Death Notes

me.
    DuPont sat back down again and said, ‘I must take precautions, you understand.’
    I raised my arms and let the lug pat me down. When he
    finished, he nodded at DuPont and vanished around the comer like he’d never existed.
    I dropped back down onto the leather couch. DuPont was sipping his coffee again, and mine was getting cold on the low glass table between us.
    ‘What is it you want to know?’
    ‘Why were you supplying Match with heroin?’
    ‘If I hadn’t he would have gone to the street. I don’t know if you’re aware of this fact, Miss Ventana, but a person can use heroin many, many years. The product on the street, adulterated, stepped on, can be lethal. I protected Match from that. I made sure he was never in danger. Maybe it wasn’t wise, maybe some would say it wasn’t helpful, but I believe that Match lived as long as he did because of me.’
    That was one way of looking at it.
    ‘So you did him a favor?’
    He nodded imperceptibly.
    ‘If it was a favor, then why pressure him to pay you back once he’d quit?’
    He pressed his lips together in a thin line, just enough to let me know he didn’t like the question and he didn’t like answering it.
    I pushed. ‘He did quit, didn’t he?’
    ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
    ‘Then why ask for the money?’
    ‘It was obvious the other way hadn’t helped him.’
    ‘Helped him what?’
    ‘Get back into his music.’
    ‘Or you could say once he quit heroin, you didn’t have a hold on him anymore.’
    ‘You’ve got it wrong, Miss Ventana. I gave him incentive. And it worked.’
    ‘How much did he owe you? How much did he return?’
    ‘That’s irrelevant.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I wasn’t serious. I never expected him to make good on the debt. I only wanted him to start writing and performing again. That’s all. I gave him heroin all those years because I thought it might feed his muse. But it turned out what he really needed was something else. As soon as I saw that, I took another tack. And it worked.’
    He set his now-empty cup of coffee down on the table in front of him and leaned forward in his chair. His voice turned deep and hoarse with passion.
    ‘Match was a complicated man. He had his demons, yes. But the bottom line was the man had a genius for music. He was wasting his life.’
    I looked at the rich, powerful little man in front of me, manicured and massaged, clothed in a suit that probably cost him what I pay for half a year’s rent on my apartment, and all of a sudden, I understood. Match had the gift but not the drive. DuPont had all the determination in the world but none of Match’s talent. Some dreams money can’t buy.
    ‘You play trumpet, right?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Did you ever play with Match? Professionally?’
    DuPont turned his head to watch the little red lights on a boat crossing the bay.
    ‘Not really. I don’t... uh...’
    ‘Did you ever show him your compositions?’
    Something flickered across his face. I hadn’t known he’d written anything when I asked the question.
    ‘He saw dozens.’
    DuPont glanced at his Rolex.
    ‘One last question, Mr DuPont. Did Match ever play any of your songs? Did he play any in his last set Saturday night?’ He looked out the window again, into the night, but there was no mistaking the tone of injury in his voice.
    ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Every single one of those songs was his.’
    I stood and took in the breathtaking city lights and the glistening view of the bay.
    ‘I forgot to say it when I came in, Mr DuPont. Nice view.’ Then I turned and walked out the door.
     

39
     
    I was starting to feel like I was on a merry-go-round as I drove out to Malone Junk. It was late, but I took my chances there’d be somebody there.
    So much for chances. The place was locked up when I pulled to the curb. Even the derelicts on the street were gone. But when I peeked through the wooden slats of the fence, I saw lights inside the little shack. I whistled to see if Rover -if he existed - was around, and when he didn’t show his snout, I picked the lock on the gate and let myself into the yard.
    As I neared the shack, the murmur of voices filtered out through an open window. I glanced through it and saw two figures standing on the customer side of the counter: Malone and Sharon Margolis. From what I could tell, Sharon was coming on to him but Malone wasn’t buying. Her hands were all over him and his body language and facial expression screamed, ‘Hands