Death Notes

here’s a private detective. She does this crap for a living.’
    ‘Yeah? So how come she hasn’t cracked the case, huh?’
    ‘She said “not exactly.” That doesn’t mean no. Right? Let her talk.’
    Hank turned back to me. He seemed a lot more willing to chat tonight than he had in front of the whole band.
    ‘That reporter said you’d just about got it figured. Was it the Mob?’
    ‘What reporter?’
    ‘Uh, I forget her name but she’s the one with The Explorer.'
    ‘Abby Stark?’
    ‘Yeah. She said she’s got an exclusive and you’re gonna blow things open.’
    I was starting to think Abby wanted me dead.
    I said, ‘She’s wrong. On everything.’
    ‘That figures.’
    Neither one of them seemed surprised and I guess that was comforting. Not everybody who read The Explorer believed in its accuracy. That was probably the main reason I was still alive.
    Hank Nesbitt dipped his finger into his drink and stirred it. He looked at me.
    ‘You said you’re not working for Sharon anymore, but have you talked to her lately? Man, she’s gone off the deep end.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘She called me yesterday to tell me I ought to give myself up because she’s got evidence showing how I killed Match. Me! The dumb broad was right up on stage talking to me when Match died. Then Cheese calls me a half-hour later. She’s done the same damn thing to him. And Les here, too.
    Les nodded, opened his mouth to say something, but Hank cut him off.
    ‘You ought to talk to her, you know. I told her she was an idiot. Personally, I don’t give a shit about her, but she could get her ass in some deep shit doing something so stupid.’
    ‘Did she call everybody in the band?’
    Hank shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t doubt it.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Stupid broad. You see her, talk to her.’
    I studied Hank for a minute. ‘Do you think somebody in the band killed Match?’
    He exchanged looks with Les. ‘Not really. I mean, we were just talking.’
    ‘I understand,’ I coaxed, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.
    Les finally spoke up.
    ‘There’s nothing to it, really. I mean, Hank and I were just battin’ around ideas.’
    Hank said, ‘We were talking about how Match and Dickie were always off doing stuff together, you know, like they were running the show together instead of it being just Match in charge. That never made sense. I mean, Dick’s got a good trumpet, man, but we’re every bit as good as he is.’
    It sounded like sour grapes over favoritism, real or perceived.
    I said, ‘Why would Dickie murder Match if he was getting treated better than the rest of you?’
    ‘It’s hard to explain,’ Hank said.
    Bad logic usually is. Les seemed annoyed, but Hank kept talking.
    ‘Then there’s Cheese. I mean, I don’t know if I should say anything.’ He glanced quickly at Les, then continued. ‘Match used. He kept telling everybody he was clean, but he was using.’
    Cheese had pretty much sworn Match was drug-free. ‘Did you see him shoot up?’
    ‘He’d disappear into the back room all the time with Cheese. I figured they were taking care of business, know what I mean? Could have been Cheese had a problem with Match and the drugs. Hell, I don’t know.’
    It seemed pretty clear Hank was just spouting off to make himself seem important. I decided it was time to rein him in from fantasy detective land.
    ‘Did Match ever mention any problems he was having?’
    ‘Like what?’ Hank asked, sitting up, attentive and earnest.
    ‘Loans?’
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Financial? Marital? Anything personal? Business?’
    ‘ Match! Match wasn’t that kind of guy, was he, Les? He didn’t air his problems if he had any. I don’t think he had any.’
    ‘How about the day of the show? Did he seem nervous or worried?’
    Hank was shaking his head before I’d finished. ‘Everything with Match was easy-going - sunshine and roses all the time, you know what I mean? He didn’t let that kinda shit get him down.’
    ‘I thought depression drove him to drugs after his wife’s death,’ I said.
    ‘Yeah, well, that was before. I didn’t know him then. I’m talking now.’
    I glanced at Les and he nodded his concurrence.
    ‘What about when he was on stage Saturday night, between songs? Did he act different or say anything that struck either of you as odd?’
    ‘Nope.’
    Hank slurped his drink, then swabbed the table with his
    sleeve. Les just watched us both in silence, slouched in his chair.