City of Secrets (19 page)

Nothing to hold her, nothing to be scared of. No one to own her.

Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear …

Mother is here with you forever.

*   *   *

Miranda walked straight down the Gayway to the Ron de Voo, gaudy lights and constant patter buoying her past the jungle exhibit and the tired chimpanzees. Crowds were thicker than usual around the peep shows, brought out by curiosity and crime, murder the brand-new, never-before-seen attraction for the Fair in 1940.

Still a line at Sally's, drunk trying to weave his way in. Probably just to unbutton his pants and press himself against the glass the girls worked behind. Plainclothes cop grabbed his arms, dragged him off the wooden stage while he protested in a loud, slurred voice. Rest of the line tittered, moved on.

Ralph, the old bald barker at Greenwich Village, winked at her, voice hoarse from one too many “Nothing vulgar, ladies and gentlemen, purely educational, nothing objectionable here, folks, from the top of her beautiful head to the tips of her toes…”

Smell of hot dogs and buttered popcorn, cotton candy and sweet, baking bread from the Maxwell House coffee Doughnut Tower, neon tubes glowing red and yellow along streamlined curves, almost as enticing as the steaming coffee and old-fashioned doughnuts, fresh from the oven.

Same old Gayway. She was surprised she missed it so much.

The Ron de Voo was only half-full. Ozzie and Lucinda huddled in a corner, no sarong this time. Tailored street clothes and angry lips made her look older, thinner, less exotic. Ozzie was playing with some French fries on his plate. Saw Miranda and jumped up from the table, face stretched by a big, eager smile.

“Miss Corbie—we didn't think you'd come.”

Lucinda looked at her wristwatch as if she'd never seen it before. “You're over an hour late.”

Miranda slid into the chair by the rubber plant, set Ozzie's package on the table.

“I got here as soon as I could.”

The dark-haired woman grunted, glanced over at Ozzie. His hair was slicked back, still wet. He gazed at Miranda, puppy eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Corbie. Did—did it help?”

She smiled. “Yes. Thank you. I've got a few more questions for you both.”

Lucinda shook out a cigarette from a package of Kools on the table. “Why? I thought this was over. Cops arrested some bum bastard already. Why're you still interested?”

“I work for the defense attorney. We don't think he killed Pandora or Annie Learner.”

Lucinda blew smoke over Miranda's left shoulder. “You think it was somebody else? That the killer's still out there? Goddamn it—I was gonna sleep so good tonight.”

Sarcasm couldn't drown the fear in her eyes.

Miranda opened her purse. Found a Butter Rum roll half-finished, popped two in her mouth.

“Look. It's late. I appreciate you meeting me. Let's just get to the point, OK? Lucinda, you met Pandora when—last year?”

The other woman nodded, inhaled sharply. Miranda could smell menthol in the blue smoke from the Kool. Her right hand trembled, and she held it under the table, clutching her purse.

“I met her in '39. She got hired when the Fair opened, not before.”

Ozzie was staring at the package, voice low. “Wish I'd met her then.”

Lucinda squeezed his arm. “Me too, kid. Didn't know you'd be Mr. Rose's star Aquadonis a year later, didya?”

She turned to Miranda, ferocity in her small face. “Ozzie's got it—real pizzazz, real star stuff. He's already grabbed a feature role in the Aquacade—no tellin' where this boy's gonna wind up. Don't he look like Tyrone Power?”

The woman's eyes fell on him with a mixture of maternal pride and desire, lingering on the strong set of his shoulders and perfect tapered waist.

Ozzie blushed. “Cut it out, Lu.”

“Anyway, he's talent. He's going places. The coppers didn't even wanna talk to him, but the
Chronicle
did—got a big write-up tomorrow.” She pointed the cigarette at Miranda.

“So don't fuck up his life any more than it has been. Dreams are goddamn hard to live on, lady. He's still got a few that can come true.” Lucinda ground out the cigarette with a violent twist.

Ozzie was hesitant. “Lu, I wish you wouldn't—”

“What? Care so much? Can't help that, kid. You're the tops.” The dark-haired woman swallowed, looked away, then up at Miranda. “What else you wanna know?”

“Did Pandora miss any time at work—like a weekend—ever mention going to Calistoga?”

The brunette opened her mouth, closed it again. “Pan missed more than a weekend. She was gone for about six weeks last year starting in April—only a coupla months or after from when that prick Schwartz hired her. Maybe she mentioned Calistoga. I don't remember.”

Miranda nodded. “You sure? Might be important.”

Lucinda shifted her weight in the chair. “Yeah. I don't know.”

“All right. This might upset you, Ozzie, but—how many men did Pandora see on a regular basis?”

Lucinda reached up to straighten her hat. “Whaddya mean, ‘regular basis'?”

“Steady. No one-shots.”

The brunette's hands fell on the table with a slap, face red.

“Listen, sister—Pan was no easy number. She didn't skate around, like most of the broads in this joint.” Agitated glance over at Ozzie. “You don't have to listen to this stuff.”

He picked at the strings around the brown paper–wrapped package. “Yeah, I do. If it helps Miss Corbie, it'll help Pan.” He raised his face, high cheekbones burnished with red, eyes on fire like Ronald Colman in
A Tale of Two Cities
.

“Tell her, Lu. I want to hear.”

Lucinda stared at him. “OK. But Ozzie, take it from me—she didn't love anybody but you.”

Teeth bright, white smile. Then his face dropped back to its customary grief.

Miranda said. “Make it simple—who, and how many?”

Lucinda counted off on long red nails. “Some bird with dough. Started going with him right away—caught her act in the morning, took her out that night. Lasted maybe five, six weeks. Poor kid thought he was her dream man, come to take her away to some castle in Burlingame. It was after he ditched her that she went away.”

“To Calistoga?”

Lucinda shook her head. “Uh-uh. I already said I don't remember.”

Miranda grinned. “OK. Who was next?”

The brunette shrugged. “Nobody on the Gayway for the rest of the year, not until Kaiser. She went out a few times with some customers … a sailor, some army joe. Nobody serious, maybe one or two dates apiece, probably five or six different guys.”

“No names?”

“I don't remember names. Pan probably didn't either. I'm tellin' you, nobody serious.”

“What about Kaiser?”

“That bastard.” Lucinda shook her head in disgust. “I warned her, but she wouldn't listen. He grabbed her up first time we got here to set up for the Fair—back in March. I told you what happened.”

“Yeah.” Miranda looked across the table at Ozzie. Made her voice gentle. “When did you decide you'd get married?”

“After two weeks.” He turned toward Lucinda. “We didn't tell anybody, not until later. Pan wanted to keep it a secret, just us two.”

He laid his hand on Lucinda's shoulder. “She said she wanted to—to—get married and have babies, right away. Give up on acting, on being a star.”

His voice was heavy, cracking with emotion, as his eyes fell to the floor. “Said she wanted my babies more than anything.” Tears rolled down his cheeks, his forehead dotted with sweat.

Miranda stood up. “I'm sorry, Ozzie.”

She studied the woman with the stiff, tight curls under the wide-brimmed hat, the handsome young man with the wet cheeks, hand still on her shoulder. Lucinda raised her chin and glared.

No more information—not tonight. Miranda nodded and left, Lucinda bending over Ozzie and murmuring consolations.

She threaded back through the Gayway, strung bulbs crisscrossing the fading sideshows, glaring orange, lighting up old Madame Marie's crystal ball and not much else. Passed a row of games, a guess-your-weight gimmick, shooting gallery. Didn't know the wizened barker, “Try your skill, folks, win a gift for the little lady—you look like you can handle a gun, fella.…”

Miranda pivoted suddenly, looking to her right.

Sharp metallic crack.

Burning, goddamn burning pain, left arm. Push and a shove, get down, Randy, goddamn it, hit the fucking dirt, and sawdust under her, boots and work shoes and cheap leather pumps making a fence, backing away.

Gasps. Screams, running feet kicking up the sand,
thud-thud-thud
on the midway.

Police whistle.

Knees in the dirt, knees and one hand, green silk dress hiked up too high. Eyes all around. Cigarettes and bottlecaps, napkin from the Chinese Village crumpled up, soy sauce drenching the white paper.

Voices shrill, hysterical.
Thud-thud-thud,
more running feet.

No music, no barkers. No calliope.

Someone held out an arm and helped her up, middle-aged man with a black fedora and blue eyes.

Left arm was numb. She touched it, watched as her palm filled with dark red. Stared at her green glove, viscous liquid brushing the velvet, pattern like a Japanese watercolor.

Running again, more whistles. The man with the kind eyes searched her face.

Said: “Lady—you need a doctor. You've been shot.”

 

Part Three

Sacrifice

To-day's your natal day,

Sweet flowers I bring;

Mother, accept, I pray,

My offering.

And may you happy live

And long us bless;

Receiving as you give

Great happiness.

—“To My Mother,” Christina Rossetti (1842)

 

Seventeen

“You're a lucky girl, Miss Corbie. Getting grazed by a bullet isn't such an easy thing to do.”

She didn't know the doctor on call. Tall, thin, a young forty with the prerequisite graying temples. He dabbed more iodine around the elongated gash on her left arm. Gillespie stood with his arms and mouth folded, shaking his head. Too late for Grogan to be on duty. Lucky again.

“A .22, Doctor?”

He glanced up at the cop. “I'm not an expert on gunshots—most of the cases we get in here are heatstroke and sore feet. Judging from the wound, the bullet was small-caliber. We're just lucky it didn't hit someone else. Have you found the shooter yet?”

“Got a line on a skinny guy who ran. Haven't been able to track him, but we will.”

Miranda winced as the doctor wrapped the bandage tight. “I doubt it.”

The patrol cop reddened. “You were fired, Corbie. Maybe you'd like to tell me what the hell you're doing on the Island?”

She tried to shrug, grimaced. Dr. Kildare chided her gently.

“You'll have to wear an arm brace, Miss Corbie. Try not to use your left arm or shoulder—the wound will be painful for at least a week. And you'll need to change the bandage twice a day.”

“I remember how to change bandages.”

He tied the brace around her neck and shoulder, letting his hand linger on the lower part of her arm.

“What made you turn? Twisting toward your right probably saved your life.”

Miranda shut her eyes, wishing for a goddamn Chesterfield.

“I thought I heard someone call my name.”

Gillespie cleared his throat and asked, “I can question her now, Doc?”

The physician nodded, last look at the patient. Closed the door of the small examination room. She stared at Gillespie, stony-faced.

“What the hell do you want? I've been shot at and I'm tired and I want to go home.”

“Why are you on the Island?”

“None of your fucking business. It's a free country.”

Gillespie gave her a hard look, fleshy rectangle of his face tired, skin unnaturally yellow in the overhead light. Then he cracked a grin.

“All right, sister. I won't write up in the report that you're investigatin' the Blake murder, which—for the record—is closed. Truth be told, a few of us miss ya around here. Used to brighten up the place.”

She couldn't hide the surprise. “Thanks, Gillespie. I always suspected you were a human being.” Miranda hopped off the examination table, flinching when the motion made her arm move.

He said nonchalantly: “Don't expect much action on the skinny bird. Most of us had to calm the crowd down, scared the bejesus out of 'em. Too many people, too much noise. He got away clean. But then, I figure you might know him anyway.”

She looked up at the tall, beefy cop. “Maybe.”

He held out his arm to steady her. “C'mon, I'll drive you home. I'm goin' off duty, and you'll be missin' the last ferry.”

She hesitated, then took his arm. “I could use a ride.”

She looked down at her bedraggled Magnin's dress, silk ruined, while he draped her coat around her shoulders.

“I don't look so good.”

“Better than the dames I usually give a ride to.”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled. Stopped at the door.

“Gillespie—why the sudden concern? I'm not usually a favorite with the button boys.”

He grinned at the understatement. “Well, it's like this. We know you're workin' for Duggan. Surprised the hell out of us. But some of us figure that's a good thing.”

She looked up into his brown eyes, age spots and freckles dotting the sagging skin along his cheekbones.

“Surprised the hell out of me, too.”

They walked out of the examination room together, Gillespie gently guiding her toward the stairs of the administration building.