City of Secrets (6 page)

She pulled the door shut, stepping into the dark hallway.

She was alone.

*   *   *

Traffic on California was crowded with honking cars, fairgoers on the way home, welders back from overtime at the factory, heading for the Koffee Kup on Geary or Roberts at the Beach for a quick dance and maybe a hand job on Ocean Beach.

The
WALK
sign finally clanged, rose slowly. Rick stood across the street at California and Webster, waiting at the cable car stop, waiting for her. Arms folded.

“Jesus Christ, you could've told me—”

“Don't start. You said you had a lead and I acted on it. Harry Flamm's a minor league huckster with his hand in the till—probably gambling with synagogue money. You bothered him, and I made you go away.”

She opened her purse, took out another pack of cigarettes, and peeled off the cellophane. Her fingers found the matchbook from Flamm's office.

“Besides, you know what I do for a living.”

“Yeah, Miranda. I do. Doesn't mean I want to watch.”

She exhaled, thin gray cloud against the blue black sky. “Nobody asked you to. You've got your exclusive.”

Someone turned on a car radio, Jack Leonard and Tommy Dorsey warbling “All the Things You Are” over the traffic.
You are the breathless hush of evening …

“So I did. Did you get your lead?”

She shrugged. “Like I said—something's wrong with Flamm. Seemed agitated when I mentioned the murder. Maybe he's a single operator, maybe not. Smelled like low-grade gangster to me.”

The cable car crawled up, bell ringer punctuating “Moderne” with two short clangs. She dropped the cigarette, rubbing it out on the sidewalk, found a nickel in her change purse and a seat on the inside bench. Rick squeezed between Miranda and a hefty woman in furs with a chest like a battering ram.

She looked down at the matchbook, still in her hand. The Black Cat Café, EXbrook 9511. 711 Montgomery. Squatty, nondescript dive on the poverty row end of the International Settlement.

Car started with a lurch, throwing her against Rick. His arm flew around her shoulders instinctively, lingering for a moment. Upside-down smile, hurt eyes. Goddamn fucking hurt eyes, all the fucking things you are …

She looked away, looked down, opened the matchbook. Thought about Flamm's face when she mentioned Pandora's name.

Eight matches left. Small writing, scrawled on the inside front cover in black ink: “Mickey wants to see you.”

She dropped it back in her purse. And wondered who the hell Mickey was.

 

Five

Rick nudged her when they reached Nob Hill. “Mason's the next stop. You going home? Or do you want a drink? It's only seven—still early.”

She turned around to look out the window at the Mark Hopkins entrance, doormen opening all four doors of a black Pierce-Arrow, blondes in silk and white fox tumbling out like bowling pins. Weak-kneed heir to a bottlecap fortune straightening his top hat, trying to two-step the entranceway. The cable car clanged and rolled past, tilting precipitously down the California grade.

“Thanks. I need to get back to the Island, see what I can find out about Pandora.”

He grunted. “And I've gotta convince Gleason to run the story.”

A three- or four-year-old Ford sedan in Cordoba tan sped up behind the cable car, then dropped back. Not passing. Not turning. Following since Leavenworth. The back of Miranda's neck tingled.

Up and down. Fast and slow. Two dark forms in the front seat.

Finally made a right down Monroe to Bush. She'd been holding her breath.

She opened her purse, pulled out a stick. Hand shook when she lit it. The cable car crawled to a stop at Montgomery, and Miranda stepped off, Rick behind her.

Financial district. Banks, skyscrapers, Russ Building towering over everything with the air of a maître d'. Dark canyon, office lights like little yellow eyes. North on Montgomery was the Hall of Justice. And the Black Cat Café.

“What are you looking at, Miri?”

Miranda blew a stream of smoke, watched it float over Montgomery Street. “Nothing. Let's go.”

*   *   *

Rick insisted on walking her to the front door of the Monadnock, still packed with travelers, third and fourth floors lit in soft yellow.

Thickset man with a limp and heavy five o'clock shadow waddled out from behind a newsstand, plucked Rick's sleeve.

“You're Sanders, ain'tcha? News hawk for the
News
?”

“Yeah—what about it?”

“Nothing, gent. Name's Mike—usually work the corner 'cross the street. I seen you before, that's all, and heard some other fellas lookin' for you. Somethin' on account of this here.” He pointed at the headline, extra evening edition.

Miranda grabbed at the paper. Rick dug out a quarter, told him to keep the change.

Headline read:
EMPORIUM GIRL FOUND STABBED.

*   *   *

Rick ran for the number 8 White Front headed down Market, dodging another Municipal train and almost getting an arm cut off in the narrow clearance between the two. Shouted to Miranda that he'd let her know. She waved him on to Mission Street and the office of the
San Francisco News
.

She looked at the front page again. The
News
made it sound like Annie Learner kept too many boyfriends on a string, one got jealous, and knifed her in the apartment.

Miranda puffed furiously on the Chesterfield, skimmed the other papers. Gladys wasn't working the lobby stand tonight, and the redhead behind the counter was bored and tired, paying no attention to Miranda or the ten-year-old boy opening up packets of Chiclets while his mother read the latest
Modern Screen
.

Chronicle,
page seven.
Call-Bulletin,
second page.
Examiner,
page nine.

Middle-aged businessman in a faded blue suit sidled next to her in the elevator, trying to read the headlines. She left him still curious at the fourth floor, taps on her pumps echoing in the hallway.

Crowds were finally thinning out. A couple waiting for the elevator stepped in, smiling over securing the last overnight to Chicago.

She paused in front of her office. The Cordoba tan Ford bothered her. Miranda shrugged it off, put it down to nerves left over from the Takahashi case.

Nerves. That's what the fucking Chesterfields were supposed to take care of.

She unlocked the door quietly, immediately hit the light. Exhaled, smiled at herself.

There was a large file folder on her desk. She picked it up, read the note from Allen:

Here's the dope on some dopes. Hope it helps. A.

Unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk, took out the Old Taylor. Found the Castagnola glass sitting next to the safe, smelled it, poured a shot of bourbon. Drank it down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Poured another, set it on the desk.

The safe was always hard to open, thanks to a sticky combination and years spent protecting Wells Fargo gold. It finally swung wide with a squeal, and Miranda picked up the .22 from the lower shelf. Just in case.

She set the pistol on her desk, took the cigarette case and extra deck of Chesterfields out of her purse to make room. The Black Cat Café matchbook came up in her hand, and she stuck it in the cigarette pack, locking everything up again.

Checked the springs on the magazine, reloaded the gun. Took a deep breath.

Sank into the leather chair and faced the phone, dialing quickly. Girl's voice, bouncy. Must be the new shift.

No, Miss Corbie. No messages. Yes, Miss Corbie. Better get a paying case soon, Miss Corbie.

She threw back the second bourbon, grabbed her spare coat from the wardrobe. It was black wool and didn't match the green, but no one on the Gayway worked for
Vogue
.

She was halfway to the door when the phone rang.

“Miranda Corbie speaking.”

“Glad I caught you.” Rick, sounding far away, siren drowning him out. “I'm at the Hall. Listen, it wasn't in the papers, but this girl—the Emporium perfume clerk—”

“Yeah, yeah, tell—”

He cleared his throat, then paused for a moment, voice low.

“‘Kike' was written on her stomach.”

*   *   *

She squeezed through the squeaking doors of the Last Chance Saloon. A well-dressed drunk catapulted out, hand on his crotch. Defense attorney blustered in after her, only a few rumples in the navy blue suit.

Silver hair, silver tongue, and I wouldn't turn down yours, lady, if you use it in the right place. Hips thrust against her side, eyes confident, up and down, hand in his own pocket for a change.

Miranda stared at him and he blanched, backing into one of the saloon's dark corners. Rick took her arm.

“Keep your head low and your mouth shut. Couple of boys from homicide on the other end of the bar.”

She nodded, letting him steer her to the opposite corner. They crowded next to each other on the dark ruby leather wall bench while “In the Mood” played on the yellow-and-orange Wurlitzer and couples danced in between the small wooden tables. A Scotch and water balanced precariously on the cover of his notebook, half-empty.

“They figure ice pick again. Just like your girl. Not just twice, though—a couple of times. In the chest and neck.”

Miranda plucked at a stained cocktail napkin barely protecting the table. Gray splotches and gauges marked the wood, marked the whole goddamn place. Just half a block down from the Hall of Justice, home of lost chances and last chances colliding in courtrooms, victims caught in between.

She folded the napkin like a fan, straightening the edges. Two uniforms at the bar were trading barbs and baseball scores with the plainclothes dicks beside them.

“Written with her blood?”

Rick nodded. Paused and downed the rest of the Scotch and water.

She opened her purse, took out a thick pencil and the
Chadwick's Street Guide
.

“Got an address for me? Relatives, boyfriends, any leads?”

He scratched his chin, fingers digging at the black stubble.

“Long list, according to the cops. They figure same M.O., same killer, but still keeping Pandora under wraps. I've only got tonight to break the whole story, by tomorrow every paper in the city will be on it. I only got as far as I did because Hoolihan owes me fifty bucks.”

“I won't keep you. Just give me the address—I'll call if I come up with something.”

“Drexel Apartments—119 Haight, number eleven. No family in the city, but there's a sister and mother up in Walla Walla.”

“Was she Jewish? Go to a synagogue?”

“Not often enough, according to some of the neighbors.”

Miranda nodded. Shoved the napkin aside and stood up.

“Thanks, Rick. I mean it.”

He pushed himself up from the narrow bench, juke crooning Miller's version of “Stardust.” One of the secretaries from the police pool was draped all over a big Irish cop, eyes closed, moving to the music. His callused hands, freckled, rough, held her like a piece of blown glass.

Rick stared into Miranda's eyes. “Be careful, Randy.”

She flinched. Said briefly: “I always am,” and walked out through the doors of the Last Chance Saloon, ancient wood and hinges creaking, swinging into the night.

*   *   *

The cop at the turnstiles was too busy helping a stooped old lady and her middle-aged daughter in baggy tweed. Didn't know the dark-haired ticket taker by name, but he smiled and waved her through, and she pushed forward quickly, heading for the Gayway.

Loud applause erupted from the Cavalcade building, drowning the fragments of swing from the Dance Pavilion and the thin, reedy calliope beckoning children to the rides.

The sawdust underneath her feet felt almost as welcome as the faces that creased in recognition, patting her arm, Midget Charlie taking off his hat, bowing low, single leftover from the Village last year and now working for Ripley.

She headed straight for Artists and Models. No beat cop outside. Found Fred but not Tom.

His smile was hesitant. “I'm sure glad to see you, Miz Corbie. Tom ain't here, though.” Swallowed hard, wiped his face with his arm. “They hurt him kinda bad.”

“I'm here to help him—to help Pandora. Are there any girls who knew her better than others? Anyone I could talk to?”

“I—I think Lucinda mighta known her some. I seen 'em talkin' together before. The girls' hours was always gettin' moved around, dependin' on which girls Mr. Schwartz liked best.”

“He like Pandora?”

Fred nodded. “'Swhy she opened. He liked her a lot.”

Max Schwartz was a flesh impresario that liked to preview the merchandise and buy what he could on the side. He owned and operated most of the shows that Sally didn't … Artists and Models, Candid Camera, Greenwich Village. She flipped open the notebook in her purse, took out the thick pencil and scrawled “Schwartz” on the page. Looked back up at the large man in front of her, his head bent forward in an effort to understand.

“Does Lucinda work tonight? It's ten o'clock,” she added.

He scratched his ear. “Around midnight, maybe. Last show's at one forty-five, right before the Gayway closes.”

“Can I go back to the dressing room, see if she's there?”

“Sure, Miz Corbie.”

He led her through a small tunnel backstage, with a green room right off the platform where the girls waited before draping themselves in a not overly tasteful tableau.

Two more doors on the left. He knocked. Female voice answered, raspy and bored.

“Yeah?”

He opened it a crack. Another bleached blonde, about thirty-eight, dressed in a cheap purple rayon robe and sitting at a World's Fair souvenir card table, playing solitaire. A younger brunette sat on a stool in front of a three-light-bulb mirror, rubbing Pan-Cake on her cheeks and face. They both looked from Fred to Miranda. The blonde's expression was wary. She stood up.