City of Secrets (23 page)

“Not so hasty, lady.” He coughed again, spit up something in a soiled yellow handkerchief yanked out of his back pocket. Glared at her over the cotton. Snatched the bills and stuffed them in his pocket along with the handkerchief.

“OK, so the girl's gone for a few weeks. What's it to me? That fat slob Mertz gets all hot and bothered about it, not me. I figured she'd be good for the dough, what with the sharpie who was takin' her out nights.”

“Steady joe?”

“Slick-lookin' egg he was. All pinstripes and pressed pants, smelled like a skirt, real sweet. But he didn't pay, no sirree. Pandora sent a friend around, some other dame, hootchy-kootchy brunette.”

He tried to leer. “Like you, sister. Nice to look at. Not that Pandora weren't, but hell, she kept the stars in her eyes, poor kid. Even with this crooked gee she was seein'.”

Miranda fished out one more dollar, tossed it on the desk. “You got a name?”

“Yeah. Walter Lodges. You can call me Walt.”

Her lips curved in half a grin. “I meant the name of Pandora Blake's boyfriend, Walter.”

He scratched the thin wisps of hair still clinging to the back of his scalp, mouth turned upside down in an effort to remember.

“I remember laughin', 'cause I figured he wasn't no good, and his name rhymed with somethin' funny … what was it? Something about leaving town.” Scratched his side again, smell of perspiration making Miranda's nose wrinkle. “Can't remember so good. Maybe I can call you, if it comes back? Maybe get a little somethin' for it?”

She flipped a card. “Call me any time your memory comes back, Walter. There's an extra five in it if you can jump-start it by tomorrow.”

He picked it up, reading the words aloud. “‘Private—Discreet.'” Looked up and grinned, tapping a freckle on his bald head. “Save me a sawbuck, sister—by tonight I'll be Mr. Memory.”

Miranda nodded, feeling his eyes on her back as she hurried out of the Hotel Potter, odor of cabbage and sweat following her down to Market Street.

 

Twenty

She caught a number 8 White Front in front of the still grand and stately Hotel Whitcomb, former seat of government after the quake and fire. It looked benevolently on San Francisco's Civic Center with an aging pride, the prerogative of old architecture, while a party of tourists strolled out, dressed for Los Angeles and shivering. One of the wives was describing the scene in
San Francisco
when the dome crumbles, hoping to find Clark Gable.

Politicians and attorneys drove by in long, low cars, on their way to meetings with developers and factory owners to figure out who was next in line to get his. City Hall gleamed with old money, new money, money any way you liked it, testament to the city of the phoenix, the city that rose from the dead and came back twice as rich.

SAN FRANCISCO, O GLORIOUS CITY OF OUR HEARTS, THAT HAST BEEN TRIED AND NOT FOUND WANTING,
read the inscription inside the rotunda.
GO THOU WITH LIKE SPIRIT TO MAKE THE FUTURE THINE.

Or at least make money thine. Before '34, the like spirit was the kind you could drink, not so holy. And plenty of money was made, O Lord, liquor and gambling and easy women, the eternal foundations of San Francisco, shake the rest down, O Lord, and those will remain.

Silver may come and silver may go, but sin is everlasting.

Just ask the Lima and Lanza families. And a man named Benedetti.

*   *   *

Car was about half-empty. Two extra pennies were still hard to come by, especially when you could ride a Municipal Rail for an even nickel, but Miranda liked the Market Street Railway cars. They were made in San Francisco, seemed tougher and more durable than their city-owned rivals.

She sank into the first empty seat. Man in a soiled brown fedora behind her leaned forward, tapped her on the shoulder.

“You're smart to ride the White Fronts, lady. You hear about the hullabaloo with the Municipals this morning?”

She could tell he was a talker, but there weren't too many stops between Ninth and the Monadnock, and maybe he could take her mind off the pain in her arm. She gave him an encouraging look.

“What happened?”

He preened under her interest, yellowed teeth bared in a gloat of appreciation. About forty-five, thick mustache, dirty fingernails. Still figured he was a ladies' man. Smelled like stale rye.

“These posters on the cars. Market Street Railway's got a few, too, but the city cars got 'em all over. There was some who was figurin' it's propaganda, especially with Belgium and France an' everything. They been protestin'. Slowin' up the cars—you never get nowhere fast.”

The car rolled to a stop at Sixth Street and a couple of young women with shopping bags from Hale Brothers stepped inside, arguing about what shoes to wear to the Fair on Saturday.

He folded his arms on top of her seat, gave her a slow eye up and down. “You look like a smart dame, sister. Extra two cents saves you time and trouble.”

“What do the posters say?”

He rubbed his nose. “Somethin' about the Yanks not coming, patriotism and peace, an' all. Couple of committees sponsored 'em.”

“They are sponsored by the San Francisco Youth Council and the San Francisco Coordinating Council for Peace.”

Miranda looked up into the red face of a stout, middle-aged dowager with horn glasses and a beard. A pale woman dressed in a loose-knit sweater sat beside her, hands folded. She gave a vague smile to Miranda.

“Patriotism
is
peace. What happens overseas is none of our business, and those people complaining are a pack of warmongers. Just like the president.” She raised her lips, revealing a set of large false teeth. “I hope you'll both be coming to the Memorial Day Peace Meeting on Friday.”

The man slouched in his seat, cowed. Mumbled something about a job out of town.

Miranda tugged on the wire to signal her stop. Turned around and studied the woman, from the bulky black dress to the chin shoved forward, bristling with a few gray and black hairs. Brown eyes, flat and cold behind the glass, full of righteous and unwavering certainty.

Miranda stood up. Spoke softly.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.

The dowager snorted, double chin trembling, as she jerked her head toward the opposite window. There were tears in the eyes of the small, pale woman beside her.

*   *   *

Miranda stepped off the car in front of the Monadnock. Trembling again, goddamn it. Sighed and relit the cigarette she'd saved from the Bohemian Garden.

Scanned Market Street, from the giant Mobile gas sign down through the Harvard Billiard Parlor on Kearny. Her eyes rested on the
DR. WILLETT—CHIROPRACTOR
sign across the street on the De Young Building, “Free Examination” lit up in yellow. Made her think of something, but she couldn't remember what. Someone inside the Harvard fed the juke, and she could hear the Andrews Sisters swinging “Billy Boy,” most of the chorus drowned out by the streetcars and car honks on Market Street.

Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy …

Billy Boy's pinned down at a beach called Dunkirk, Ma, can't bake him that cherry pie after all. Guess he didn't get the memo about the Memorial Day Peace Meeting, guess he didn't catch the lecture at the Tower of Peace and Temple of Religion.

But then Billy Boy's not American.

Billy Boy's a Frenchman, watching his farmland raped by tanks and gutted by bombs, impregnable Maginot Line, pride of the peacekeepers, failing, failing, crushed in thunder and lightning and rain of the blitzkreig.

Billy Boy's a Belgian, tiny country overrun, king fled, crown no longer golden but a tarnished, baser metal.

Billy Boy's a Pole, last stand of last century's cavalry, men and horses charging tanks on a lush flat Polish field, green-and-red slaughterhouse. Stink of burned flesh, horses and men mangled, horse and rider one. Victims of a new century. A new war.

Poor goddamn patriots.

Patriots all.

Hoist the flag and let her fly, like true heroes do or die, send the word, send the word, over there …

Over there.

Miranda dropped the stub on the sidewalk, rubbing it out with the toe of her navy pump, steam from the sewers spewing street-level geysers in the cold summer air. She watched it disperse, swirling out over Market Street, drifting across the blinking neon of the billiard parlor and the bars, surging and stretching through flower stands and taxi queues and into the monochrome gray above her. Gray canopy, dome on the city, her city. Her battlefield.

Over here.

Johnny, get your gun, get your gun, get your gun, and Johnny listened, and he left her, left her in her own war three years later, left her to watch the world crumble under black leather jackboots, and she warned him, begged him, fought him, but he died anyway, left her to the beetles and the maggots and the flies, always the flies.

Left her to make her own way.

No one to watch over her.

And Johnny didn't finish his goddamn job, didn't matter if it was in Spain or San Francisco, you start something, you finish it, she learned that from the farmworkers she taught to read English, learned it from the Italians waiting for Dungeness crab to fill their pots and make a good catch, learned it from the Chinese women laboring over intricate lace dresses in the tailor shops on Grant.

She'd finish it for him.

And she was a good soldier.

*   *   *

Gladys was busy helping a portly man buy pipe tobacco while a couple of teenage girls combed the movie magazines for pictures of Tyrone Power.

Miranda surveyed the newspaper rack. There was an article about Duggan in the
Examiner,
about his supposed murder spree, about the “love nest” he violated, about his uncontrolled rage and jealousy.

So much for O'Meara, Larsen, and Dill, fucking Winken, Blinken, and Nod.

Nothing about her shooting accident. Murdered nudies packed 'em in all right, good for business, make the Chamber of Commerce happy happy happy, with all those couples and families coming out to see the West like they did in '39. But gunfire on the Gayway was too much like the goddamn war overseas, and they could hear about that for free. Besides, someone might get hurt and sue, Fiesta Days over, end of
Pacifica
. No more chimes for the Tower of the Sun.

Duggan was sixth-page material, sharing space with a paragraph describing the discovery of a body in the Bay, this time a thirty-year-old man named Eduardo Scorsone. No report of foul play, no specifics.

Gladys was still trying to please the fat man in the derby, sounding weary from pulling down tin after tin of tobacco. Miranda noticed how he ogled her friend's hips and ass, mouth open, sweat on his forehead, as she reached for the dusty tobacco on the top shelf.

She walked over while Gladys set a big blue tin of Edgeworth Tobacco on the counter, wiping a wilted blond curl off her forehead.

“Heya, Miri. Be with you in a minute.”

The fat man cleared his throat, looking down nervously at the array of tobacco tins, square shape, round shape, rectangular, lined up in a row. Licked his lips. Peered back up at Gladys and asked in a hopeful voice, “You got any more?”

“Benedaret's Tobacco Shop is right down the street. 564 Market.” Miranda leaned against the counter, facing him, and tapped the metal cover of the Edgeworth with her gloved finger.

“You want something better than this, I suggest you try Benedaret's.”

He raised his eyebrows and made a puffing noise, eyes darting between the two women. Gladys grinned, sat back on her stool with her arms folded.

“Surely you don't speak from experience, Madame.”

The “Madame” hurt, and so did her arm. Her lips curved in a dangerous smile.

“Plenty of experience. You want a cheap thrill, mister, go pay a quarter to Sally Rand. Otherwise buy your fucking tobacco and drift.”

Red, white, red again. He dug out a cracked leather billfold from his back pocket, dropping a receipt and a ticket stub. Wordlessly threw a dollar on the counter, bent over to pick up his pocket contents, mumbled something about “keeping the change.” Slunk quickly out the main doors. Gladys was shaking her head.

“Miri, you got nerve. I kinda figured he was clockin' me, but you know what they say—the customer is always right.”

Miranda set the afternoon papers on the counter, wincing.

“The only people who say that never worked retail. You're selling magazines, candy, and tobacco, Gladdy. Nothing else.”

The blonde brought over change from the five, peered into her face. “What's wrong? You hurt or something?”

“I'm OK. Got shot at last night on the Gayway.”

Gladys's hands flew to her face, red nails bright against her skin. “Jesus, Miri—I knew this was gonna be bad business. Are you really OK? Shouldn't you be in a hospital or somethin'?”

Miranda smiled. “I was lucky—got a graze on my upper arm.”

Gladys shook her head. “Sugar, why can't you stick to the divorce cases? They're good bread and butter, and philandering husbands don't generally come at you with a gun.” She cocked her head at her friend, her mouth stretching into a horizontal line of disapproval.

“I worry about you, Miri, I truly do.”

Miranda squeezed her hand. “Likewise. You better ring me up for four rolls of Life Savers—Butter Rum.”

*   *   *

Meyer's package was delivered as promised. She stepped into the elevator and ripped open one end, pulling out the cover sheet for Annie Learner's autopsy. A short, well-built man in a trench coat was trying to peer over at her reading material. She frowned, folding it in half.

Miranda got off on four with a young couple and two kids, boy and girl, and the man in the coat. She paused, popping two Life Savers in her mouth. The family turned to the right, and so did the trench coat.