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snagged Match.
    ‘We just got married two years ago, honey. I didn’t know him before that.’
    And she probably never thought to ask.
    ‘How did you meet?’
    ‘Rehab.’ She said it matter-of-factly. ‘We were both in rehab and we hit it off. It was his fifth time there and he started to backslide again but I pulled him through. You heard of tough love? Yeah. Well, that’s me. I made him stick with it. Told him I wasn’t a junkie anymore and I wouldn’t live with a junkie. So he said he needed me to keep him off the stuff and would I marry him. He was in rehab the whole first year we were married. I figured I needed to stick around for him to make it.’
    Somehow I couldn’t picture Sharon being altruistic.
    ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘I figured if he made a comeback, I’d be on easy street. But let me tell you, honey, I’ve paid my dues. These last months he’s been pulling together the band and the new songs, it’s been tough. That took up most of his time. That, and that whining little Cuban.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Dickie.’
    She said the name like she was saying the word ‘slug.’
    ‘You know who he is, honey, he’s Match’s trumpet.’
    The hawk-nosed, snuffling Latino.The one who’d been crying at the Riff.
    ‘They were friends?’
    She snorted. ‘Friends! He’s a little leech, just like all of them. Match could’ve done better. All kinds of people offered to work with him, but who does he choose? Some little Cuban who shows up on his doorstep one day with a trumpet. Match could’ve had his pick of anybody and he picks a bunch of
    unknowns. I told him to fire the Cuban. He refused. I told him to fire them all! But he had no business sense. If it weren’t for me he wouldn’t have been putting the band together in the first place. He’d still be...’ She drew up short and shook her head. Bottle-blonde curls bounced. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
    ‘Did Match ever talk about why he stopped playing?’
    She looked at me like it was a trick question. ‘No, why?’
    ‘Why did he decide to start up again?’
    ‘That little Cuban,’ she said. ‘He showed up at our door a few months ago, out of the blue, and wormed his way in. Next thing I know, Match comes home with his sax and sets up in this room. It was okay with me, kept him out of my hair, but I don’t know why he liked that little Cuban so much.’
    I shut the window and locked it, then thought of Philly Post. ‘You really ought to report this,’ I said again. ‘Even if you don’t think it’s tied to Saturday night, the police ought to know.’ Her eyes blinked purple at me, beady under the mauve. ‘You finished in here, honey?’
    ‘Just about.’
    I’d seen enough but I wanted to stay a little longer to bask in Match’s presence, his history, his music.
    ‘Well, I can’t wait, honey. I need a drink. I’ll be in the living room.’
    And without another word she trotted out of the room.
     

7
     
    I found Sharon sipping neat whiskey at the bar in the corner of the living room. She drained her glass, refilled it, then held up the bottle.
    ‘Care for some medicine, honey?’
    I shook my head and tapped the sheets where I’d roughed out my specifications.
    ‘I’d like to get started on this. I’ll call to see how soon my contractor can come out.’
    ‘Wait a minute, honey. Sit down. There’s one other thing.’ I sat down on the awful green couch and watched while Sharon slugged down another half glass behind the bar, then topped it off and came around to stand over me.
    The drink had done her good. The tight little lines around her mouth had eased and she looked, if not relaxed, at least less used-up than when she’d opened the door an hour ago. She took a deep breath that stretched the limits of her flowered bodice. ‘This still confidential?’
    I sighed. ‘Yes.’
    ‘If I tell you and you don’t agree to do it, will it still be confidential?’
    ‘Mrs Margolis, what exactly do you want?’
    ‘I’m just