City of Secrets (4 page)

“Because whoever killed her wrote ‘kike' on her breast. In her own blood. And she was naked, getting ready for the opening act.”

He raised his thick eyebrows, whistled. “Sweetheart, I don't know how you manage to be Johnny-on-the-spot, but Jesus Christ—try to stick to your Elks and Masons. No wonder they killed the story.”

“Maybe
you
want a drink?”

“No, but I can't blame you if you do. What about Gonzales?”

She picked up the glass again, sipped the bourbon. “Gone. Sniffing out fifth columnists in Mexico for the Dies committee.”

The Pinkerton tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. “You OK on dough?”

“For a while. Got anything to throw me?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Slow season. War jitters. Husbands and wives rediscovering each other. Goddamn depressing business.”

Miranda grinned. “Who are you kidding? You're a sap for your wife.”

Allen's scalp turned red, and he took a final drag on the Camel before standing up. “How 'bout lunch? My treat.”

She said slowly. “Thanks. No time, though.”

He stretched, brushing some ash off his brown wool blazer. “We've got a file on some local Nazi lovers. Obvious ones like the Bund and Silver Shirts, some not so obvious. Might help.”

“I appreciate the offer. The cops've got this shut tighter than a drum. Tighter than the Takahashi case.”

The Pinkerton looked down at her, eyes worried. “You're a hell of a shamus, Miri, but you almost got croaked in February. A lot of crazy sonsofbitches in San Francisco. Some of 'em run around wearing swastikas and picking fights with Jews.”

Miranda pushed herself up from the chair and stood, hands still on the desk. “I may have to drop it anyway—only got a few days before it's back to the Moderne and cheating husbands.”

Allen grunted. “And they're no cakewalk.” They walked to the door together, arm in arm, and he turned to face her, lines on his red face deep.

“I'll drop off a couple of mimeos. Make myself feel better. Be careful, Miranda.”

Her mouth twisted up at the corner. “Always, Mama. Always.”

He grinned and walked down the hallway, sound of his footsteps swallowed up by the laughter of a young honeymoon couple buying tickets to Niagara.

*   *   *

She phoned the papers, paid for the usual. “Can you trust your husband? Confidential, discreet.” Two weeks,
Chronicle, Examiner, News,
and
Call-Bulletin
.

Reached for the phone again and dialed Meyer's home number. Opened another pack of Chesterfields one-handed. She was smoking too much, but she could give Life Savers a try some other fucking day.

“Mr. Bialik, please. I'm a client of his—Miranda Corbie.” Tapped her foot, waiting for the housekeeper to deliver the message.

“Meyer? No—I'm in the office. Got fired. Sure they can. No, listen—uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, a security risk. Girl from Artists and Models was murdered—stabbed. Pandora Blake. And somebody wrote ‘kike' on her breast.… Yeah. Yeah, I know. But they wanted me to sign a contract—yeah, I got a copy, didn't sign—saying I wouldn't investigate, would turn down the case if someone tried to hire me, all of it. Threatened to take away my license.… No, O'Meara.”

She smiled at the explosion on the other end, tapped the stick on the ashtray. “Of course I am. Who else will?… Yeah. No, I'm OK. Sally cut me a check for a week's worth of pay and Burnett's money takes care of the office rent. Ads'll run tomorrow.… Yeah, yeah. I know.… Hell, yes—if you hear anything let me know.… OK. I'll drop it by your office. Yeah. Pandora Blake. Let me know. Thanks, Meyer.”

She dropped the phone, stared at it. Pulled out the desk drawer and rummaged for a Big Chief pad. Rubbed the cigarette out on the Tower of the Sun.

A church bell rang again, south of Market.
Dong
.
Dong.
Goddamn tolling bells.

She picked up the Esterbrook, blotted it. Wrote “Pandora Blake.” Chewed on the end of the pen. Blotted again. Wrote “Who is Pandora Blake?”

Looked down at the wet ink. Reached for another cigarette.

*   *   *

She'd gotten as far as “
twenty-two
,
bleached blonde
,
pretty
,
parents? Jewish?
” and “
men?
” when the phone blared. Watched it tremble for a second, hand hovering over the receiver.

“Miranda? Tried to reach you at home. I heard.”

Rick's lilt was missing, voice heavy with concern. It irritated her almost as much as the lilt usually did, Rick and his half-Irish bullshit blue eyes.

“What did you hear, Sanders? That I got canned or why?”

Grunt on the other end, punctuated by the clack of typewriters pecking out a letter at a time. “Christ, Miranda, don't take it out on me. I heard you got fired. Scat was iffy on the motive. Sam got back from Treasure Island this afternoon, glommed it from one of the barkers on the Gayway.”

She gripped the Esterbrook, wrote out, “A&M barkers,” on the Big Chief tablet. “Yeah. Iffy. They made Sally fire me because there's been a murder, and Dill and the whole goddamn board want it blacked out.”

She could see him push his fedora back, leaning over the receiver so no one else would hear. “Give it to me, Miranda. I'll blow it wide open.”

“I don't think you will. Girl at Artists and Models was stabbed, probably ice pick. Before the official opening. Somebody used her blood to spell out ‘kike' on her naked body.”

Exhale from Rick.
San Francisco News
room clatter got louder. “I'll badger Gleason—if they're clamping down that hard, he might buck it for an exclusive.”

“They threatened my license—wanted me to sign a contract saying I wouldn't talk, wouldn't investigate. I've only got a few days to give this.”

“So? What the hell's wrong with you? Bring me in on it. You usually do anyway, and all I get out of it is—”

“A hell of a story. You can shove the Little Boy Blue act.”

A police siren screamed from somewhere up Market. Her stomach growled again. Miranda twisted the stick in the ashtray. They were satisfying a hell of a lot less than usual.

His voice held an edge. “Do we really need this dance, Miranda? OK, I could use an exclusive. Something sensational. But it's not like we're not friends … old friends. If you still even remember what the goddamn word means. What about the Takahashi case, Burnett's murder, New York? It's not like you don't call me whenever the hell you need some quick information or sometimes just a padded shoulder.”

She set the receiver on the desk. Opened the drawer, looked at the pack of Chesterfields. Slammed the drawer shut again.

Rick and Miranda and Johnny. Old times, good times. New York times. Rick always there, watching her, trying to watch over her. Until he'd go away, leave for a while. Then back again, like a fucking stray dog.

She picked up the phone. “This is tighter than the Takahashi case.”

“And I came through for you.”

“You usually do. That's the problem.”

Clack, clack, clack.
Slow day in the newsroom. “Look, I don't know what the hell you're talking about, and it sounds like you started drinking a few hours too early. I'm coming over. Did you eat yet?”

“I worked through lunch.”

“Jesus Christ—it's almost three o'clock! I'll take you out for a hamburger.” He waited for a response, added casually. “And I wouldn't worry about the blackout—Gonzales should be able to feed you information.”

Miranda said slowly. “He's not around. Got drafted for the Dies committee. He's off hunting fifth columnists in Mexico.”

Pause. Rick's voice sounded like it had lost ten pounds. “I'll be there in fifteen minutes, tops. I may even have a lead for you.”

She dropped the phone, willing the clang to pull her out of the verses in her head, calliope and cotton candy, red letters on a white breast. Gave in and lit a cigarette and inhaled until it glowed red. Until her lungs were numb again.

Miranda walked to the window and pushed up the sill as far as it would go.

Sharpies in zoot suit trousers and wide-brimmed fedoras, waiting for the counter girl at the five-and-dime. White Front and Municipal Rail, match race down Market, bells clanging. Black coffee and diesel in the fog, twisted, gray, dancing like Lotta Crabtree, a whistle of wind, and the pungent tang of eucalyptus, straight from Marin.

It was always there for her, not always warm, but hard and fast and sure.

Her city. Where she was born.

Whore-mother, fickle nurse. Survivor.

Someone hit “Imagination” on the jukebox downstairs, Frank Sinatra crooning, spooning, floating to the fourth-floor window, to the woman with auburn hair leaning out the window, a cigarette between her lips.

*   *   *

“What'll it be?” Short gray hair, close cropped, small mustache. Bartender tough-guy act straight out of Warner Brothers, squinty eye and all.

“Scotch and water. Miranda?”

“Bourbon and water, up.”

He grunted and turned his back, clanging glassware. A skinny man in his early fifties with a meat-juice-stained apron came around and asked if they wanted food.

“John's special. You, Randy?”

She winced at the old nickname and handed back the menu. “Rare sirloin and a baked potato. Come with green beans?”

The barman slid two drinks across to them while the waiter stared at her. “Peas, lady. Say—ain't I see you in the papers?”

“Yeah, bud, she's Rita Hayworth. Move it along.”

He shrugged, disappearing into the kitchen. Rick looked at Miranda, took out a pack of Luckys and a Yellow Cab matchbook. Struck the match on his thumbnail and said: “OK, spill it.”

The bourbon wasn't Old Taylor, but it was Old something and felt good going down. She swirled the highball glass, watching the bourbon melt the water.

“Pandora Blake. Worked at Artists and Models. You know the act—girls sit on a stage, and the so-called artists pay a quarter to take their picture. She was around for the last part of '39 and came back this season. Opened the act for the early birds. A loner. I only talked to her once or twice. None of Sally's girls knew her, figured she was stuck-up.”

Rick lowered his voice. “What about the—the ‘kike' thing? Was she Jewish?”

Miranda shrugged, reached into her purse for her cigarette case. “Never came up. Tom found her before the show was even open—he works the lights, Fred handles the stage. Poor bastards got the third degree afterward, goddamn O'Meara looking for the easy out.”

“What time?”

“Tom got me at about eight forty-five. People were sneaking through early to line up at Sally's or get on the Roll-O-Plane. She was stabbed with something long and sharp. Probably an ice pick. They sell the goddamn things as souvenirs. Word was written in her own blood on her right breast. The left one was where the stab wound was.”

She swirled the bourbon again, took a long drink, holding it in her mouth before swallowing. Rick propped his arm on the counter, staring at Miranda, face red from the Scotch.

“This is one of those cases, isn't it? Where you go off on some mission like you're Sergeant York or Joan of Arc or J. Edgar Hoover. Get yourself in trouble, almost get croaked, till some knight in muddy armor like Gonzales shows up to save you.” He shook his head, threw back the drink in one motion. “Well, honey, it won't be me. This isn't Spain. It's barely San Francisco.” His raised his voice until the bartender couldn't pretend to be deaf.

“Another one.”

It took four tries for Miranda to light the cigarette with his matchbook. The skinny waiter pushed his way through the kitchen doors with two plates. She pinched the end of the Chesterfield and left it in the tin ashtray, then dug into the steak, heaping some butter and sour cream on the baked potato and helping it along with pepper and Tabasco sauce.

She finished before he did, relit the cigarette. The bartender tried to pour more bourbon, but she put her hand over the glass.

“You asked for the information, Sanders. I gave it to you. So fuck the Drew Pearson editorial, and fuck you, too.” She opened her pocketbook and took out a dollar coin and a bill, started to get up.

He swallowed a forkful of peas and choked, coughing over his plate. Reached for the Scotch and drained it. Wiped his mouth.

“All right, forget it. But Jesus Christ, Miranda, you were almost killed—”

“I'm not the goddamn princess on the glass hill. I earned my license. And yeah, I worked for Sally, but I took care of the whole Gayway, and Pandora Blake was killed on my beat. My watch. You can either help or get out of my way. Your choice.”

She was breathing hard. Rick finally found her eyes. He cracked a smile, his voice softer.

“Same old Randy.”

She glanced away. “This is business. Not auld lang syne.”

He cocked his head, wide mouth turned upside down. “Forgive me, Miss Corbie. I was overcome by Scotch and the scent of your perfume.” He dug in his pocket and slapped two dollars and fifty cents on the counter.

“I've got a lead—maybe. Let's go.”

Miranda pushed a dollar coin toward the bartender. Downed the rest of the bourbon and water, wiped her mouth with the rough dinner napkin.

“What kind of lead? And where?”

“Trust me for once.”

She shrugged, stubbed out the cigarette on the gold tin ashtray, and followed him out of John's Grill to Geary.

*   *   *

He led her up Webster Street, past the delicatessens and Japanese bakeries, past the faded Victorian boardinghouses. Radios blared from open second-story apartment windows, smells of tempura and pastrami and fresh-baked bread. A White Front chugged by on Sutter, where some Japanese and Filipino kids were playing marbles in a barbershop, pole spinning, cut and shave twenty-five cents. Miranda looked down Sutter when they crossed the street. No shoes from Mr. Matsumara today, no boarded-up Takahashi cleaners.