Death Notes

Poor kid. He was fighting tears.
    Even Sharon Margolis seemed uncharacteristically passive, clinging to a young rookie cop’s arm while she tottered dryeyed between the tables, a dazed look on her face. The cop kept walking her around the room in circles, trying to calm her like you would a nervous poodle, but it didn’t seem to be working. Every time they’d head for the side of the room where the body was, she’d start hyperventilating.
    Post took it all in with a sigh of resignation.
    ‘All right, Kendall,’ he said to the uniformed cop at his elbow. ‘Let’s get set up.’
    Kendall scurried around while Post mingled and murmured with the other official-looking types - a photographer, some guys with notebooks and tape measures, and some in uniform. The rest of us just stood around and watched, horrified and fascinated.
    Blackie looked pained. In his book all cops are dirt, but Post was worse than most. I’d gotten them to shake hands once but that was about as far as they’d go.
    ‘Why’d they send that fucker?’ he mumbled.
    ‘Thanks to me he’s on permanent night call now, remember?’
    ‘Fuck ’im,’ Blackie said. ‘They should have busted his butt, made him quit or retire without a pension or something.’
    ‘He’s not so bad, Blackie. Give the guy a chance.’ I’d been trying to give Post a chance ever since we’d met.
    ‘Come off it, doll. You heard what he said. He thinks you popped Match.’
    ‘He was joking, Blackie.’
    ‘Him? Joking? He wouldn’t know a joke if it blew up in his face.’
    Sharon Margolis watched stolidly from one end of the room while they finally carried the body out. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even blink. She just hung on to the little rookie’s arm like he was her only link to the living.
    ‘Damn shame,’ somebody said from where the band members stood. It was the drummer. He was shaking his blond, coiffed head forlornly while beside him the young Latino guy snuffled into his fist.
    The trombone player had picked up his instrument and was intent on polishing it with a soft beige cloth. Behind him a big black woman - the bassist - and the pianist clutched their coffee cups with white-knuckled hands and just stared at the floor.
    I tried to imagine the roller coaster of emotions they all must be feeling: One minute they’re on top of the world playing with one of the world’s greatest jazz legends, making history, and the next, they’ve just seen their hero die.
    Low murmurs eventually started up at some of the tables and one of the waitresses came around to offer refills on the coffee. Blackie wandered over to the far end of the bar - the only part of it not cordoned off - and tried to talk Lucius into pouring him a Scotch.
    It seemed like a good time to talk to Sharon. The young cop released her arm and backed off when I approached, but he hovered nearby, alternately eyeing me with suspicion and studying her cleavage. It was obvious from Sharon’s expression that she didn’t recognize me. Understandable given all she’d been through.
    ‘Mrs Margolis? We just met. Ronnie Ventana, remember?’
    Her oily face glistened in the stark light, grotesquely pale under the mask of makeup. She narrowed her eyes at me and seemed puzzled, like somebody who just woke up on another planet and didn’t speak the language.
    I touched her arm. Her bare skin was icy, but she didn’t seem to notice my touch or even the fact that she was cold.
    ‘I’m sorry about what happened, Mrs Margolis. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.’
    ‘Sure, honey, sure,’ she said absently.
    Then she reached for the young cop and started off again, weaving aimlessly through the tables like a shell-shocked soldier.
    To Philly’s credit he let just about everybody go after the uniforms checked IDs and took down names and addresses and quick mini-statements. Me and Blackie he kept behind, along with the band, Sharon Margolis, Lucius, the waitresses, and a handful of others I didn’t recognize. Then Post commandeered the manager’s back room and started sending for us one at a time.
    Sharon Margolis went in first. She looked sort of hysterical and nervous going in but when she came out about thirty minutes later it seemed that sitting with Philly had pepped her up. Her color was back and she seemed to have settled down a bit.
    Whatever Post had done to soothe her, she zeroed in on Blackie as soon as she stepped back into the great hall. Most women went nuts over Blackie