Death Notes

of like getting a slow drill from a sadistic dentist, put me in a bad mood. There were only three of them - a piano, a trumpet, and a drum - but they were loud.
    The gin I was drinking seemed to soften everything so I had seconds. The bartender knew his job well: he poured generously and minded his own business.
    With my back against the bar, I scanned the half-filled room. Anybody who played the Riff knew he was playing mostly to his peers. On any given night, half the unemployed jazz musicians in town showed up to take in the tunes and sometimes, if they were good enough to be asked, to jam with the band up on stage.
    Tonight, a lot of the faces looked familiar. I’d seen most of them perform at some time or another, and even knew the names of some. They didn’t seem to mind the noise even though I knew they didn’t play that kind of music themselves. I didn’t see anybody from Match’s band.
    Five unsettling numbers and two gins later, I’d landed at a table of old timers who’d all known Match before he started chipping fifteen years ago. They were full of interesting anecdotes about the good old days, but proved worthless as far as anything remotely pertinent to the last decade was concerned. I talked to some people at a couple of other tables without turning up anything useful, then wandered back to the bar and sulked.
    I was contemplating turning everything I had over to Post and taking him up on his suggestion to leave town, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
    ‘Still working for Sharon Margolis?’
    I swiveled on the bar stool and found myself staring at Match’s drummer, Hank Nesbitt. His weirdly stylish clothes - polyester in plaids and checks - hung off narrow shoulders and his coarse blond hair was combed back and up off his forehead, sort of like an overgrown flattop. I couldn’t tell if he was overdue for a haircut or if he was pioneering some très avant hot style. High fashion’s a tough read these days.
    He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d string up a rat in somebody’s shower, but you could never tell. I knew he hadn’t followed me here. I was positive about that. Nobody could have with all the doubling back and U-turns and circling I’d done on my way over.
    ‘Ventana? Isn’t it?’
    The band had just started up another agonizing song, so I had to shout to be heard.
    ‘Right. And no, I’m not working for Sharon.’
    ‘Good.’
    I raised my glass. ‘Can I buy you one?’
    He hesitated, then leaned in close to my ear. He smelled of citrus.
    ‘I’m with Barton,’ he said. ‘See that guy over there?’
    He jerked his head in the direction of the door. The curly-haired man in a denim jacket who was slouched at a table near the door had the slick good looks of a gigolo. Les Barton, Match’s piano player.
    I didn’t really want to talk to Hank Nesbitt in front of somebody else, but I got the feeling it was share him or nothing, so I bought drinks for both of them, then picked up my own glass and followed him over to the table.
    ‘Les, remember Ventana—’
    ‘Ronnie,’ I said.
    Les was too absorbed in the music to give me more than a cursory nod. Up close, his gigolo looks didn’t seem so smooth. His features were coarse and his eyes vacuous. He had a big, flesh-colored mole protruding from his upper lip that made me wonder if he shaved around it or just mowed over it. He could have done the rat thing.
    I sat and the moment I did, the music stopped. I clapped more out of gratitude than appreciation. When the band announced a ten-minute break, I clapped even harder. The silence was such a relief, I felt like somebody had stopped beating me over the head.
    ‘They’re pretty hot,’ Hank said. ‘Drum’s good.’
    ‘Sure is,’ Les agreed.
    ‘Where’d those guys learn to play like that?’
    It was the only thing I could think to say about them that wasn’t an insult.
    Hank turned to me. ‘You find out who killed Match yet?’
    ‘Not exactly.’
    ‘Getting close?’ he asked.
    ‘Forget it, Hank. Match told her who killed him the night he died. What’s to figure?’
    ‘That’s just a rumor,’ I said quickly. ‘He didn’t.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    Les’s tone was full of doubt.
    ‘Think about it,’ I said. ‘If it were true, the police would have arrested the killer that night. End of story.’
    Les glanced from me to Hank, then sniffed and looked amused in a macho sort of way. Hank caught his attitude.
    ‘Don’t knock it, you chump,’ he said. ‘Ronnie