out of his back pocket.
    ‘Tickets, doll.’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘The musicians’ local is putting on a show, a memorial for Match. Duddy Canuto, Spode Holcum, lotta old-timers. What do you say, Ventana?’
    ‘I say I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Goodnight, Blackie.’
     

18
     
    I woke up to a splendid, cloudless morning, the kind that means it’s going to be a hot day, the kind we’d been getting more and more of on account of global warming. Even though I’d only managed a couple of hours of sleep, I felt rested and refreshed.
    I took a long, cathartic run through Golden Gate Park, then headed home for a shower. After last night, I couldn’t shake the heavy paranoid feeling that I had to watch my back, but the run, at least, would help keep me centered for the rest of the day.
    When I got back to my apartment, I could hear the phone ringing before I unlocked the door. When I grabbed the receiver and heard the voice on the other end, I was instantly sorry I had.
    ‘Ronnie? This is Sharon. Sharon Margolis. You’ve got to come over, honey. I mean, right now.’
    She sounded breathless, petulant and angry.
    ‘What’s wrong?’
    ‘I’ve been robbed, honey. Somebody broke in last night.’
     

19
     
    W hat are you doing here, Ventana?’
    Philly Post was not glad to see me but then I wasn’t thrilled at the sight of him, either. I hadn’t expected him to answer Sharon’s door, which showed no signs of a break-in, but there I was and there he was, bushy eyebrows, white teeth flashing at me through his