Death Notes

looked up at me with that air of confidence little rich men seem to acquire with their seven-figure fortunes.
    ‘Miss Ventana?’
    His voice was deep, like somebody’s twice his size.
    ‘Maxine said you’re employed by Mrs Margolis.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘It’s a shame what happened to Match, isn’t it? Did you know him? Personally, I mean.’
    ‘I knew his music.’
    ‘Well, then, you knew Match. A splendid composer. A piece of art incarnate. Every man has foibles, Miss Ventana, and Match wasn’t unique. He had faults, but none of them - not
    a single one of them he punched the air with a dwarf-like finger for emphasis - ‘overshadowed his talent. He was an artist, a great one.’
    DuPont talked like he was giving a eulogy, quiet and all choked up.
    I agreed that yeah, Match was a great guy, then watched him dab at his eyes and toss the crumpled tissue into a copper waste can that probably cost more than one month’s rent for me. Then he cleared his throat and glanced at his Rolex.
    ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘I’m here to talk about Match’s debt.’
    ‘Debt?’
    He raised his clipped eyebrows like he’d never heard the word before.
    ‘Right. I understand Match owed you some money.’
    ‘I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Match owed me nothing.’
    ‘That’s not what he told his wife.’
    It was tough trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about.
    ‘What a shame.’
    DuPont smiled at me with unbelievably white teeth and, even though his words showed concern, his expression was anything but warm.
    ‘Tell her not to give it another thought.’
    It was an order. His tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. All of a sudden, he didn’t seem so small or so harmless anymore. Or so clean, either. In spite of his expensive suit, his nice manners and his fancy office, he seemed just as creepy as Siggy Malone, clawing around his nasty little junk yard.
    ‘If that’s all...’ He turned slightly and reached for his computer.
    ‘There is one other thing,’ I said.
    His eyebrows slid up in a silent, surprised question.
    ‘I talked to Buddha Teagues last night. He mentioned that Match seemed worried Saturday.’
    No reaction.
    ‘Did you get that impression, too?’ DuPont picked up my card, the one I’d given his secretary, and read it.
    ‘You’re Cisco Ventana’s daughter, aren’t you?’
    Now what?
    ‘I met Cisco once, about thirty years ago in a poker game. Did you know that?’
    ‘No.’ My father hadn’t made it a habit to talk about his poker partners to his three-year-old daughter. Now, looking into this little man’s enigmatic face, I wish he had. And I hoped their meeting had been coincidental and brief.
    ‘He was good, sharp. An honorable man.’
    ‘Yes,’ I said.
    DuPont tapped the card against his temple and frowned. I could almost see the barriers dissolve. Then he seemed to make up his mind.
    ‘Match seemed skittish Saturday, yes. But Buddha, I think, imagines too much. He considers himself perceptive, but reads more into things than what’s really there. I don’t think what Buddha saw was anything out of the ordinary given the circumstances. Match hadn’t performed in fifteen years.
    ‘If Match was nervous about anything it should have been about the caliber of musicians he’d picked. He could have been playing with Holcum and Canuto, established musicians who could complement his talent. I compose and play jazz trumpet myself and I don’t understand why he chose the people he did.’
    ‘Did you ask him?’
    ‘I did.’
    ‘And?’
    DuPont shook his head. ‘Match told me he had his reasons but he wouldn’t elaborate.’
    ‘What do you think he meant?’
    ‘He meant, “butt out.” He wouldn’t discuss it.’
    DuPont picked up what looked like a gold-plated pen from his desktop and fingered it.
    ‘Have you heard Match’s band? Were you there Saturday?’
    I nodded.
    ‘The bass, Rochelle Posner, is the only one to watch. The rest...’ He sliced the air with the blade of his hand. ‘Send them back to school. Train Harper plays better drums than Nesbitt. And Cheese - Match dragged him back for old time’s sake. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that. But let me tell you, there’s a reason why Cheese has been playing B-grade honky-tonk dives these last fifteen years.’
    DuPont passed judgment on the whole band before he finally stopped for air.
    ‘Any idea who’d want to kill Match?’ I asked him.
    He