Death Notes

be long.
    Post picked up on the first ring.
    ‘I didn’t kill Sharon Margolis,’ I said.
    ‘Ventana? Where are you?’
    ‘I’m not coming in.’
    ‘I’ve got questions, Ventana. You need to come in and answer them. We’ll sit and talk, that’s all.’
    ‘Will you arrest me?’
    ‘Of course not,’ he said amiably. ‘We just need to—’
    I hung up then. Post was never this nice. He was lying.
    Before I left the phone booth, I looked up Dickie’s address in the book. Then I drove over. Even though his lights were on, nobody answered the door. I considered breaking in, but decided to try Rochelle instead. She wasn’t home, either.
    Logic told me they had to be working so I started trolling the clubs. Fifteen spots later, I was about to head for the East Bay clubs when I finally found Dickie Almaviva jamming at a low-rent dive down in the Mission.
    From all appearances, it looked like Dickie had pulled the little band together himself. Not a single one of Match’s group was there, but Dickie was handing out scores and calling the shots, and, by the expression on his face, loving every minute of it.
    I scanned the audience for anybody else from Match’s band. But the room was full of strangers.
    As I watched Dickie play, I sat at the bar and thought of Match. Some men are great musicians. Some are great composers. Match was at least one, maybe both. Poor Dickie Almaviva was neither - at least tonight he wasn’t. It seemed all the talent I’d seen the other night had been pure synergy. Dickie was trying, sure, and he was trying hard, but watching him play tonight, the only thought that kept humming through my mind was, nobody’s ever going to replace Match Margolis.
    When the band finally wrapped up the set, I found Dickie and offered to buy him a drink. He didn’t recognize me at first, but he seemed too wrapped up in his gig to ponder my hat and weird shades once I told him who I was.
    ‘Whew!’
    He wiped his brow and laughed out loud. ‘I’ve got time for a drink, sure. That’d be great.’
    We picked up our drinks and sat down at a table nearby where Dickie cradled his glass like it held liquid gold.
    A lot of jazz musicians - it seemed Match had been one -couldn’t handle coming down after the all-night high of a righteous jam. Their substitute was an artificial high, like coke or heroin or even just plain booze when the real high wore off. It looked like alcohol was Dickie’s ticket.
    Somehow, it didn’t seem right to just dive in and start asking about Match without at least saying something about Dickie’s performance.
    ‘Nice song, that last one,’ I said.
    ‘Aah, the music.’
    Dickie set his glass down slowly on the table and looked at me. He seemed slightly unfocused, mildly drunk.
    ‘You know where that song came from? I’ll tell you. A little boy in Cuba whose grandfather gave him a trumpet. On his ninth birthday. The boy loved that trumpet. He learned all the local traditional songs and played for his family and friends.
    ‘Then one day he heard a saxophone on the radio station from the United States. A sax and a trumpet, the instrument he had learned to play. From that instant, his life changed. He vowed that he’d meet the man who made that music. One day he’d shake that man’s hand. And maybe, if God was willing, one day they might play together, and that man would teach the little boy the things he needed to learn. That boy, the soul of that young boy, that’s who I played that bit for. Those songs belong to him.’ He shot me a lopsided smile, then downed half the contents of his glass.
    ‘Drink up, Ronnie. So I can buy you a drink.’
    ‘Listen, Dickie. Did you hear about Sharon?’
    ‘Yes. It’s very tragic, isn’t it? It’s a pity.’ There was no feeling behind his words.
    ‘Did she call you last Friday?’
    ‘No. Why?’
    ‘She didn’t phone you?’
    ‘Why would she?’ When I didn’t respond, he said, ‘What about Match? Have you found who killed Match?’
    ‘They might have some ideas,’ I lied.
    The ideas were all mine, though, and they were getting clearer by the minute. Something had finally clicked into place. The song Dickie’s little band had played - the one I’d complimented him on, the one whose tune had seemed so familiar - was Match’s. I remembered where I’d heard it: Saturday. It had been his last number, the one he’d played just before he died.
    Suddenly, it was all starting to make sense. If murder ever does make