City of Secrets (26 page)

“That's why I'm here. Some of us think Duggan's getting a bum rap. Pressure, Miss Corbie. Some of it's aimed at you.”

“I'm used to it.”

“We think this time it's because of Duggan.”

Miranda surveyed him critically. “Who's ‘we'?”

He shrugged. “Gillespie. Regan. Gonzales.” Noticed her look of surprise. “Gonzales stays in touch—keeps his options open.”

Fisher looked up, then away, then found something to examine on one of his fingernails.

“Phil, too. He still plays poker Friday nights.”

Miranda felt the blood in her face, kept her eyes steady. She blew a smoke ring, watching it unravel like a spiderweb, torn apart by wind off Market Street. Sound of wings from the open window. Cooing.

“I worked with Inspector Gonzales on the Takahashi murder in February. And I've known Phil a long time. He helped me with one of my first cases as a detective.”

“Yeah—the Incubator Babies. I've been reading up on you.”

The Chesterfield was burning her fingers. She dropped it in the tray.

“All right, Inspector. I appreciate the fact that a small group of San Francisco police officers believe I'm innocent. Relatively speaking, of course. I still want to know why you think Scorsone has anything to do with me—and why you're here.”

Fisher nodded, thinking it over and taking his time. Sat with his back against the hard wooden chair and crossed his legs, shaking his foot up and down like a fidgety kid. Eyes roamed the office, coming back to rest on Miranda, on the papers in front of her.

“I'll lay it on the line. Scorsone is part of the Angelo Benedetti mob, minor class, but vicious. They operate on the South Side, out of Harvey and Dixmoor, and they're wanted by HUAC, which is why Gonzales is checking in about it. Seems they've got some connections to Il Duce that make the government itchy.”

The detective paused. Met her gaze dead-on.

“Benedetti is Sammy Martini's cousin. He and his gang rode the
City of San Francisco
out here in April. Guess they decided the fresh air and crab cocktails would do 'em some good, because they've stuck around. We figure Tony Lima invited them … or maybe they invited themselves. We don't know. And we don't know how their politics fit in, if they do. But we're worried.”

No more cooing. No pigeons, unless she was playing one with the cop across her desk.

Miranda said slowly: “I've been shadowed. Silent phone calls, somebody dressed as a PT and T salesman tried to get in my apartment. I figure Benedetti wants me dead, and if Scorsone was a button man, it makes sense. What doesn't make sense is how he wound up shot and killed.”

Fisher heaved a sigh, brushed some dust off his fedora. “Yeah. And with you on the spot … well, just keep your nose clean, Miss Corbie. That's all I'm saying. Whatever you're doing for Duggan is upsetting more people than just Benedetti. And he's got his own reasons to rub you out.”

Her eyes flickered over the muscular face and high, burnished cheekbones.

“Thanks. And call me Miranda.”

He grinned. “Sure. Miranda. Nice name.”

He patted his pockets, searching for the Old Golds. Found the deck and stuck a stick between his lips, match on the fingernail trick to light it. Favorite of tough guys and cops.

“I worked with Duggan last year—bunco case, old lady got killed. Maybe you remember it? Anyway … he changed. Oh, he was always rough and not exactly by the book, but something made him mean. Resentful. Made Gonzales' life hell.”

Fisher took a long drag on the cigarette. “He always treated me OK. Like a human being. No whispers, no funny looks at Christmas. No remarks about my nose, my name, my politics. Wish I could say the same about some of the others.”

He exhaled, blowing smoke in a long stream. Looked up at her, mouth taut, jaw set.

“Duggan's innocent. Whatever he is, whatever he became … he'd never kill those girls. You learn to spot 'em, Miss Corbie, the ones who call you names or the ones who whisper behind your back. The ones who wait on a street corner in a gang, until they drink enough courage to beat you up.” He shook his head, disgust etching deep lines around his mouth. “He's not the type.”

Fisher was still leaning forward. Face darkened by memory, staring ahead. Staring at nothing.

She busied herself by opening the bottle of Old Taylor, setting out the Castagnola glass and a dirty coffee cup. Swabbed the cup with an old flour sack towel draped on the file cabinet, poured the bourbon in her glass. Fisher was watching her. She looked up, question mark, bottle poised over the cup. He nodded. She finished pouring and handed him the cup, both of them savoring the bite of the bourbon. David Fisher was a man she could work with.

“Anything else you want to talk about? Black Cat Café, maybe?”

Mood broken. He passed a hand over his face, a thumb across his mustache. Flashed a smile.

“You don't miss much. There's another group of organized hoods in town, up from L.A. Lanza mob's weak, especially after you got through with 'em. We got word these Hollywood boys are setting up a laundry outfit at the Black Cat, and I don't mean the kind you take your furs to.”

“What needs cleaning?”

“Bookmaking dough, mainly. We're hearing about wire services set up, maybe some girls on the side, but mostly gambling. Lots and lots of gambling. Sugar's getting cleaned and we'd like to know how.”

“You a vice cop?”

“Used to be. Only Jew in homicide. Six of us on the force. Fisher the laughing Jew, they call me. Haven't had much to laugh at lately.”

Miranda sipped the Old Taylor. “Why come to me about it?”

He drained the coffee cup, reached across, and set it on her desk. Scratched the five o'clock shadow on his chin.

“Found your card at one of the small wires we cleaned up in the Richmond district. Same L.A. bunch. That card didn't go down so well with Chief Dullea. Figured you should know.”

Her arm was burning. She finished the bourbon. Leaned back and stared at him, rocking the big leather chair.

“So the department thinks I killed a Chicago assassin and work with an L.A. gang of gamblers. Tell me, Inspector—does Dullea think I invaded Belgium?”

Fisher laughed for the third time, long and hard. Wiped his eyes, looked at her appreciatively. “You're a pip, Miss Corbie. A real pip.”

Miranda glanced at the clock again. Pushed back from the desk and stood up.

“Inspector Fisher, I'm going to do something I'm not used to doing. I'm going to trust you.”

She held out her right hand. He jumped up, shook it up and down, grin lighting up his face.

“I figured we could work together.”

Flamm's smirk and the two Tanforan ticket stubs on his desk unrolled in her mind like the Pathé newsreel. Miranda said slowly, “I don't know anything about who's tailing me other than it's a tall, skinny bird in a Panama hat and a Cordoba tan Ford, '38 model. Something else, too—lion trainer over on the Island—name of Henry Kaiser. He's got a connection to Pandora Blake. Real sadistic bastard. Tries to brand his girlfriends.”

Fisher's eyebrows climbed into his scalp. “Kaiser, huh? He a German national?”

“No accent. I don't think so. Anyway, he threatened to kill me.”

The inspector grinned. “You certainly make an impression.”

He dug out a card from his overstuffed wallet, coffee stain on the corner.

“Anytime. Even at home. The wife knows what the job's like.”

“Inspector … why did you walk down the other hallway a while ago? You obviously knew who I was.”

Fisher shoved his fedora back on, palm finessing the rim. He looked embarrassed.

“Oh, I figured you might need some time to yourself. The way you ripped that package open.” He met her eyes. “Call me anytime.” He grinned and slipped out into the hall.

The door swung closed. She stood up and locked it from the inside. Glanced at the black-and-gold letters staring at her from the glass.

MIRANDA CORBIE—PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

 

Twenty-three

Only three rental companies in the phone book who offered drivers. Last time she used one she spent the whole goddamn trip keeping his hand out of her lap. Arm or no arm, she'd drive the car herself.

Miranda puffed furiously on the Chesterfield, running a finger down the page. Berry-U-Drive at 655 Geary Street offered special rates on long trips and advertised the latest 1940 Plymouths, DeSotos, and Packards.

She was in no mood for a Ford or Oldsmobile.

TUxedo 2323 answered on the third ring. Gruff voice, cigar between the teeth.

“Yeah? Berry-U-Drive, we deliver.”

“How much for a coupe with good horsepower I can take to Calistoga?”

She could hear him sliding the cigar around in his mouth. Cleared his throat and tried to sound less like Wallace Beery and more like William Powell.

“Well now, lady—you thinkin' of takin' a car up them steep roads off 101, you need something with a little get up an' go, know what I mean?”

He laughed, throat rattling, held the phone to his chest, and spit.

“So how many in the party?”

Miranda tapped her foot, glancing at the clock. “Two. That's why I asked for a coupe.”

“All right, little lady, all right. Glad you know the difference 'tween a see-dan and a coupe. So it's seven cents a mile, ten dollars a day for a brand-new Plymouth, and that comes with a radio and the in-surance. 'Case you and your fella get in any trouble in them mud baths.”

She could hear him winking on the other end. Miranda gritted her teeth.

“I need a goddamn coupe with six cylinders and at least a hundred horsepower and good brakes, and I need it by four
P.M.
today. Give me a model and a price, and tell me whether or not you can get me the fucking car in an hour and a half.”

Dropped his cigar. Mumbled curses from off the receiver, then back on, coughing, William Powell forgotten.

“Gotta 1940 DeSoto S8 Deluxe Businessman's Coupe. Plenty of room in the back for luggage, three-speed manual transmission, hydraulic drum brakes on all four wheels. Radio, heat, and dee-frost. Six cents a mile, eight dollars a day, fifty-dollar deposit. Insurance included.”

“I'll take it. Three days, Cash payment in advance. Deliver it to the Monadnock Building, 681 Market Street, four o'clock sharp. My name's Miranda Corbie.”

He grunted. “Show your license to the driver, lady. An' don't get so tetchy.”

He hung up the phone. Miranda looked at the receiver in her hand, grinning.

*   *   *

Couldn't reach Bente through the Oceanic Hotel, couldn't trust the clerk to take a message.

Almost 2:45. Still needed to grab a quick taxi to her apartment, pack a bag, and change the bandage on her arm. She clicked the receiver until an operator came on.

“Sailors' Union of the Pacific, please.”

Middle-aged woman on the other end yawned. “Sorry, Miss. Connecting you now. Number is EXbrook 2228 for your reference.”

“Thanks.”

Miranda waited until a receptionist answered, asked if Bente Gallagher had been in yet. No, Miss, sorry, Miss, no one here by that name, Miss, sorry I can't help you, Miss.

Goddamn it.

Tried the operator again, this time for the Communist Party offices. Cold voice, clipped and severely disapproving.

“UNderhill 9335, Miss. Please dial direct next time.”

Miranda slapped the receiver down with her right hand. Dialed the number herself and reached a young man on the fourth ring.

“Hello? I need to leave a message for Bente Gallagher. I'm a friend of hers.”

His voice brightened. “Bente? Haven't seen her. But she'll probably be in later, we've got a meeting at five.”

She exhaled. “Good. Please give her this message, from Miranda: ‘Wait on Tonypandy. Too dangerous.'”

“Is Bente in trouble, Miss? Can I help?” Excited and eager, playacting politics.

Sounded about nineteen. Sandy-haired college boy, believing Lenin had all the answers, that communism somehow made people better than they were.

Not young for much longer, his generation. Not for much longer.

She tried to make her voice gentle. “You can help, Junior, by giving her the message. And—just stay out of trouble.”

Miranda grabbed her coat and hurried out of the office.

*   *   *

Carefully printed sign on Gladdy's counter read
BE BACK IN 5 MINUTES
. Miranda tapped her foot, hand on her hip, hoping it would be more like three. Bent down to look at herself in the mirror behind the counter. Repositioned her fedora. Goddamn thing wouldn't stay straight.

“Miss Corbie?”

Looked toward the rear of the lobby. Mailroom kid with the Adam's apple, red-faced.

She pushed through the elevator line to the counter, brushing by a stout lady wearing summer white and waiting to collect a package. “What is it?”

He held out a postcard, face like a beet. “I—I knew you'd want this right away. Got a stamp from England on it. Postman brought it earlier, and I forgot to give it to you, 'cause it's addressed General Delivery.…”

She didn't know anyone in England. Not anymore.

Miranda snatched the card from his fingers, stared down at a photo of Westminster Abbey.

Flipped it over. It was postmarked March 23, 1940, and addressed to Miranda Corbie, General Delivery, San Francisco.

Blue ink, firm writing. Feminine.

Just two lines on the card.

Would like to meet you. Your loving mother.

*   *   *

She didn't know how long she stood, holding on to the edge of the counter.

Mailroom boy's voice droned insistently, summer wasp or yellow jacket, and she tried to block it out, run away, run down to Pacific Street or to the nickelodeon on Market, run from the apartment on Turk, run from her father, from Hatchett, and find her mother, somewhere, one of the women, maybe a pretty one, fine ladies in bustles and carriages, maybe, or the ones that laughed and spoke with the singsong voices, made her smile just to hear them.