Death Notes

Margolis shit and you’re it, doll.’
    ‘Christ, Blackie. You’d think he’d know me better than that.’
    Blackie snorted and managed to look disgusted and amused at the same time.
    ‘He’s a cop, doll. How many times have I got to say it?’
    ‘I need a shower,’ I said. ‘Have you got a clean towel someplace?’
    ‘Depends.’
    ‘On?’
    ‘What do you consider clean?’
    ‘I’ll take anything.’
    Blackie nodded toward the bathroom. ‘They’re on the rack. Smell ’em and see,’ he said, then dropped into my vacated spot on the couch and switched on the news.
    The hot water worked miracles. I felt human again, and refreshed. When I walked back into the living room Blackie was still in the same spot, sitting in the same mess he calls
    home. It made me think of what my own apartment must look like by now. I hoped that at least the police search team wouldn’t string up a dead rat in my shower.
    I remembered my cell phone and sat down to check for messages. There were four.
    Philly Post had called first. ‘We need to talk, Ventana. Come down to the station when you get this message.’
    The next call was Glen Faddis: ‘Have you seen the news? Call me.’
    The next one was Abby Stark, telling me that if I gave her an exclusive interview before turning myself in, she could probably convince her attorney cousin to represent me and even give me half price on his fees. I knew her cousin. I’d taken political science with him in high school and he’d flunked.
    The last call was Mitch, announcing he’d found the perfect boat and did I want to go see it?
    I erased all the messages and phoned Glen.
    ‘What happened?’ he said.
    ‘I didn’t kill Sharon.’
    ‘Of course not. I’m talking about you and Clark. You went to his house and I didn’t hear from you. What did you find out?’
    ‘It was a dead end. Match is Match Margolis. He’s not an impostor as far as I could make out. I don’t know what Yvette’s mother meant. Do you?’
    ‘Maybe the son’s in on it,’ Faddis said.
    ‘No. He’s too earnest.’
    I thought for a minute. ‘What if she didn’t mean it so literally? What if she meant he’s a fraud? As a musician.’
    ‘A fraud? What? That he couldn’t play the saxophone? Come on, you heard him Saturday night. That was Match up there wringing hearts out note by note. Nobody can fake that. You can’t lip-sync a saxophone.’
    ‘All right, but what about the songs? What if he didn’t write the songs?’
    I was thinking of the scores stolen with the saxophone
    from Match’s house. Glen was listening now so I continued.
    ‘Maybe she meant he wasn’t a composer.’
    We decided to split the band among us. Glen would talk to Cheese Herman and Hank Nesbitt. I’d see Rochelle Posner and Dickie Almaviva. And Blackie volunteered to track down Les Barton.
    ‘We’ve got to get cracking,’ I said as soon as I hung up the phone.
    Blackie turned a skeptical eye on me. ‘You’re wanted, doll.’
    I ignored him and scanned the room. Every surface was covered with some stray item that Blackie had set down, probably years ago. A navy-blue knitted cap tossed in the corner caught my attention.
    ‘Can I borrow that watch cap?’ I asked.
    ‘Help yourself.’
    I pulled it onto my head and stuffed all my hair up under it.
    ‘Got any shades?’
    ‘Over there.’ Blackie nodded toward a pile of junk on the table by the door. I rooted through it until I found an antique pair of yellow-tinted aviator sunglasses. I slipped them on and turned to Blackie, smiling.
    ‘How’s that?’
    He smiled back. ‘Your own police lieutenant wouldn’t recognize you.’
    Most of the time I was jaded about Blackie. As a rule, I never thought about his good looks much, but every once in a while the light would catch his eyes just so, and he’d grin at me like he had just then, and in that split second I’d see him with a stranger’s new eyes. He’d look so handsome it’d take my breath away.
    ‘Ready?’ I said.
    He sprang out of his seat. ‘Wherever we’re goin’, doll, I’m your man.’
     

57
     
    O ur first stop was Blackie’s poker pal, Elwin. I’d stashed my faithful Toyota in the bowels of Blackie’s garage, so Elwin loaned me his son’s car - a souped-up Dodge that smelled of seaweed. The kid was a surfer.
    We split up then. I drove to the Sunset district, found an isolated pay phone and dialed Philly Post. The phone booth smelled like a urinal but that was okay. I wasn’t going to