Death Notes

five feet out the door, I ran right into Lieutenant Philly Post.
    He was the first person who actually said hi to me tonight, but his heart wasn’t in it. He backed me into a comer to the left of the bathroom door and lowered his voice. His big white teeth flashed while his eyebrows twitched at me.
    ‘Didn’t I tell you not to jack around with me on this one, Ventana?’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘Don’t pull my chain. Didn’t I tell you to keep out of this? Didn’t I specifically say “hands off?”’
    ‘Sure, I remember.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘So why can’t you listen to me?’
    His face flushed that darkened tinge of scarlet that made me worry about his blood pressure.
    ‘Listen, Ventana—’
    ‘No. You listen to me, Post. And this is important. You won’t get anywhere bullying me.’
    ‘Aw, can the tough talk, Ventana. I know...’
    A shadow bobbed up behind Post. I craned my head to see, then smiled.
    ‘Hi, Blackie.’
    ‘Shit.’ Philly Post dropped his arm, the one blocking me in, and pivoted. ‘What do you want, Coogan? This is official police business.’
    Blackie ignored him. ‘You all right, doll?’
    I was still smiling. ‘Sure. Philly Post and I were just having a little heart-to-heart, that’s all.’
    Blackie studied my face, then Philly’s. ‘Yeah?’
    Post gave him a nasty, vitriolic stare. ‘Beat it, Coogan. This is police business.’
    I stepped out of the comer. ‘Did you come back here to say goodbye, Blackie?’
    ‘As long as this asshole isn’t fucking with you.’
    Post bristled. ‘Who’s an asshole, asshole?’
    I wedged myself between the two of them and gave Blackie a warning look.
    ‘Go ahead,’ I told him. ‘I’ll catch a ride home.’
    ‘What do you see in that old man?’ Philly asked after Blackie left.
    ‘He’s all right.’
    ‘Maybe you ought to give him lessons on how to act in public.’
    ‘You’re not such a lord of gentility yourself, Post.’
    ‘I get by. Come on, Ventana.’ He took my arm and started back into the hall. ‘Let’s go someplace we can talk.’
     

31
     
    I hated to leave the jazz behind. The band was just starting up again, swinging into another one of Match’s rousing numbers - trumpet growling into the plunger, piano echoing the melody, the trombonist doing things I didn’t think could be done on a trombone, and the saxophone starkly silent.
    When I suggested we hear one more set, I could have sworn I saw steam come out of Philly’s ears.
    ‘Not on your life, Ventana. Come on.’
    And with that, he jerked me out the door.
    The place where we could talk ended up being Coit Tower, the monument on Telegraph Hill named after a fireman’s groupie. The official line says the tower’s just a pillar and only happens to look like a fire hose nozzle. But every true San Franciscan know what it’s really all about.
    The night was clear and warm, typical Indian summer, with a slight haze that blurred the stars and made them look dreamy. Too bad I was stuck with Philly Post and the grating cackle of his babbling police radio.
    When we pulled up and parked in the circle plaza atop the hill, I blocked everything out but the view: the Golden Gate Bridge; Berkeley and Oakland, sparkling their city lights from across the Bay; Fisherman’s Wharf; the old ship Balclutha down below; and the long, deep span of the Bay Bridge, outlined in little party lights the city had strung along its cables on its birthday. I’d seen it all from here a hundred times, but it never failed to take my breath away.
    ‘So what about it, Ventana?’
    We were being watched furtively by a few curious tourists who’d overheard the radio chatter through our open windows.
    ‘What about what?’
    ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said?’
    I quit staring at the sparkling lights down on the wharf and looked at him in the dusky light. He wasn’t smiling.
    ‘I guess not.’
    ‘Shit.’ He took a deep breath. It was pretty obvious he was losing his patience with me and that worried me. We hadn’t even started our little chat yet.
    ‘I’ll cut right through the bullshit, Ventana. Now listen, or I’ll take you down to the Hall so you will listen.’
    ‘Hey, that’s major bullshit right there. You can’t—’
    ‘Shut up.’
    ‘ You shut up.’
    We sounded like a couple of brats fighting in the back seat of our parents’ car. Or like a badly matched couple who never should have gotten together in the first place.
    Post must