Death Notes

sight of Sig Malone. He was alone.
    I passed by close to him and I could see he’d washed the grease off his face and put on a clean shirt. Even the scab on his chin had healed. It didn’t make a bit of difference, though. He still looked as unappealing as a ground slug. And I wasn’t the only one to think so to judge from the wide empty circle around him. Nobody was breaking his neck to make small talk with the guy, and I couldn’t blame them.
    Malone watched as Clark and I forged through the crowd. I waved to him, but his expression didn’t change. His eyes just seemed to get colder.
     

29
     
    I f you’d seen them one at a time on the street you never would have pulled them all into one single category. They were an odd assortment, but talented as hell. They all showed promise, even if they weren’t as polished as Nick DuPont, Sharon, or Clark thought they should be.
    The one that intrigued me the most was the woman - the bass, Rochelle Posner. She had to be almost six feet tall and she was black, built big - not fat, but large and thick and solid, like a longshoreman. When she wrapped her arms around the bass, there was no doubt in the world that she owned it.
    Clark introduced me to her first, and her finger-crushing handshake almost sent me to my knees. I grinned up at her to keep from crying out. She regarded me with narrowed, expressive yellow eyes beneath an African-print turban.
    ‘You the woman he fell on. That night.’
    We both knew who ‘he’ was, and what night she was talking about.
    ‘That’s right,’ I said.
    Her lip curled back.
    ‘And you seen nothin’? Girl, what were you lookin’ at?’
    She sounded angry.
    ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘my back was turned. I didn’t even know Match was behind me. Did you happen to see anything?’
    ‘Listen to that! Did I see somethin’? Hummmph!’
    ‘Rochelle thinks somebody knows who did it but isn’t talking.’
    Rochelle frowned at Dickie Almaviva as he popped out from behind her. He’d just drained his trumpet on the floor behind the stage and was wiping it dry. Next to her, he seemed about the size of a jockey, but that was just an optical illusion. Rochelle’s clothes were loose and bulky and his were tight. They both were actually about the same size.
    ‘Have I got it right, Rochelle?’ he goaded.
    Dickie looked different tonight than when I’d seen him Saturday, snuffling and miserable over Match’s death. Gone were the long face and the tears. Tonight he offered the world a ready, almost cocky, smile.
    Rochelle dismissed him with a sneer.
    ‘Fool,’ she said.
    Dickie set his trumpet down tenderly on a table between us and the bandstand, then offered me his hand.
    ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
    Somebody jostled me from behind so I stepped in closer. Dickie sobered and turned to Clark, who was still standing next to me.
    ‘Your father,’ Dickie said. ‘He will be missed.’
    Clark nodded absently, took Dickie’s extended hand, then quietly excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. The murmur of the crowd had grown to a low roar. I had to raise my voice to be heard.
    ‘Your last number was really touching,’ I said to both of them. ‘It was one of Match’s new songs, wasn’t it?’
    Dickie shrugged. ‘It’s tradition to play without him tonight.’
    I glanced from Rochelle’s smooth face to Dickie’s sharp, Latin one.
    ‘Has the band made plans?’ I asked. ‘Do you think you’ll stay together and keep playing Match’s stuff?’
    ‘Plans? We ain’t got no plans, girl. I was set to do a month-long gig. Now I got nothin’. That’s all I know about plans. Hmmph!’
    Rochelle crossed her arms and glared at me like she thought Match’s murder - or at least her sudden unemployment - was all my fault.
    ‘We haven’t talked about it really,’ Dickie said, edging in closer to be heard. ‘But we’re all pretty independent. Wouldn’t you say, Rochelle?’
    She just glared back at him.
    I said, ‘Clark told me Match pulled all of you together just a few months ago.’
    ‘Somethin’ wrong with that?’ Rochelle demanded.
    In case her defensive tone wasn’t enough, she shifted her weight impatiently from one foot to the other and fixed an expression of absolute unveiled boredom on her face. Dickie ignored her so I followed his lead.
    He said, ‘I met Match six months ago.’
    Rochelle snorted loudly. ‘We all did, pretty boy. Don’t make yourself sound so special.’
    Dickie’s smile became