Death Notes

thing I could be certain of was that Abby would paint me as the central force in the investigation.
    Philly Post would love it. So would Match’s killer. Either way, the clock was ticking. It was time to start asking serious questions and I knew exactly where to go.
     

25
     
    P ear-face Barnes was a nerdy-looking guy with a soft, dumpy shape, slicked-back hair, and a complexion like dough. I guess you could call him a friend of the family’s - he’d been my parents’ fence way back when. He was one of those guys who, despite having done time, just wasn’t capable of making that transition to working stiff.
    Prison convinced Pear that fencing was bad, so when he got out, he opened a bookmaking operation in the back room of a Market Street tailor shop. From there, he kept his finger on the pulse of the city’s underworld.
    Pear knew more about snitches than stitches, though. He’d rip the labels from off-the-rack suits and pass them off as his own whenever the cops came around.
    If any fool came in and actually ordered a suit or alteration, he’d have Mabel, his wife, take the measurements, then do such a lousy job putting the thing together that he never got a repeat customer.
    Meanwhile, the numbers and dollars flew like confetti in the back room. If anybody could tell me whether Match Margolis had a real connection to bad guys, it was Pear. And even though he’d given up fencing, there was an off chance he might have heard something about the stolen sax. Or even Match’s murder.
    I parked in the Union Square garage and walked down to Market, stepping gingerly over Pear’s lookout - a doorstop wino wired with a mike - and went inside. A brass bell clanged as I opened the door, then clanged again when I shut it behind me.
    The place was dismal: gray plaster walls, a barren counter, and faded cloth bolts stacked on half-empty shelves. A pair of scissors and scattered straight pins had rusted into the surface of the counter like fossils from the Stone Age. The only window was so grimy, all you could see through it were shadows and shapes. Pear once told me he didn’t want to look too prosperous, but he’d definitely overdone it.
    A rush of sounds hit me as the door at the end of the counter opened. It was just like the noise you hear in the background when some poor jerk calls you up on the phone and tries to sell you something.
    ‘Ronnie! How are you, gal?’
    Pear’s shirttail puffed up around his waist, drooping over his belt, and his Brylcreemed hair glistened almost blue under the overhead fluorescent light. One cheek bulged with chewing tobacco so his grin was lopsided.
    ‘Where the hell you been hiding yourself?’
    The busy sounds from the back room - phones ringing, machines pattering, and the low muttering of voices - were clipped silent when he closed the door behind him. Soundproof.
    I ran a finger along the top row of cloth bolts and held it up to the dim light.
    ‘Time to dust your props, Pear.’
    He chuckled.
    ‘What’s it matter? These days, I’m taking action off the cops. Tuesdays, I even got a coupla sergeants come in.’
    He leaned against the counter, weight on his elbows and grinned.
    ‘You need a suit, gal?’
    ‘If I did, I wouldn’t come here.’
    ‘Must be here for the ponies, then, huh, babe? Got a favorite?’
    ‘I need information, Pear. Some background. Maybe you can help.’
    ‘Anything, gal. Anything you want. Listen, listen up! I gotta tell you about Mabel and me first. You’re not gonna believe this one.’
    He was grinning from ear to ear.
    ‘Me and Mabel, we’re expectin’.’
    A baby?’
    ‘Yeah. Ain’t that something? Who woulda thought? A year in and I’m gonna be a Pop.’
    His voice was full of wonder. Mabel was twenty-five, half his age, but the marriage thing had tamed Pear. He seemed younger and older at the same time.
    ‘The doc says December. I’m taking action on it - you want in?’
    ‘You’re taking bets on your baby?’
    His face clouded.
    ‘You don’t think it’s bad luck, do you? I’ll call it off if it’s bad luck.’
    ‘Of course not. These bets, they’re if it’s going to be a boy or a girl?’
    ‘Sure, we got that. But we’re taking action on the whole works. This is a big deal. We got the date, day of the week, time, eye color, weight, hair color, you name it. It’s just a little something between friends, you know? What’s your choice, gal?’
    I reached into my back pocket.
    ‘How about ten on a boy? What are