City of Secrets (38 page)

Eddie Takahashi was dead and buried, his sister safe.

Something she could be proud of, she could point at when the wheel of fortune stopped turning. Something she could hang on to.

Triumph, of a kind. Justice. Of a kind. Like the Incubator Babies, like Burnett's murder. Like the cases, small and large, she'd made her living. Made her life.

Miranda knew better, always knew better, than to expect purity in this world. Maybe that was for the fucking angels, the heavenly host, but not here, not now, not in the dirty shacks and dry fields of potato farmers, not in the run-down apartment buildings with families of seven and eight, not even in the Hollywood mansions clinging precariously to the hills, Italian tile swimming pools cool and inviting, just like the call boys and girls stretched out in front of the softly waving water.

You pays your money, you takes your choice. And her choice was to live, but to live with something to clutch in the darkness, something to hold on to that wouldn't leave her, that wouldn't disappoint her, that wouldn't go away, flesh rotting and rotten, white bones blanched by wind and sun. Anonymous dust to anonymous dust, swallowed by the weight of ages.

Dead. Alone. Forgotten.

She shoved aside the remnants of the chop suey sundae, lit a Chesterfield.

Born alone, live alone. Die alone.

I can't win, but here I am … more than glad to be unhappy …

She left fifty cents on the counter, waved good-bye to the soda jerk, and walked back into the sunlight of Grant Avenue.

*   *   *

Brick wall on the corner of Commercial and Grant, Far East Bakery, warmed by the sun, fighting the clouds.

Old friend.

She leaned against it, weight on her right foot, braced against the grade. Kept forgetting the goddamn aspirin.

Closed her eyes. Wondered if the boys from Chicago were still gunning for her. Wondered if Parkinson or Parkinson Sr. would believe her threat or whether more phone calls would be made to the state board that licensed her business, to men in dark hats with cheap aftershave, only too happy to get rid of their problem for a fee.

Wondered, for the first time since the beginning, if Duggan was guilty. If he'd killed Pandora in a fit of anger, killed Annie. If she and Meyer had been chasing their own tails, babysitting a murderer, dirty cop set up by Parkinson but guilty nonetheless.

She opened her eyes, spun around. Fingers tugging on her black crepe jacket belonged to Blind Willie. Ned was next to him, grinning up at her from his board.

“Miss Corbie? We seen you 'cross the street. Well, Ned seen you.” The blind beggar's voiced piped like a baby chicken, and he smiled big, showing bare, pink gums.

No-Legs murmured: “That offer of a sawbuck still firm?”

She huddled closer to the two men, shielding them from the crowds on Grant. “What've you got?”

Ned reached up, patted Willie on the arm. “You tell it, Willie. You heard it.”

The blind man rubbed the wattle of skin on his chin, yellow car driving up Commercial reflected in his dark glasses.

“'Membered on accoun' a' the name, Miss Corbie. Funny name a' the girl. Never heard no one called it before. Well, I was standin' over by the Ferry Building a few days back—hopin' people comin' from the Fair might be more inclined t' buy a pencil—an' I heard it. Woman, sounded pretty young. She said … she said … gosh darnit, I get so mixed up sometimes.…”

Ned spoke encouragingly. “You know the story, Willie. Miss Corbie ain't in no hurry. Just tell it like you told me.”

“That's right, Willie.” Miranda hid the eagerness in her voice. “Take your time.”

The blind man shook his head. Then his neck craned backward as if he could see the sun, and his face creased in smiles. “I remember now! She said—this here woman—she said two things. Said, ‘Pandora wouldn't hold you back.' Tha's why I listened up real quick. 'Membered the name ‘Pandora,' No-Legs told me ta listen up for it. Then a man said somethin' I couldn't hear, and then she says, ‘She wouldn't lie,' kinda loud, kinda like she was mad or somethin'.”

He was smiling wide, tilting his head toward Ned. “I done good, din't I, No-Legs?”

Ned's leathery face cracked a grin, patted the blind man on the arm. “Yeah, Willie. Real good.” He looked up at Miranda expectantly.

She opened her pocketbook, handed two fives to the legless man on the plywood board, and pressed the ten into Willie's hand.

“Willie—do you remember what day this was?”

Willie turned his wizened face toward Ned, uncertainty stretching his cheeks into a grimace. “Ned—I don't 'member no days—you know they all seem the same to me.”

No-Legs took off his leather cap and scratched behind his ear. “You told me yesterday, I think. Late yesterday. Musta happened that morning or the night before, 'cause we were here in the afternoon.”

Willie nodded, voice rising, shrill with excitement. “Nighttime it was—I was thinkin' people might be kinder to an ol' blind beggar after a day on Treasure Island. Tha's right—Tuesday night, Miss Corbie. Leastwise, I think so.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Willie. And thanks, Ned. Be seein' you.”

Ned touched his cap, reached up, and grabbed Willie's hand.

“Glad to help. Be seein' you, Miranda.”

He turned the plywood expertly, gloved hands propelling him and the blind man up the crowded sidewalk of Grant.

*   *   *

She lit a cigarette and limped as fast as she could down Commercial to the grassy incline of Portsmouth Square, heading for Kearny and a number 16 White Front to the Ferry Building and Treasure Island.

Lucinda. Had to be Lucinda. She'd catch her before the show, wait around the Gayway if she had to.

Down the side, past some shrubbery, couples on the lawn, old people on the benches. A man in a wide-brimmed fedora got up from the nearest bench, setting aside a newspaper, suddenly not old anymore.

Three steps, and he was even with her. One more, and a gun was poking her in the right side.

She stopped, staring at the Hall of fucking Justice.

“What do you want?”

“Not what I want, sister. What you want. You phoned Mickey.”

He was short, doughy, squat. Pug-ugly face, flattened nose, adenoidal growl. He jabbed the pistol a little harder. She gritted her teeth.

“You fucking shove that pistol in me again and I'll scream. That's the Hall of Justice—you figuring I'd drop by, or were you tailing me?”

He shrugged his rounded shoulders, relaxed the gun. “I don't need to tell you nothing. Move. Car's parked 'cross the street.”

They walked toward a black Packard, looked like a '36. He stayed on her around to the passenger side, shoved her in, her ankle turning on the slope, needles up her leg and back, sudden intake of breath.

“You goddamn bastard—”

“Save it.” He slammed the door, making sure she saw the gun trained on her as he waited for a delivery truck to pass, then slid behind the wheel. Transferred the gun to his left while he started the car, then took the wheel one-handed, pistol back in his right. Let out the emergency brake, rolling to Kearny. Turned right. Not the direction of the Black Cat Café.

“Where are you taking me?”

He stomped on his brake when a taxi hurtled down the intersection, swearing. Glanced over at her, gestured with the pistol.

“Where you wanted to go, sister. Now shut up before I backhand ya. Mickey don't say nothin' 'bout what kinda shape he wants ya in.”

He drove on to Geary and headed west, speeding up, slowing down, and she braced herself against the frame of the door, trying to protect her ankle, biting her lip from the pain.

Goddamn it. Bum arm, sprained ankle—and no Baby Browning.

*   *   *

He pulled up next to a nondescript dive with a broken neon sign advertising
CHAT NOIR CAFÉ
—2059 Sutter, not too far from Sherith Israel and Harry Flamm's respectable cover. Name rang a bell, but her ankle hurt too fucking much for her to think straight, let alone remember where she'd seen it.

Short and Stubby rubbed out his nickel cigar in the overgrown ashtray, gestured with the pistol.

“Get out. I ain't your goddamn chauffeur.”

She opened the door, stood with difficulty, leaning on it until he came around the front of the car and slammed it shut.

“Inside, sister.”

He nodded at the café. She walked in front of him, through a screen door and a wooden one, brittle white paint dropping snowflakes on the copper footing. The restaurant was empty except for an old man slurping chili and onions at a corner table. A burly man in a stained T-shirt presided at the counter, gave Stubby and Miranda the eye.

Stubby said: “Tell the man I brung the Corbie broad.”

The counterman nodded, disappeared through a door on the right side of the main room. Small place. Just a few seats, tablecloths unlaundered, thrown sloppily on rickety tables. Flies mating on the silver pickup counter in front of the kitchen, buzzing in slow circles around the cash register. The man in the T-shirt lumbered back through the door, gestured with his head.

“Said to come in.”

Stubby flashed his .38, jabbed her in the back to show what a big man he was. She spun around toward her right and threw a backhand as hard as she could at his fleshy face.

Knocked him backward, caught him by surprise. The man in the T-shirt sniggered.

“I told you to keep your fucking gun off me.”

Stubby rubbed his cheek, eyes small and sparking. He cocked the .38. Miranda stared at him, fists clenched.

The side door opened. Another voice drawled: “Well, lookie here. Mitch can't handle the dame. C'mon in, honey, Mickey wants to meet you.”

Big man, red suspenders, pungent smell of bay rum and whiskey. Hair slicked back like Muni in
Scarface
. Crooked teeth.

Miranda turned around, conscious of Stubby and his gun behind her, making noises. She limped slowly through the open doorway, brushing by the man in red suspenders.

“Felt good, honey, do it again.” He laughed, teeth yellow, throat red.

She ignored him. Walked toward the light.

*   *   *

Behind the door the hallway led to a wire room, about eight men fixing bets on races coming in across the country. They barely acknowledged her presence. The torpedo in red suspenders walked her through to a doorway in the corner. Knocked three times, pushed it open.

Expensive room, expensive desk. Behind it sat a broad-faced little man, about five or six years younger than Miranda with smashed ears and a scarred nose, chubby with muscle gone to fat. A blonde with her skirt up above her knees was bouncing on his lap. He waved a Havana cigar at them, thick eyebrows lifted in apparent good humor. Scratched a thumbnail on his five o'clock shadow.

He was dressed in a powder blue suit, yellow tie, and display handkerchief. Pricey, tailored, loud. Hat matched the tie, custom job, resting on the desk in front of him.

The blonde looked up, pouted when she saw Miranda.

“Gee, Mickey, ain't I special no more? You cratin' in other broads now?”

He shoved her off, slapping her on the ass. “Business, Doris. Go powder your nose or somethin'.” Voice was a growl, with a hint of Coney Island.

The blonde straightened the skirt and sashayed across the room, tossing her head when she passed. Whispered: “Keep your grubby mitts off, sister, or I'll rip your goddamn lungs out.”

The bird in suspenders chuckled. The blonde gave him a baleful eye, trying to maintain some dignity. He shut the door behind her. Gestured to Miranda.

“This here's Miranda Corbie, boss. She's the one that called Frankie.”

Mickey nodded, grinning. “Nice-lookin' package. I like shamuses what look like movie stars. Where's Harry?”

“Waitin' outside by now. I'll go check.” Suspenders left her, softly closing the door. The little man locked his hands behind his head and leaned back in the squeakless chair, grinning at her.

“You know who I am?”

She decided to play it bold. Strode as confidently as she could on a sprained ankle to one of the chairs set crookedly in front of his desk.

“You're Mickey Cohen, Bugsy Siegel's right-hand man. Mind if I smoke?”

He frowned. “I don't smoke and don't drink. I'm as pure as the goddamn driven snow.”

She shook out a Chesterfield while he watched. Lit it with the Ronson, inhaled, blew smoke over her left shoulder.

“So is Hitler.”

He laughed out loud, slammed his hand on the desk. “I had a feeling I was gonna like you.”

The door opened and Suspenders walked in with Harry Flamm. His face was sullen, scared. Mickey waved him to the other seat.

“C'mon in, Harry. Take a pew.”

Mickey leaned forward, elbows on the desk, adding to Miranda in a confidential tone, “He ain't the brightest bulb in the room. Say—how you like the suit? Snazzy, huh?”

Harry's face reddened. “I ain't done nothing wrong, boss.”

Mickey addressed him with overdone patience. “You know that, an' I know that—and now, Miss Corbie's gonna know that.” He looked at her. “So. You called the meeting, honey. Whaddya want? A cut of some action?”

She crossed her legs, drawing their eyes, inhaling the smoke. Looked at Mickey thoughtfully.

“I was wondering why Siegel's lieutenant is in San Francisco, setting up wires under the noses of the Lanza family. Then I remembered something. I remembered seeing a matchbook for this dump in a Cordoba tan Ford.” She leaned forward. “Why'd you set somebody after me, Mickey? To protect this bastard?”

She gestured toward Flamm, who started to rise out of his seat until the big man with suspenders shoved him back down hard.

Mickey looked at her with owl eyes, then burst out laughing again, hard enough to wipe his eyes. He said to Suspenders, “Get this—the broad thinks we tried to rub her out!” He laughed again, rough, raucous noise dying in a chortle, gleam behind his small brown eyes. Tongue between his teeth. “You wouldn't be bad to rub out, baby, but not with no gun.”