Death Notes

mask. Dickie’s face was contorted in pain. Somewhere down the street, somebody leaned on his horn. People were getting out of their cars now, walking toward us, but not hurrying. The truck driver came up beside me.
    ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph,’ he said. He kept repeating the same three words over and over.
    I looked down at Dickie. He was all twisted up on the ground, face up, bleeding out of his mouth and nose. He looked frail, like a child, shiny black hair splayed out on the pavement beneath his head like an ebony halo.
    Behind me, the truck driver said, ‘I didn’t see him. I swear to God I didn’t see him. He came out of nowhere.’
    Funny, I thought, how people always say the same thing in situations like this.
    Dickie’s lips moved but the trucker’s jabbering drowned him out.
    ‘Quiet!’ I said, then bent in close to hear.
    The metallic smell of blood wafted up into my nose. His chest gurgled. He turned his head and coughed a fine spray of blood into the dark. My stomach lurched.
    ‘It’s all right, Dickie,’ I said, then shouted to no one in particular: ‘Call 911! Call an ambulance!’
     

60
     
    I t was daylight but I didn’t care. The shades were drawn and Match’s sultry saxophone dirge filled the room.
    I popped the top on another warm beer from the two six packs I’d propped up by the sofa and drank a long, hot swig.
    Listening to the music, I realized it didn’t sound good to me anymore. It seemed false and tainted. The sax, the melody, the very soul of his sound was hollow.
    I finished the beer and started another when somebody knocked on the door.
    ‘Go away!’
    The knock turned into banging.
    ‘Open up!’
    ‘Go away!’
    I couldn’t remember if I’d locked the door or not, then remembered I hadn’t. The knob rattled and the door burst open.
    Blackie stomped in like he owned the place.
    ‘What the fuck are you doing in the dark, Ventana?’
    He snapped up the window shade. Late-afternoon sunlight washed in, momentarily blinding me. Blackie looked around like he was seeing the place for the first time. Then his eyes found the beer on the floor beside me.
    ‘What the hell is this? You drinking hot beer? What’s the matter with you, doll?’
    He stuck his hand into his pocket, then tossed a wad of bills in my lap.
    ‘What’s this?’
    ‘The fucking reward, doll.’
    He reached over and pulled a beer out of the six, then popped it open.
    ‘The fat man sent it over - Teagues. Now you can pay your rent and get Toby off your back.’
    Blackie took a deep drink, made a sour face, then choked and started coughing.
    ‘Fuck, this tastes bad hot. You got any cold ones, doll?’ Blackie set the bottle on the floor and started for the fridge. ‘I don’t—’
    ‘Hey!’
    We both looked up. Philly Post was standing at the open door.
    ‘You having a party or what?’ he asked.
    I didn’t answer. Blackie sure as hell wasn’t going to talk, but Post couldn’t take a hint. He came inside anyway and sat down on the couch beside me.
    ‘You want this?’
    Post pulled a check out of his breast pocket and held it under my nose. I ignored it and drank more beer.
    ‘Well?’ he demanded.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘The musician’s union put up a reward, remember?’
    Post flashed big white teeth at me and worked hard to ignore Blackie over in the kitchenette.
    Post said, ‘You’re rich.’
    ‘I don’t want it.’
    I pushed the check away. Then I picked up the wad of bills from Teagues and held it out to Blackie. ‘Take it, Blackie. I don’t want this, either.’
    Blackie didn’t move. He just narrowed his eyes and studied my face with concern.
    ‘You drunk, doll?’
    ‘It’s blood money,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel good about any of this.’
    ‘What’s that got to do with that? ‘ Blackie said, pointing at the cash in my hand.
    ‘Christ, Ventana, it’s not your fault the guy got screwed and couldn’t handle it,’ Post said.
    ‘I know. But it’s not right. Don’t you see? I should have just left it alone.’
    ‘He popped two people,’ Post said incredulously. ‘And he would have popped you if you’d let him.’
    I’d been reminding myself of that all morning but I just couldn’t muster any antagonism towards Dickie, dead rat and all.
    ‘I don’t want to make money off people’s misery,’ I said. I finished my beer and flicked open another one.
    ‘Say, doll—’ Blackie began.
    ‘No. Listen to me. Let me explain. Dickie worshipped Match and look what Match