City of Secrets (14 page)

“Hiya, Miss Corbie. Sam says to just call us when you're done.”

She nodded and he walked in, setting the food on the desk. Carefully pulled out the silverware, unrolling the napkin with a flourish.

“Anything else, Miss Corbie?”

She smiled at him, handed him a dollar. “Thanks. Keep the change.”

He looked at the money. “Thank you, Miss Corbie … you sure?”

She gently pushed him out into the hallway. “I'll bring the dishes down myself.”

“Oh, no, Miss—I'm happy to come back.”

She shook her head, smiling, pulled the door shut. Leaned against it for a moment. Wondered about Berenice and Benjamin Blake, about the refinery job and the stadium and Lima, Ohio.

The family Pandora left behind.

*   *   *

She ate quickly, conscious of another church bell somewhere south of Market, of the sun's angle through the window. Too much mayonnaise on the chicken salad, but the pie was fresh and cold, coffee still hot. She finished the lemon custard and the crust, left the meringue, and lit another Chesterfield, relishing the taste.

Final item in Ozzie's treasure chest was another postcard, Nance's Hot Springs and Sanitarium in Calistoga. Unmarked, no writing of any kind. Description on back for “Hot Sulphur Water, Tub Baths, Volcanic Ash Mud Baths, and Colonic Irrigations.”

Miranda propped her elbows on the desk, studying the card. Maybe Pandora took a day trip north, or maybe a roommate gave it to her and she kept it, planning to mail her mother.

Miranda dipped the desk pen, scrawled out, “Calistoga—Nance's.” Gathered the artifacts back into a neat pile of memory.

What Ozzie wanted to remember.

He'd hold on to them for a year, maybe less. Try to forget about them while he kissed another girl, feeling her breath rise and fall. He'd lock them away, and they'd call to him when he woke up, arms beneath his head, staring at the ceiling, the girl next to him murmuring in her sleep.

And then he'd wrap them up and shove them in a closet or a drawer, buried in boxes or paper or clothes, heavy and leaden, memory of memory too strong, too fatal, and never really Pandora, because they were about him now.

His memory.

Not hers.

Then a year—or maybe sooner. And the matchbooks and the photographs and the postcards, the faded imprint of coral lipstick on a souvenir napkin with just a whiff of expensive cocktail, only the best for you, sweetheart, forever and always, would lie at the bottom of a garbage heap.

How fucking could you, my darling? How could you?

But dear, you're dead, fleshless, done, bones yellowed and dried, hanging mouth gaping forever at the satin lid of a pine box, only $2.99 extra and you get it in pink.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Past done with, finished, sound and fury signifying nothing, thank you so fucking much for the Shakespeare quote, Father, or should I call you Professor?

Miranda's hand trembled as it raised the cigarette to her lips, burning forgotten between her fingers.

Time to move along, forget about lost loves, rediscover the vigor of life, life can begin at forty, especially if you use Pepsodent, and Jesus Christ, lady, when you gonna get over it, find somebody new? Bad things happen, people die. People fucking die.

Unless, of course, you're already dead.

She rubbed out the stick.

Stood up, passed a hand over her forehead, shoved the desk chair aside. Walked to the window and pushed the sill up wide, until the late afternoon Bay wind whipping past Lotta's Fountain curled and twisted and snaked to the fourth floor, until it stung her eyes and wet her skin, until her ears were full of the shouting and the honking cars and the music drifting from the Pig n' Whistle jukebox down the street,
for as the years roll by, you'll learn my love for you is true …

Miranda stared into the San Francisco afternoon, hands grasping the window frame.

Our love is different, dear …

*   *   *

Lunch dishes were stacked over on the long file cabinet by the safe. Meyer's cash—no check, just three hundred dollars thoughtfully broken in twenty-dollar bills—inside, Meyer's file on Duggan—his deposition, the particulars of his relatives—open on the desk. Gerald Duggan had a mother living in San Francisco, three sisters, one local, one in Paso Robles, one in Seattle, and a brother, older, address in Livermore.

Graduated from St. Ignatius. Never married. Been living on a police pension and odd security jobs since getting kicked off the force two months ago. Current address the Del Rey Hotel, 352 Taylor.

Isn't that within a few blocks of the victim's address?

I don't know.

Did you ever go to the victim's residence?

I don't know.

Is it true you tried to get into the Hotel Shawmut and see Pandora Blake?

I don't know.
…

Didn't look promising.

Miranda hunched forward, writing furiously. Dig deeper, scratch more than the surface of the Irish cop with the rolled shoulders and hard, brutal hands, the war record of bravery and the police record of brutality. Find out if he had friends. Find out about their witnesses, especially at the Hotel Shawmut, the kind of place where you could buy them for a fin and no questions asked.

She bit into the two Life Savers in her mouth and swallowed, reached for the phone. Tried to remember the number, frowned, thumbing through the well-worn Kardex until she found it.
San Francisco News.

“Rick Sanders, please.… Yeah—Miranda. Since when does he rate a secretary, Marty? You know who the hell it is.” She held the phone on her shoulder while she unrolled the last two Life Savers in the roll. “Yeah, I've got all day.”

The peppermint flavor was starting to make her nauseated. Maybe variety helped with Life Savers, or maybe she should grab some Necco Wafers, or maybe she should just give up and smoke a fucking cigarette. She closed her eyes, listening to the siren somewhere up by Civic Center.

“Rick—yeah. A hell of a lot. I'm working for Meyer. He thinks Duggan's being framed.”

She held the phone away from her ear and winced at the reaction.

“Maybe I am—what's it to you? Look, if Meyer thinks … Yeah. Yeah, I know. But this way I've got access.… Yeah. OK. Listen—you say I never bring you in, and this time I'm asking.… Goddamn it, Rick, I've got two murders and Duggan to investigate—I don't know how long. He's on the track to the gas chamber, and if the sonofabitch is gonna pay for a crime, I'd like to make sure it's the right one.… Sure there's more. I'll tell you tonight, OK? Moderne. Nine thirty? OK. Yeah, anything in the morgue about cases, connections—Klan, Silver Shirts, Bund—yeah. Thanks, Rick.”

She hung up the phone. Chewed the Pep-O-Mints, made a face, and opened the bottom drawer. Picked up the bottle of Old Taylor and twisted it open, wrinkling her nose, swig from the bottle, liquid heat hitting her stomach.

Miranda set the bottle in the drawer again, shut it. Thought about how that old bastard Dr. Nielsen would smile and nod approvingly.

“You must cut back on these bad habits, my dear,” drone of a voice, solemn beard, but always ready to take a C-note to dry out her fucking father. “You don't want to wind up like him.”

Fuck you, too, Dr. Nielsen.

It took more than a bottle of bourbon to make her father. Goddamn soulless bastard with a Ph.D., doctor of philosophy of myself, fuck everyone else, including her mother. The sonofabitch would never tell her where or when he drove her away, just that she was probably dead.

Uneducated girl, never his class, couldn't risk the association. Might hurt his chances at tenure, and then there was
emeritus
to think about.…

She shook her head to clear it, warmth of the bourbon flowing to her feet and hands. Reached for the phone again, dialed the operator.

“Oceanic Hotel, please.”

“That will be SUtter 9764. One moment, please.”

Miranda waited while the operator plugged herself in, sounding less human than Voder, the Machine That Talks.

She didn't know why Bente insisted on living in a dump of a hotel, except that it made her feel at one with the proletariat. Every bum was still a cause, every fat-cat mill owner a reason to bow to Lenin five times a day.

Bente Gallagher. Miranda's friend, maybe even her best friend.

Ringing finally stopped. Fumble with the receiver. Gravelly voice with accusation behind it, unsuccessfully lubricated by several bottles of something cheap and flammable.

“Osheeanik Ho-tel.”

“Room 256.”

“Jush—jush a minute.”

She set down the phone, figuring on at least five. Sorted through the rest of Meyer's papers. Found the autopsy report on Pandora.

Still no answer. She drummed her fingers on the desk, started reading. Jumped a few minutes later when Bente's voice said: “What's cookin', Miranda?”

She pushed the report aside. “How'd you know it was me?”

“Who the hell else is gonna call this dump?”

“Can you meet me at the Moderne tonight?”

“You on to something rough again?”

“As a matter of fact—yeah. Remember the cop that beat me up during the Takahashi case?”

“That Irish bastard—I hope he drowns in a barrel of whiskey—”

“Bente—Meyer hired me to help defend him. He's been arrested for the murder of those two girls.”

“The Emporium girl and the model on Treasure Island? Yeah, but … why the hell are you working for Meyer? Shouldn't you be at Sally's?”

She sighed, leaning back against the leather of the chair.

“Long story. They fired me, said I was a security risk. The girls were both—well, their bodies were defaced. Murderer used their blood to write the word ‘kike.'”

Silence. Bente whistled. “Holy shit. You weren't kidding.” Lowered her voice. “We shouldn't talk here.”

“Nine thirty at the Moderne, OK? Rick will be there.”

Bente snorted. “The old New York squad. Not exactly the International Brigades, but fuck—count me in. Sanders still making like a puppy dog with the big, sad eyes?”

Miranda picked up the fountain pen, drew a few dry circles on the Big Chief pad. “You know how it is, Bente.”

“Yeah, I do. See you at nine thirty. Hope Jorge's workin' tonight. I could stand a good lay.”

Miranda hung up with a grin. Stretched. Hands were shaking again, so she opened her purse and took out a Chesterfield.

Knock on the door.

Wall clock read 5:25. She let her hand rest on the .22, still on her desk. Said loud enough to be heard in the hallway: “Come in.”

Allen crooked his bald head around the door.

“Thought I'd see how you're doing before I take the streetcar home to missus.”

She waved him in. “Sit down and put your feet up. But not on the autopsy report.”

He chuckled, sprawling into a chair. “How the hell did you get a report? I thought you're on the outs with the button boys.”

She folded her arms, grinning at him.

“I'm official now, brother. I'm working for my own lawyer—digging up defense evidence for the same bastard cop that knocked me around in February. Gerald Duggan.”

Allen almost rose from the seat. “You kidding me, right?”

He dug out a crumpled Camels packet from his coat pocket and a Bimbo's 365 Club matchbook stuck in the cellophane, flicking the match on his thumb. Shook his head.

“Goddamn tough way to get legitimate information, but I guess you know what you're doing.”

“They're hanging one of their own out to dry. Must be something big.”

He scratched the side of his chin, dotted with day-old stubble.

“And you always like to be in on the big stuff, sweetheart. Jesus.” He pointed to the papers on the table. “So what does the autopsy say?”

She picked up a sheet of paper. “Looks professional. Right at the base of the neck, between the second and third vertebrae. Real Murder Inc. tactics. Then, when she couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, which was pretty much instantaneous, he stabbed her in the chest. Quickly, before the blood pressure dropped too much. Needed ink for his fucking finger.”

She glanced away. Took a long drag on the Chesterfield.

“Know anybody in town that kills like that?”

Allen shook his head. “Nobody local. They like guns up here, an occasional knife, but nothing too exotic. And there's always the Bay. ‘Dasher' Abbandando likes picks, but he's messier, too—sometimes throws in a meat cleaver. Besides, he's in New York and was convicted for murder four days ago.”

He stood up. “Sorry I can't help you, sweetheart. But you're right. It's somebody who knows what he's doing. What about the second girl?”

“Autopsy's not back yet.”

The Pinkerton raised his eyebrows. “And they still nailed Duggan on both charges? Hmm. Maybe you're on to something at that. By the way, I've got a lead for you on another anti-Semitic group. They're mentioned in the report as a fraternal businessman's organization, isolationist patriots and all that, but we just got word that they've been kind of slumming for the last three months. Been socializing with the Bund and Silver Shirts, not exactly country club material. Go by the name of the Musketeers.”

“Anything else on them? Where they're headquartered, where they meet?”

He fished a notepad out of his pocket, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray.

“They've been meeting at a bar called Tonypandy, 51 Maiden Lane. Irish connections there, too—IRA, mostly. These Musketeer people are the kind with dough, not just hooligans wanting to play dress-up.”

Miranda wrote on the pad. “Thanks, Allen. I appreciate it.”

He grinned back at her. “With two murders and a dirty cop to clear, you'd better.”