Death Notes by Gloria White Read Free Book Online

especially since smoking in bars is against the law. When Harry the bartender greeted me by name, Blackie looked up and grinned.
    I brought my beer and a fresh one for him over to his table. He said, ‘There’s money on it now, doll. A reward. Want to nail the fucker?’
    ‘Who?’
    He chugged some beer, belched softly, then set the half-empty bottle down on the table next to the racing form.
    ‘Match’s killer.Ten grand. The musician’s union put it up. What do you think? Want to go for it?’
    ‘Post said—’
    ‘Fuck Post. He’s got shit for brains. What’s he gonna do?’
    ‘He’ll arrest me, Blackie. He’s already put me in jail once.’
    ‘Thought you were short. What was all that shit about not making the rent?’
    I pulled out Sharon Margolis’s check and waved it under his nose. ‘Burglar alarm for the little missus,’ I said.
    ‘Yeah?’ He sounded more disappointed than impressed. ‘And there’s something else, too. Have you ever heard of Siegfried Malone?’
    ‘Siggy Malone? Sure. Malone Junk. Owns that junkyard down off Toland. Runs a chop shop out of it.’
    Gangster number one.
    Blackie scowled.
    ‘You workin’ for him?’
    ‘No. Match Margolis did some kind of business with him. Owes him and some other people money.’
    ‘No shit.’ Blackie looked pensive. ‘Could be a motive.’
    ‘Sharon swears it was friendly.’
    I asked him about the other names on the list, but none were familiar.
    ‘You workin’ for the widow, are you?’
    ‘Sort of. It’s all supposed to be confidential.’
    ‘Ain’t it always?’ His grin widened. ‘Sounds to me like you’re buckin’ Post.’
    ‘Not really. The main thing was she wanted me to set up a system for her. Seems all his stuff is suddenly collectable now. Everybody’s coming out of the woodwork offering her deals.’
    ‘Too bad about that, huh? Old Match gets famous all over again and he can’t even be around to enjoy it.’
    Blackie glanced around the room, then said, ‘When you talkin’ to Malone?’
    ‘Tonight if I can find him.’
    Blackie inhaled again, then blew smoke towards the ceiling.
    ‘Want me along?’
    ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Unless you’re bored.’
    ‘Not even close. Got to meet a young lady at seven thirty.’
    ‘I hope it’s not...’
    Blackie grinned. ‘The tall one checked out.’
     

10
     
    H alfway from the Quarter Moon to my car, I heard someone call out my name. When I turned around to look, a solid forty-something, sandy-haired guy was puffing after me, his hand raised in a salute. I didn’t recognize him, but he was smiling like we’d been separated at birth.
    When he caught up, slightly out of breath, he said, ‘Got a minute?’
    ‘That depends.’
    He liked that. He had a slight overbite, but everything else about him looked nice: a sturdy build, muscular, a healthy complexion, and earnest green eyes.
    ‘I’m Glen Faddis. Faddis at Eleven .’
    ‘A reporter.’
    My budding interest took a dive. He laughed.
    ‘Could you sound any less enthusiastic?’
    I didn’t smile. But I didn’t walk away, either. I guess I was curious.
    ‘Look, Ms Ventana - can I call you Ronnie?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Okay. Ms Ventana, I know you’re not a big fan of the press. You ought to be, though. The press loved your parents. I haven’t read a negative word about them. Ever.’
    ‘Good for you. What is it you want, Mr Faddis?’
    ‘It’s about Match Margolis.’
    ‘What a surprise.’
    ‘I’m just trying to do my job.’
    He seemed genuine, not a thick-skinned oaf like other reporters I’d spoken to.
    ‘How long have you been a reporter, Mr Faddis?’
    ‘Three years. I used to practice law. Criminal defense.’
    ‘Then Hollywood called?’
    ‘I do good work, Ms Ventana. Investigative work. Like you.’ Out of nowhere, a group of Chinese kids swarmed around us as they passed by, their chatter a mix of English and Cantonese, laughing and smoking cigarettes like it was their first time. They