Death Notes

did to him. He raped the kid, artistically speaking. He stole his songs, then laughed in his face when Dickie asked for the credit. You saw him at the end of his last set Saturday. Dickie said he kept waiting for Match to say his name, to call him up front to take a bow. His own idol did that to him. In a way, I think I can understand how he felt.’
    ‘I’m with you, doll,’ Blackie said. ‘Margolis was a fuck. But he’s dead. Dick’s in jail. Why go broke over it? Take the money.’
    Post scowled.
    ‘Almaviva should have taken him to court. He had the evidence on tape. You don’t knife somebody just because they steal your songs.’
    I’d asked Dickie about that in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Although he was barely conscious, I could tell the question had angered him.
    ‘Court!’ His snarl had been a bare whisper. ‘Who... do you think they’d... believe? The Marielito Cuban... or the great Match Margolis?’
    I understood, but I didn’t think Post would.
    ‘Probably woulda got thrown out anyway,’ Blackie said, and shot Post a withering look. ‘Fuckin’ law and order.’
    Post smiled back coldly. ‘Law and order. You’ve got that part right, Coogan.’
    Post still hadn’t gotten over the fact that Match’s gangster friends weren’t guilty. He’d spent tons of man hours on surveillance and had come up with nothing.
    I remembered the call I’d had this morning.
    ‘Clark Margolis said he’s going to credit Dickie with all the new songs on the new CD,’ I told them. ‘And the old ones, the ones Clark’s mother wrote for Match, he said she’s finally going to be credited for them. Glen Faddis is going to do a biography of Match and Clark’s cooperating.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Post said. ‘It’s all in the papers. Hell, Margolis was a fraud.’
    ‘It’s never all black and white, Post. Match happened to be a great musician. He just couldn’t write music.’
    ‘So he stole it?’
    ‘He did some bad things, okay. I agree. But he’s dead now. What’s the point of maligning a dead man?’
    The legend had clay feet. Lots of them do.
    ‘Yah, yah, doll,’ Blackie said sympathetically. He’d given up on the fridge and came back to eye the money in my hand again.
    ‘Sounds good on paper, but what about the cash? That Margolis witch stiffed you. How the fuck you going to pay Toby and his boys? How are you going to pay for this place?’ There was always Mitch’s house in Marin. Myra had canceled on him so he’d phoned this morning to renew his plea. But I’d told him no and I’d meant it.
    I turned to Blackie, then to Post. Post had been looking around the room, taking in the table, the chair, the hot plate, the yellowed shades above the windows and the general tininess of my space. I glanced around, too, trying to imagine what the place would look like to somebody else. It wasn’t anything fancy, but most of the time I could afford it, and it was mine.
    The tape of Match’s music ended with one of the last grand songs Match had played, the one that had become his theme twenty years ago. The machine clicked off and we sat in silence.
    Then from somewhere down below on the street, I heard the clear and pure and sweet sound of children laughing. It seemed like sunshine in my heart.
    I glanced down at the money in my hand, then slowly separated the bills and started counting them while the others watched. Twenty thousand dollars. Teagues had doubled his reward.
    ‘The check’s for ten thousand,’ Philly said, extending it toward me.
    I hesitated. Blackie winked at me and grinned.
    ‘Take it, doll. You earned it fair and square.’
    I thought about jazz and Match and Dickie. I thought about talents that come to life not when they’re born, but only when they’re nurtured. Nurtured and rewarded.
    ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But half of this is going to the musician’s union scholarship fund.’
    Blackie’s grin widened. ‘Now you’re talking.’
    I pushed myself off the couch and pocketed the check.
    ‘Let’s go find the landlord,’ I said. ‘And Toby. After that, the first round’s on me.’
    I paused at the door.
    ‘You coming, Post?’