City of Secrets (3 page)

Coffee was strong at the Owl counter, Chesterfield enhancing the taste. Poached eggs on toast, side order of bacon, and a genuine Florida grapefruit, broiled. Left a dollar and a quarter on the table for the straggly-haired blond waitress shouting orders to the short-order cook.

Walked upstairs and back to daylight, “Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen” playing on the Pig n' Whistle jukebox. Miranda inhaled the stick, then let it drop, crushing it.

Three cartons in the Owl bag should see her through the next few days.

*   *   *

The Monadnock was belching tourists, west, east, booking with Union Pacific. Trying to get to the two last World's Fairs before the end of the fucking world.

Shoved her way past a flower stand and a fat lady in a polka-dot dress. Gladys was busy at the counter helping a ten-year-old with a fussy grandmother.

She checked the newspaper rack, knew better than to expect a story. Treasure Island was four hundred acres but still easier to control than a Chinatown murder.

Eddie Takahashi they buried. Pandora they'd wipe out clean.

New York Times
headline screamed:
GERMANS PUSH DRIVE TO TRAP ALLIES IN NORTH.
More fifth column jitters, Nazis in Mexico and South America.

Someone fed a nickel to the jukebox in the coffee shop, Tony Martin crooning “It's a Blue World.”

She leaned up against the green-tiled wall, closed her eyes. A blue world without the Fair, without the money she'd counted on. The annuity from Burnett would help pay the office rent. She deserved it, too—her old boss had been a real bastard. But between the two phones at her apartment and new dresses from Magnin's, only two days, maybe three. Not much time for Pandora Blake.

It's a blue world without you …

Goddamn song. She'd seen the movie back in January,
Music in My Heart,
hard-on in my pants, same old Hollywood. Boy meets girl, girl meets boy, happy endings all around for Tony Martin and Rita Hayworth forever and ever and ever.

Miranda shook out another Chesterfield. Tapped the stick on the wall, stuck it between her lips, opened her purse to look for the lighter. Fucking song wouldn't end. Blue, blue world, always had been. No Spanish reds, no Russian grays, no yellow orange mornings. Black and blue, no other colors allowed.

No other men allowed.

The flame flickered yellow in front of the cigarette in her mouth. She looked up into warm brown eyes.

Gonzales.

He smiled, teeth white, wrinkles at the corners. “Good morning, Miss Corbie.”

She held his hand for a second, steadying the lighter. He looked less worried than the last time she saw him. Less like a cop.

“You heading somewhere, Inspector, or are things slow at the Hall of Justice?”

His throat muscles tightened when he laughed. Gladys, breathless, finally ran out from behind the counter, threw her arms around Miranda.

“Sugar, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at—”

“I got canned.”

Gladys's mouth opened, bleached blond curls cascading into her eyes. She brushed them away impatiently. “What happened? Sally loves you—”

“Girl was murdered—nude model at Artists and Models. Dill's got a lot of little men in lawyer suits who don't like me much, called me a security risk.” She shrugged. “Figured I may as well hang for a wolf.”

Gladys looked back and forth between Gonzales and Miranda, her eyes lingering on his pinstripes. “Oh, honey—another whaddya-call-it—when you do those cases for free? Like the Jap kid—”

“Pro bono, Gladdy. Pro bono. I have a feeling Inspector Gonzales isn't here to buy a ticket on the Yosemite Railway. My office?”

He smiled again, brown skin buffed and smooth. Gladys gazed at him, letting a sigh escape, before squeezing Miranda's arm and running back to get some Rolaids for a middle-aged woman with an ugly scowl and even uglier hat.

“If you please, Miranda. I tried to call you this morning.”

She didn't like the feeling in her stomach. Put it down to the Florida grapefruit.

“Slept late. Shall we go?”

The elevator was crowded. Didn't say anything on the ride to the fourth floor. Allen's office door was closed when they walked by Pinkertons.

Probably at the Fair. Everybody was at the fucking Fair, everybody but her and Gonzales.

She fumbled once with the key but got the door open, stale air and cigarettes and a faint whiff of bourbon. Nodded toward the chairs in front of the desk, walked to the window and pulled it up with effort, room suddenly filled with the rumble of traffic.

“Sorry it's musty. I open the place once a week in the summer. Used to.”

Miranda sank into the leather chair, thinking again how it was worth the commission she'd paid for it. Waved Gonzales down with the Chesterfield in her mouth. “Straight A's from Elsa Maxwell, Inspector, sit. Tell me why you're here, why you called. Or let me guess.”

The inspector sat crowded on the least comfortable seat, too big for the small wooden surface. Light felt fedora in his lap. Smiling.

She twisted the stub out in the Tower of the Sun ashtray. Looked up briefly, meeting his eyes. Shook another stick out of the open pack, tapped it on the desk. Sparked the desk lighter and inhaled, waiting for the heat to hit her lungs and keep her hands still. Someone punched a car horn on Market, three-second screech and a shout.

He sat back with his legs crossed, nodded toward the window.

“One way to start a street fight.” Conversational.

“Get it over with. You're here to tell me to lay off. Eddie Takahashi all over again, except this time no newspapers, no family, no leads. No rope to hang myself with.”

He took out a gold cigarette case from his inside breast pocket, placed one of the gold-tipped French cigarettes between his lips. Dug out a matchbook, struck it on his shoe.

“Enjoy those while you can. Hitler doesn't smoke.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You think France will fall?”

“So hard it won't get up. Reynaud said he believes in miracles. The Nazis believe in tanks.” She blew a stream of smoke toward the window. “Japan's got Asia and the Germans own Europe. The French and English armies are trapped. So yeah, Paris will fall. The whole fucking world will fall. Most of it's on the floor already.”

Her fingers were tight on the arm of the chair. He bent forward again, dangling his hat between his knees. Ran his long brown finger along the inside brim.

“You didn't think so before, when you fought in Spain.”

Dong.
Church bells. Always goddamn church bells.

“Long time ago, Gonzales.”

“And yet you still carry the pistol.”

Miranda pivoted to face him. “A good gun is a good gun, I've got a license, and what firearms I use are none of your goddamn business.”

He laughed. “Same old Miranda. Looks like you are taking on another lost cause, are you not?”

She twisted in the chair. Watched the smoke curl its way out the window.

“I was an escort, Inspector. I know something about lost causes.”

Gonzales smoked in silence for a few minutes, watching her. Miranda gulped the stick, then leaned across the desk and rubbed it out, half-finished.

“Japanese and Jews,” he said softly. “A strange record for a woman who deals mainly in divorce cases. A woman for whom the world has been dead for three years. But then, for you, perhaps not. And perhaps not for the times. What was it you told me … you fight because you can?”

He rose from the chair in one move, elegant, athletic. Fedora falling to the floor. Walked to where she sat, open coat hanging loose. Stared down at her.

“I am not here on official business. I heard about the murdered girl. Your name wasn't mentioned.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “That would be a first.” She busied herself with finding the key to the drawer and opened it. Lifted out a half-empty bottle of Old Taylor bourbon.

“Drink?”

He shook his head, smiling. She uncorked the bottle, smelled it, hesitated. Stoppered it again, shoving it across the desk.

Took a breath. Stood up and met his eyes.

“So why the hell are you here?”

He stepped closer, still smiling. She felt her pulse quicken.

“I almost broke your nose once, Gonzales. Second time's a charm. Are you gonna tell me why you're here or leave now?”

He reached out an arm and took one of her hands in his. Held it for a moment. Her voice was even.

“My reflexes are a little slow this morning. Better go while you can.”

Gonzales opened his palm gently and turned it upside down. Her hand dropped awkwardly to her side.

“I am leaving, Miranda. I'm going back to Mexico.”

Rush and roar, White Front, car door slam. Piano from the bar across the street. Girl's laughter, long, low, flirtatious.

“You get fired?”

He shook his head. “No. I'm working with the House Un-American Activities Committee.”

Her voice raised in surprise. “Martin Dies and his pack of Red-baiters? How the hell did you get mixed up with them?”

“They are not all Red-baiters, Miranda. The government is concerned about fifth column activities from the Fascists, too. So I'm taking a leave of absence—mutually agreed upon—from the San Francisco Police Department, and returning to Mexico. My family connection—my heritage—is a plus, for once.”

She nodded, staring at the floor. He reached out a hand, barely brushing her shoulder.

“I came to say good-bye. I don't know how long I'll be gone.”

“I'm glad for you, Gonzales. If this is what you want to do.”

He tried to catch her eyes. “It is.”

He fished out a small piece of paper in his breast pocket. Picked up her hand again and put the paper in her palm. His fingers were warm and dry.

“My information. My family's ranch. You can always reach me through them. I am not certain where I will be.”

“Thanks.” Her fist closed on the paper. She raised her eyes to his and held them.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

He took her fingers in his, gently, brought them to his lips. Moved closer. Covered her mouth with his, hungry, warm, demanding, and Miranda shut her eyes, fingers digging in his broad back, blending, dancing, warmth and heat, desire and urgency, and she could hear the buzz of the fighters and the cannons booming in the dry hot sun.

“Good-bye, Miranda.”

He pulled away and turned his back and strode from the room, coat billowing behind him.

The door shut slowly, soundlessly until the click. She picked up his fedora from the floor.

It smelled like sweat, leather, and French-tipped cigarettes.

She put it on her desk, sank into her chair, and stared at it.

She knew he wouldn't be back.

 

Three

A fire engine screamed down Market. Miranda jumped up from the chair. She wasn't sure how long she'd sat, staring at a fucking hat.

She twisted the Bakelite knob on the old cathedral radio harder than she intended. Strung out the antenna line from behind the safe while she waited for the tubes to warm up, and then a crackle and then some imitation Boswell Sisters claiming that Everybody Loves My Baby and even if my baby is a sonofabitch, he doesn't love anybody but me. Only me.

She walked to the desk, uncorked the Old Taylor. Opened the filing cabinet, found a glass from Castagnola's and poured it half-full. Held it in her mouth a few seconds like Listerine, swallowed. Chased it with a Chesterfield, drawing the stick so hard the ash fell to the floor before she could flick it in the tray.

The singing group was replaced by a reedy-voiced bandleader and a hotel in the middle of nowhere, explaining the next number before he killed it. Miranda rose in disgust, turned off the radio. Stations all over the world, nothing she wanted to hear. Nothing but war news and
Pepper Young's Family
and Our Love Is Here to Stay.

So Gonzales was gone. So what? Made it harder to get information out of the bastards at the Hall of Justice. Made it damn near impossible to get near Pandora Blake. But she'd be all right. She was always all right.

She came out on the other side, through Dianne and Burnett and every sad-case Shriner from Pasadena who tried to sit her on the bed and pat her shoulder and run his hand between her legs.

Poor bastards. Almost as poor as their dried-up wives, waiting for their fat-breasted husbands to come rolling home, always with less money. Stuttering, stammering, hunting the magic mouth, the red lips, miracle cure, proof of manhood. Eyes wide and scared and angry, wanting. Always wanting.

Miranda rubbed the Chesterfield out in the tray. Fuck Gonzales. Too rich, too pretty, let him go back to his ranch in Mexico and raise blue-ribbon cattle.

She dialed the combination on the old Wells Fargo safe, her fingers brushing against the holster of the Spanish pistol inside. Counted the money in the envelope: seventy-three dollars. Picked up his fedora from the desk and shoved it to the bottom, quickly shutting the safe again.

She was pouring more bourbon when someone knocked on the door. It swung open. Allen walked in.

“I heard you were here—came to see about lunch.” He looked at the bottle on the desk. “Didn't expect to find you drinking it. What kind of mess are you in?”

The Pinkerton sat in the same chair as Gonzales. Frowned, got up, and moved to the wider one with armrests. Pulled out a pack of Camels, reaching for the One-Touch on Miranda's desk.

“Nothing I can't handle. Gonzales was just here, he's going back to Mexico.” She set down the Castagnola glass with a thump, glanced up at Allen. “And I got fired. Peep show girl was murdered, and Dill and his cronies want it kept quiet. Seems I'm a security risk.”

Allen chuckled, paunch straining against his shirt buttons. “So why the hush-hush? Public eats that stuff up. They'll make plenty of ticket money.”