Death Notes

to me. I read the name of the newborn: Matthew Lawrence Margolis.
    It seemed authentic enough, but forty years ago, before Match married his first wife, before Clark and before Yvette were born, it had been a lot easier to assume a new identity.
    Sitting between the last box we’d emptied and all the trunks we’d already examined, Clark said, ‘Do you think this is a fake? Can you find out?’
    ‘Depends,’ I said, looking down at the certificate in my hand and reading the names listed for Match’s parents.
    ‘What can you tell me about your paternal grandparents?’ Clark looked baffled. ‘Like what?’
    ‘Did you ever meet them?’
    ‘Of course. They both died in an accident the year before Mom died. I was ten. That’s why I ended up in a foster home, because they were gone.’
    ‘But you knew them?’
    He nodded. ‘Quite well. Mom and Dad let me stay with them a lot. Mostly every weekend. Dad had the gigs, and Mom liked to go with him. She was his number one cheerleader.’
    While Clark kept on reminiscing, I glanced down at the names on the certificate.
    Mother: Elizabeth Jean Savros. Age: 24.
    Father: Joseph Lawrence Margolis. Age: 29.
    ‘What did you call them?’ I asked.
    ‘My grandparents?Grandma Betty and Grandpa Joe.’ He smiled. ‘They were the sweetest, dearest people.’
    I handed Match’s birth certificate back to him.
    ‘It’s not a fake,’ I told him.
    Match was Matthew Lawrence Margolis. Son of Grandma Betty and Grandpa Joe. You can fake your own identity, but the likelihood of convincing your parents to do so too was so remote, I’d bet the ranch that’s not what had happened.
    So what had Yvette’s mother meant?
     

54
     
    I was on my way back to the city, crossing the Bay Bridge and drinking in the view that fills my heart to the brim every time I see it, when my cell phone rang. It was probably Glen Faddis but I didn’t feel like talking to anybody just yet.
    I let my voicemail take it, then glanced at the clock on the dash. Four thirty. I’d been up for longer than I thought was humanly possible. The last cup of coffee I drank hadn’t delivered on the usual jolt, so I was dragging. Suddenly everything ached and my brain was starting to feel like mush. My lumpy sofa bed beckoned like a siren. I shut the cell phone off and stepped on the gas.
    By the time I reached the intersection of Columbus and Grant Avenue, I was thinking fondly of the soft texture of my pajamas. I was about to turn onto Grant, but what I saw drew me up short. Three black and whites stationed outside the Quarter Moon.
    They could have been there to clear up an altercation between rowdy patrons. I’d seen that happen before. Or somebody could have reported another break-in at my apartment upstairs. A crowbarred door wasn’t exactly easy to overlook. Then again, they could have been there for something else.
    As much as I loathed the prospect of another break-in and another dead rat in my shower, it was the ‘something else’ that worried me.
    I gunned the old Toyota and prayed nobody recognized me or my car as I sped down Columbus towards Bay. Nine blocks away, I pulled over in somebody’s driveway and pulled out my cell phone.
    ‘Yo, Quarter Moon Saloon.’
    ‘Harry. Do you know who this is?’
    ‘Yo.’
    ‘What’s going on down there?’
    His voice dropped. ‘Somebody wants to burn your ass, sister. They’re searching your place.’
    I had to strain to hear his voice above the noise of traffic zooming by.
    ‘For what?’
    ‘You know a chick name of Margo something?’
    ‘Margolis? Sharon Margolis?’
    ‘That’s it!’
    What did she tell them I stole! Harry kept talking.
    ‘The pigs say you did her.’
    ‘She’s dead?’
    ‘They say your hands were all over the gun.’
     

55
     
    B lackie wasn’t home so I picked his lock, pulled down the shades and found myself a beer. Then I phoned Rocky Piedras.
    ‘Ah, Ms Ven-tah-na,’ he said, giving my name its proper Spanish pronunciation. ‘I’m so happy you called. Rosario...’ He swore softly in Spanish under his breath. ‘Rosario made me call the police and would not allow me to phone you. I regret it, but my choices, Ms Ven-tah-na, were not the best. Rosario thought it would be illegal to contact you. She put our marriage on the line, as they say. Ah well, women.’ He sighed. ‘It is a shame about the little widow, is it not?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Piedras—’
    ‘Please call me Rocky. Qué lástima ,’ he said. ‘What a