City of Secrets (8 page)

The young man opened his mouth to say something and the older woman held up a warning hand, looked at Miranda warily. “So why are you here?”

Miranda opened her purse and took out two more Life Savers. She sucked on them for a few seconds, trying to keep her hands still. Looked up, met the eyes of the kid.

“I want to find the sonofabitch that killed her.”

The young man's voice rushed out. “They targeted her. Because she was my girlfriend. I was just trying to tell Lucinda—”

Lucinda grabbed his arm and said it through her teeth. “Shut up, Ozzie. We don't know who this broad is yet.” Eyes like flint. “You got a license? You got ID?”

Miranda pulled out her wallet. Showed them both the license. Fought the urge to take out a stick, felt the sweat beading up on her forehead.

Lucinda stubbed out the Kool. The filter, stained with coral, still burned in the ashtray.

“So why do you care? It's not your job. Never was. You didn't know her.”

“I don't like murder. I don't like what was done to her body. I don't like Nazis. If those reasons aren't good enough for you, I've also worked here since '39. Call it professional interest.”

Lucinda tapped the nails of her right hand on the table. “OK. So you're Miranda Corbie, a broad and a P.I., and you slum down on the Gayway for two years, and you wanna solve a nudie model's murder. What's that got to do with me?”

Miranda looked from one to the other, the young man lowering his eyes to the table when Lucinda squeezed his arm.

“Maybe nothing. But I was told you were Pandora's best friend. Maybe only friend. Not a lot of people knew her.”

Lucinda glanced at Ozzie. “Go away, lady. I already talked to the johns. You can read the police report.”

The noise and the heat were starting to make her head hurt. The words came out sharp and staccato.

“Fuck the police report. You know something, goddamn it, you and this kid you're trying to protect. What you don't know is that another woman was killed today, just like Pandora. Same word on her body. I'm not getting anything out of this except a headache, and my patience is running out. Talk now or in court.”

Ozzie shrank in his chair. Lucinda stood up to the onslaught, skin reddening. Miranda took a few deep breaths, trying not to choke on the remains of the Life Savers.

“I suppose big-mouth Sheila told you.”

“Your friendship isn't exactly a secret.”

“No. But…” She motioned with her head toward Ozzie “His was. Ozzie was Pandora's boyfriend. And he's a Jew.” Lowered her voice. “Same as me.”

Miranda turned to the boy. “Was Pandora Jewish, too?”

He shook his head. “She wanted to convert. Said she was always interested in it. Her family was Presbyterian.” Eyes filled with water. “We were gonna get married when the Fair was over.”

Lucinda patted his arm. “Ozzie's an Aquadonis for Billy Rose. He and Pandora met about six, seven weeks ago, after we started rehearsals. You know what young people are like.” She smiled benevolently at Ozzie, shooting a warning glance in Miranda's direction.

Ozzie didn't pick up Lucinda's cue, and Miranda twisted her mouth into half a grin. She opened her purse, absentmindedly taking out the second-to-last Chesterfield from the pack still inside. It was in her mouth before she realized it. She shrugged, lit it with the Majorette. Grabbed the
Chadwick's Street Guide
and the pencil.

“I need your full names.”

“Ozzie Mandelbaum.”

Miranda looked up at the woman across from her.

“Lucinda Gerber.”

She wrote it down on the William Rudko ad page and asked, “That your real name?”

Lucinda was defensive. “Certainly it's my real name.”

“Did Pandora have any family?”

Emotion clouded the woman's hard face, softening it momentarily. “Poor kid. Came out here from Ohio. I think her mother's still back there—she used to get cards. Maybe a brother, too, but nobody out in California. You know how it is—came out all starstruck, figured she'd be the next Paulette Goddard.”

Lucinda shook her head, stiff waves of her hair trembling flat against her scalp. “She was a good kid. A sweet kid. There's some real bastards on this island, but I can't think of anybody rotten enough to do something like this. Especially to Pandora.”

“What about Henry Kaiser, at Terrell's place?”

“What about him?” Ozzie asked the question.

“I hear he likes to beat up girls.”

Lucinda studied her nails. “Dumb animals and dumb women. No offense to Pan—she didn't know any better, and if she did, she wouldn't listen. Always picked the wrong kinda guy. He asked her out the first day we started rehearsals, about eight weeks ago, and she only went with him twice. A real sonofabitch. He might be rotten enough, but I don't think he's got the balls to kill somebody. He goes for the safe play, the ones who don't fight back. Pan was through with him before she met Ozzie.”

The young man was holding his face in his hands. Miranda inhaled, making it last. Spoke to Ozzie, her voice gentle. “Anything else you can tell me?”

Face red, cheeks wet. Glanced at Lucinda, met Miranda's eyes. Deep breath.

“I got—I got a little packet of her things. She was staying with me to save money. I didn't want—didn't want to turn it over to the police.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, voice cracked. “It's all I got.”

“Where do you live, Ozzie?”

Hotel Shawmut. Jones and O'Farrell. They didn't—they didn't much care if we stayed together, 'long as I paid a little extra for Pan.”

“How about you?”

Lucinda was lighting another Kool, blew a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth.

“I got a shack of an apartment with two other girls. The La Salle, 650 Post.”

Miranda recognized the name of a run-down building not too far from her own apartment.

“Ozzie…” He looked up. She tried to encourage him with a smile. “I understand why you didn't want to turn her things over. How did you do it?”

“When I found out—I—I left. Ran home. Kind of expected to see her there.” His hands were trembling, but his voice held steady. “Of course she wasn't. I—I wandered around. Not even sure where. I'm off on Sunday until evening, and we were gonna—we…” He choked on the plural, wiping his eyes. Breath shuddered going down. Lucinda patted his shoulder.

The kid held his fingers over his red face until he could breathe again. “I knew they'd be coming—the police, I mean—so I bundled up a few of her things and came back here. Stashed them in my locker at the Aquacade. That's what Lucinda and I were meeting about tonight, to try to figure out what to do.”

He was rubbing a spot on his hand, over and over, not looking at either woman. “God, I—I don't want to live anymore. But I want—whoever did this—I want—” He shook his head again, unable to continue.

“Ozzie—may I see them? There may be something there that will help.”

He turned toward Lucinda, who gave him a small shrug.

“Maybe it'll help somehow, kid. Might be worth a chance. Cops'll just take it from you if they find out.”

He hunched over the table, too-large blue jacket flapping open. “I'd need her things back, Miss Corbie.”

She took a last draw on the Chesterfield and rubbed it out, making her voice as soothing as possible. “Of course. You have them in your locker now?”

He nodded. Stood up suddenly, pushed the chair back in, bent down to kiss Lucinda's cheek. “Thanks, Lu. You've been—been a real pal to both of us. I won't forget it.”

He held out his hand to Miranda to shake. She grasped it solemnly. “Thanks, Ozzie. Let's go.”

Lucinda looked up at Miranda. “Who was the other girl?”

“An Emporium perfume clerk. Annie Learner. You know her?”

Lucinda shook her head. “No. I was just thinking. If some lunatic is targeting Jews, maybe I'd better lie low for a couple of days.”

“Anybody here know you're Jewish?”

“Sheila. And if she knows, everybody else does.”

Miranda fished in her wallet for a business card, handed it to Lucinda. “Call me if I can help. Or if you remember anything else.”

The other woman was reading the card, fingering the drawn-on beauty mark on her cheek, and accidentally rubbing some of it away. “‘Private—discreet.' Yeah, well, I hope you're all of those things, lady. And something else—smart.”

She looked up at Miranda, worry in her eyes.

 

Seven

The exhibit buildings closed at ten, but there were families and couples and solitary people out and walking, trying to forget. About Monday, about their wives, husbands, children, the boss at the insurance firm, always picking, the same goddamn bus driver every morning, same grating voice. Old gossipy Mrs. Robertson down the hall and the young girl dating Davey who wasn't what she should be. Petty grievances of everyday life, of peacetime life.

A luxury made in America.

She popped two more Life Savers in her mouth. Turned to the tall young man standing in the colored light.

“Please do what I said, Ozzie. The bulls'll throw you under glass in a heartbeat. It's withholding evidence.”

His chin was stubborn. “It's—it's all I got left.”

She looked out at the dark smear that was the Lake of Nations, cry of a night bird high overhead.

“I understand. But Pandora wouldn't want you to go to jail. Do it for her, Ozzie. Please.”

Raised his face, eyes red even through the blue green lights. “I'd better go in, Miss Corbie. I got a key to the performers' entrance … some of the gang usually hang around after the last show gets out at ten thirty. I don't want them seeing me.”

“Or me. How about if I wait in the Court of Flowers?”

“I'll find you.”

She nodded. Ozzie blended into the night.

Miranda walked back through the giant Arch of Triumph, fountain gurgling in a syncopated rhythm.

Imitation Europe. Built to last another year, then tear it all down, make way for an airport. Maybe the real Europe would be torn down by then, too.

Flowers reflected in the spray, flowers everywhere. Fragrant reds and purples, framed in pastel and bright yellow lights, effusion, passion, love, and beauty, all screaming joy, joy and love forever, just like a fucking Miller song, like the teenagers sitting on a bench, like the old people arm in arm.

They wanted to forget the world, keep it back. Make it stop.

She raised her eyes to the gold phoenix on the Tower of the Sun.

No stopping, not now. Fall, fall, fall, Humpty Dumpty and the goddamn eggshell earth, cracked and broken. Bombed and bloody.

Their heritage, their fate, their role on the stage. Out, out, brief fucking candle, but burning like a firework they were, the ragtime jazz-time we're in the money babies, conquer the world, conquer the Depression, make a utopia, Shangri-la.

Her generation. Their world.

Dying, dying, dead.

*   *   *

Ozzie found her standing by the pansy border. He held out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“I'd like it back tomorrow, Miss Corbie. And then—I'll do what you said. I think Pan would want it that way.”

She took it from him, her face in shadow. “Thanks. I'll bring it back tomorrow evening. Same time at the Ron de Voo?”

He nodded. “I want to help. Please let me.”

She took a step closer, blue and green lights illuminating the half-smile on her face. “You already have, Ozzie. If there's anything else, I'll let you know. You got a phone number?”

“ORdway 4884. That's the hotel.”

“All right.”

She started to walk back toward Pacific Avenue and the Gayway, and he grabbed at her arm. “Wait—are you going to go talk to Kaiser?”

Anger, betrayal, shame. He hadn't known about the other man. Her voice was gentle.

“Ozzie, this is my job. Let me do it.”

“But you might need—”

“I won't. Go on back to the Aquacade, find your friends. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He hesitated, fists balled up, shoulders tense. Miranda said softly. “Go practice. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Ozzie hung his head and walked away, dark outline finally disappearing through the Arch of Triumph and into the Court of Reflections.

She looked at her watch: 1:15
A.M.
Henry Kaiser was waiting.

*   *   *

She walked past Monkey Mountain, animals trying to doze under the harsh bright light of the Gayway. A few stragglers, mostly drunks wandering out from one of the flesh shows, always lining up with their hands on the bars, making Tarzan noises, making faces at the chimps. Once in a while, one of the animals would throw a pile of shit at the tormentors on the wrong side of the bars, but satisfaction was short-lived. Defense qualified as misbehavior, and one of the so-called trainers would come outside with a strap.

Can't have monkeys act out of place, lady. They're losing us money, can't risk the show gettin' the boot. Goddamn dumb animals. Don't know any better, do they?

Man about five feet nine in a rumpled brown suit and no hat was starting to bang on the bars, shouting at the tired chimps. None of the workers in Captain Terrell Jacobs–branded overalls came out from the door in the back. No cops at this part of the Gayway, not now.

The act was locked down, deserted. Children's elephant ride closed for the night, the giant gray animals huddled in stalls on the inside of the building, their slow, gentle stamping a dull thump on the layer of straw. Old circus lions and tigers paced and panted in small dingy cages, endlessly roaming, endless quest for escape, toothless kings of the fucking jungle made by Ringling Brothers and Jacobs, step right up, folks, it's a thrill a minute for the brave wildcat trainer, armed with a pistol and a whip, step right up …