Death Notes

‘Listen.’
    After a few measures, I figured out what was so different. A trumpet was blowing the lead.
    ‘Where’s the sax?’
    ‘Not tonight, doll. The sax on that song was his.’
    I started for the door and Blackie followed.
    ‘This ought to be a show,’ he muttered with a chuckle. And as soon as we stepped inside, I understood exactly what he meant.
    Every jazz name on the West Coast was there: Duddy Canuto, Fred Pilfoger, Spode Holcum, Mary Elegius, and about
    fifty others. There were singers and actors and tons of people I didn’t recognize but who acted like I ought to. I guessed they were behind-the-scenes people - producers or agents or technicians who’d all worked with Match years ago. A lot of old-timers.
    Then, of course, huddled at one end of the room, were my old friends, Teagues, DuPont, and Malone. DuPont was surrounded by monster-sized goons in sharkskin suits who had to be bodyguards. Next to them, DuPont looked more elfin than ever, but I got the feeling the big boys would probably lick the floor if he told them to.
    The band was on a raised platform at one end of the hall. Behind them, draped against the wall, hung a blowup of Match’s last album cover. The picture of Match was fifteen years old - vintage. He looked good back then. It was probably his best picture, taken before Georgette died, before he fell into the heroin trap and hit the downward skid that cut him off from the music that was his life.
    Just off to the right side of the stage stood Sharon Margolis, flocked by a mob of reporters - Abby Stark and Glen Faddis among them. Media hounds. Sharon seemed an unlikely center of attention in this room full of jazz celebrities, squat and noclass as she was, but the press seemed to love her. The TV cameras whirred, taking it all in, like maybe her inane pronouncements were significant in some way. She obviously didn’t mind talking to reporters tonight.
    If nothing else, Sharon at least had the class to wear black, even if it was a low-cut mini skirted outfit with a fringed hem. The heavy-duty makeup was plastered on like a ceramic mask, but it didn’t look so bad anymore. Maybe I was getting used to it. I watched her for a minute or two, then started to get annoyed all over again. Not only had she written me a bad check, she’d lied to me about starting the rumor about Match’s dying words.
    I looked around and realized I’d lost Blackie to some darkhaired conchita. She looked wholesome enough in a vampish sort of way, so I let him go, and ran straight into Clark Margolis. He was seething so bad he didn’t even say hello.
    ‘Look at her,’ he muttered. ‘What does she think she’s doing?’
    ‘I think it’s called PR,’ I said mildly.
    ‘That’s all she ever thinks of. She just announced a deal with the museum. I thought you told me Dad’s saxophone was missing. Did it turn up?’
    I shrugged and he continued.
    ‘She’s a bitch. All for money. Doesn’t she ever quit? For God’s sake, the man is dead!’
    ‘It’s tough,’ I said, then took his arm and steered him to the bar. If ever a man needed a drink, it was Clark.
    As we physically put distance between her and us, his anger seemed to dissipate. At the bar, his expression cleared and he looked at me with Match’s wise old eyes.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘She’s not worth it, is she?’
    ‘Nope.’ I pointed to the bartender hovering across from us. ‘Tell the man what you want.’
    ‘What? Oh.’ He took a second to focus. ‘Gin and tonic.’
    ‘Anchor Steam,’ I said. When our drinks came, I said, ‘What about this museum deal? What exactly did she say when she announced it?’
    ‘The reporters all seemed to already know about it. She just told them she wasn’t sure she was going to sell the sax. Christ, I bet she doesn’t even have it. And I told her yesterday that’s the most important thing that should go to any museum.’
    I followed Clark’s gaze across the room to the tight little group of five on the bandstand: Match’s band minus the sax. They’d just announced they were going to take a twenty-minute break.
    I said, ‘Do you know the band?’
    He nodded absently.
    ‘How about if you introduce me?’
    ‘They can’t tell you much; they hardly knew him.’
    ‘Why did Match use a bunch of new guys? Weren’t there more established musicians he could have used?’
    ‘You’ve got me.’
    He picked up his glass and followed me across the room to the band. On the way, I caught