Death Notes

the large manila envelope across the table. ‘Match’s autopsy.’
    I opened the envelope and skimmed over the report. Death was caused by a slice across the aorta. He bled to death internally, into the chest cavity. It happened quickly but not instantly. He had time to walk a short distance which meant he could have been knifed anywhere between the bandstand and the bar where he fell. The skin between his ribs had acted like a squeegee when the knife was retracted so it came out clean. His liver was shot, his arteries clogged, and there were tracks covering every accessible vein all over his ravaged body. Other than that, he was surprisingly healthy. If he hadn’t been murdered, he probably would have lived another five to ten years.
    I shoved the sheets back into the envelope and gave it back to him.
    ‘So?’ I was glad I’d seen it but it didn’t tell me anything I could use.
    ‘So if you can trace Match’s path from the band to the bar, then you’ve got a list of suspects.’
    ‘It’s not like there were assigned seats,’ I said. ‘Besides, by then everybody was standing. It sounds like police work to me. Why don’t you give it to Post?’
    Faddis frowned at me. ‘He’s already got a copy.’
    I smiled, then rose. ‘Thanks, anyway. Nice talking to you.’
     

27
     
    I hated to admit it, but the whole thing about the rumor that Match told me his killer’s name had finally gotten to me. Every time I walked anywhere, I kept looking over my shoulder. Every time I drove some place, I spent more time looking in the rearview than at where I was going.
    Then I realized I had to play it a different way. Even if I tracked down the person who started the rumor, I still wouldn’t necessarily be any closer to the killer. The important part was not who started the rumor but who acted on it.
    And the best way to get some action was to keep digging.
    So after I left Glen Faddis, I drove back to North Beach and stopped in at Eugene Tobinio’s favorite restaurant. It was a venerated Italian place that had been in the neighborhood for ages, just down the street from my apartment. It was the kind of place Tony Soprano and pretty much any Italian would love - rich food, lots of garlic and smiles, and Caruso and Callas piped into the sound system around the clock.
    Pear had phoned and told me Tobinio had lunch or dinner there every day if he was in town. When I asked around, they told me he was out of town, so I left my number and a twenty with the kitchen boy, who also swept up at the Quarter Moon after hours, and asked him to phone me when Tobinio showed up.
    Then I sampled their wares - a rich panini with a salad and beer - and hit the Bay Bridge to Alameda.
    Shade trees, with an occasional palm, dotted the wide residential streets when I swung out of Oakland into Alameda. I liked the complexion of the town - it was a United Nations kind of place with blacks and whites, Asians and Latinos, young and old, all sharing the same neighborhood.
    As I turned down Sequoia, past big and little Victorians, I spotted more than a few gray heads working the gardens and heard a couple of babies wailing through open windows.
    Nobody tailed me over there and that alone made it seem like a nice place to be. For suburbia, it wasn’t bad. But like almost every place else outside San Francisco, it had seasons, and right now it was hotter here than in the city.
    I took a left on Elm and midway down the block found Clark Margolis’s piece of Alameda: a two-story low-slung bungalow. Nice but modest. I left the Toyota at the curb and rang the bell. A second later, the door rattled open.
    Clark’s resemblance to his father was startling. The same strong jaw, heavy brow, and naturally bronzed skin. He was about twenty-five or so, not much older than his half-sister, and looked like Match did on his early album covers, but neater and more handsome - like Match probably would have looked if he’d cared about things like haircuts and clean shirts instead of music and dope.
    Clark blocked the open doorway with his tall, rangy frame and looked me in the eye with a challenge in his. Not friendly.
    ‘Yes?’ he said.
    I smiled. ‘You look just like him. Clark?’
    He nodded but didn’t smile back.
    ‘My name’s Ronnie Ventana. I’m a private investigator. Do you have a few minutes?’
    ‘You’re the one who was next to my dad.’
    I nodded. ‘Can I come in?’
    ‘Please. Yes.’
    He stepped back to let me pass into a cluttered