San Diego Noir

by Maryelizabeth Hart

  She pursed her lips and looked me over with an appraising eye. “We might.” I felt like a cut of meat in a butcher’s window. “We only rent to girls with good jobs—respectable girls, factory jobs.”

  I thought fast. “I’m starting tomorrow morning at Consolidated.”

  “Doing what?”

  Might as well pick up where Mary left off. “I’m working on PBYs. Riveting.”

  “Let me get you an application. Come on into the office and you can fill it out. I’m Mrs. Smith. My husband and I own the place, and we live right here, so we don’t allow any funny business. No parties, no men.” She glared significantly at me.

  “I’m very quiet.”

  “Quiet is good.”

  We walked across the wide foyer and through a dining room that smelled of stale coffee. She pushed open a swinging door and led me into a large kitchen. One corner was dominated by a huge rolltop desk. Mrs. Smith pulled a pad of rental applications out of a cubby, peeled one off, and pushed it toward me. “Have a seat. Fill this out.”

  She sat in the heavy rolling chair at the desk and crossed her legs. The black crepe of her dress lay obedient over her knobby knees.

  I sat on a flimsy dining chair at a small deal table by the side of the desk and started on the form, facts and history all made up. I figured by the time any address or reference checking was done, I’d be long gone.

  Done. I handed her the form. She pulled a pair of goldrimmed glasses out of a brown clamshell case and snapped it shut with a clack. She peered over my peerless work of fiction.

  “You’re from Iowa?” she asked. “We get a lot of girls from the Midwest—must be nice to get away from that heat.”

  I nodded, trying to look both respectable and quiet. Mrs. Smith glanced at the ring on my left hand.

  “Married?”

  I almost nodded again, but inspiration struck. “My husband was killed at Guadalcanal. I couldn’t take being alone in our house back there, so I came out here to help with the war effort. It’s hard being away from my family and everyone I know, but at least I feel that I’m helping get back at those Japs for killing my Bill.” Thinking of my real Bill possibly being killed brought me to real tears, and I dabbed my eyes with my handkerchief.

  “So you’re all alone?” Mrs. Smith’s eyes softened a bit. “Well, the room’s yours then. That’ll be five dollars for the first week, plus another five-dollar deposit—refundable if you leave it in good shape.”

  I fished my change purse out of my handbag and handed over two fives. The two-dollar retainer I’d gotten from Joseph Przybilski didn’t cover this at all—too bad I didn’t really have a job at Consolidated to pay for it.

  The back door opened and a burly man with wide fat shoulders and heavy bare arms, wearing a T-shirt and khaki pants, came in. Through the doorway, I saw the handles of garden tools lined up on the back porch. He was sweaty, with dirty hands—the odor of dirt and perspiration followed him in.

  He tipped his chin at her, gave me a curious glance, then took the straw hat off the back of his head and hung it on a hook by the door. He went to the sink and began to wash up.

  “George,” said Mrs. Smith, “come meet Laura Taylor, our newest tenant. She’ll be in number 14. Mrs. Taylor, this is my husband, Mr. Smith.”

  “How do you do,” I said.

  He took a clean white huck cloth towel from the swinging chrome rack by the sink and wiped his hands thoroughly, then came over to shake. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he rumbled. His hand was lumpy from hoeing and mowing and brown from working in the sun. He continued to look me over closely. Again, I felt like a piece of meat.

  “George takes care of everything outside, and I handle all the inside work,” Mrs. Smith explained. “It’s a perfect partnership.”

  Mr. Smith nodded. “I like the outdoors. Restful. But always something to do.” They exchanged a look that said things I couldn’t fathom.

  “I’ll be running along now,” I said, and thought that running might be a very good idea. “I’ll be back with my suitcase later.”

  “Later, then,” replied Mrs. Smith. Mr. Smith nodded. They both saw me to the door and stood on the porch as I walked down the steps and along 20th to the bus stop at Market Street.

  Back at the office, I smiled as I opened the safe. The combination was our anniversary: 6-16-37. “That way, I’ll never forget it,” Bill had said, and it worked.

  This year, knowing he was going to ship out soon, we’d taken a trip to Mexico for the day. We’d strolled the streets of Tijuana and enjoyed the mariachi music pouring from the clubs. Bill had convinced me to pose for a picture with a donkey painted to look like a zebra. In the mercado, Bill had fallen deep into discussion with the owner of a leather goods shop while I browsed the tailored jackets. He’d had a small package under one arm as we left, and didn’t unwrap it until we got home. It was a sewn leather bag filled with lead shot and attached to a sling—a sap, quiet and lethal.

  “It’s too hard to get ammo for the gun now, with the war on, but if you’re going to take cases, I want you to have some protection,” he’d said, and we practiced various moves as he showed me how to use it. Now, I took the sap out of the safe and slipped it into the bottom of my handbag. Then I packed a small suitcase and went downstairs to wait for the streetcar.

  The house loomed up against the deep blue sky. A dragon-like gargoyle snarled down at me from the top of the tallest tower. Like the house, he was painted white, with great green eyes and sharp wooden teeth.

  I shivered despite the evening’s warmth as I hauled my suitcase up the old stairs. I found the bell-pull and gave it a tug. The pachucos watched me from their post down the street.

  The massive door swung wide with an eerie silence. Mrs. Smith frowned down at me.

  “There you are. This way.” She hooked a thumb at me as a signal to follow her into the dark maw of the house. I followed, though every ounce of me suddenly wanted to run like hell. I had a job to do. I owed it to Bill. I owed it to the agency.

  We crossed the wide entryway and climbed the paneled stairwell as it turned and twisted to the third floor. The hall was barely lit by dim wall sconces. Cheaply constructed partitions bisected the original rooms. “Toilet’s in the basement, sink for washing up is down there too. You’ve got your own soap?”

  I nodded.

  “What, speak up!”

  “Yes’m,” I replied meekly, thinking this was getting off to a bad start with her.

  She said sternly, “Better keep it with you. Those girls are like a pack of crows, steal anything not nailed down.”

  Mrs. Smith tilted her head and eyed me with a half-smile, looking a bit like a crow herself, as she unbolted a flimsy plywood door and ushered me into a tiny room. There was hardly room for the metal chair and the skinny bed. It had a thin mattress made of ticking material with a flat pillow and a tired crocheted afghan for a blanket. She pulled the blackout curtains closed and clicked on an old lamp with a low-wattage bulb. An old orange crate set up sideways served as a bureau.

  After she left, closing the door softly behind her, I almost collapsed. I just managed to hold back tears. It was nearly nighttime, dark and shadowy. There was no bolt on the inside of the door, so I put my suitcase up against it, then tiptoed up to the window. I lifted the edge of the curtain and saw 20th Street in the failing dusk. The little grocery store was closing up for the evening. A man stood at the door, looked furtively around, and then knocked softly. The door opened a crack and he slipped in. A few people strolled in the dimness and the pachucos headed toward Market Street in a tight little pack.

  I pulled the curtain back some more. I could just see part of the rear garden below, a miniscule flash of day lilies and geraniums. A palm tree rustled in the breeze off the bay.

  I moved the chair over to the window, turned off the light, and fully opened the curtains to look down at the city. The waterfront and warehouse districts were graded squares of deep gray and black. The only illu
mination came from a dim layer of stars trying to twinkle through the evening fog on the bay.

  Strangely, I felt removed, almost peaceful. I don’t know how long I stared out at the view, but sometime later, when the street had become completely black and I couldn’t imagine anyone moving out there, I dropped the curtain and turned back to the tiny cubicle. I made up the bed as best I could and, without undressing, lay back.

  A fluting, wailing noise, distant and awful, set my hair on end. I rushed to the door and pulled it open. I heard it again, coming from down the hall. I rushed toward the sound and began thumping on another of those plywood doors.

  “Are you all right in there?” I asked breathlessly.

  A swallowed scream. A scraping noise. The door opened. A wild-eyed young lady farsightedly peered out at me. “Who’re you?” she whispered, skinny hands flying to the rollers that held her hair. “I’m a mess!” she mumbled.

  “You were screaming,” I said. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s the dreams, the bad ones. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you. You won’t tell Mrs. Smith, will you? I can’t get another place, and I got to keep my job!”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch you out.” I paused, then added, “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s ever since Mary left.”

  “Mary?” I kept my face blank. My heartbeat raced.

  “Had the room on the end. Real good-looker. But she up and left. Didn’t even say goodbye. I seen Mrs. Smith cleaning out her things real early in the morning and hauling ’em out the back door in a gunny sack. She didn’t see me, but I saw her all right. I tell you, I got scared and then the dreams started.”

  “I’m Laura, what’s your name?”

  “Nancy Bell, from Dayton, Ohio. Pleased to meet ya.”

  “Are you okay now?”

  She nodded. “Don’t mind me. I’ve gotta get some sleep—that alarm sure goes off early. Say, thanks for checking on me. That was swell of you. Really.”

  “Sure thing, Nancy. Sleep tight.”

  As I climbed back into my bed, after barricading myself in again, I vowed to have a thorough look around the house and the yard in the daylight.

  I slept fitfully, and dreamed of the dragon I’d seen at the top of the tower growing huge, breaking into my window and attacking me.

  When I woke, I lay in bed a few minutes listening to the mourning doves. I could hear the clatter of the other girls getting ready for the day. I had to get up with them so that I looked like just another factory worker. I pulled on my dungarees and plaid shirt, laced up my sturdy shoes, and went downstairs to use the bathroom. Nancy was there, splashing water on her face.

  “Hey, sorry I bothered you last night. Listen, lemme buy you a cuppa coffee to make up for it,” she said.

  “That sounds great—meet you out front in ten minutes?” Perfect! That would give us a chance to talk away from Mrs. Smith. I wouldn’t put it past her to listen at doors.

  Ready for the day, our hair tucked into bright bandannas, Nancy and I walked to the corner grocery and bought thick meatloaf sandwiches and apples for our lunches. The woman I’d talked with the day before took our money. “Are you living around here now?” she asked.

  “Yep, I lucked into a room at the Shepard House,” I said, with more gusto than I really felt.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Mrs. Giordano. The mister’s off working at the tuna cannery, so I’m here all the time. We live right upstairs here, so if you need something after I’ve put out the Closed sign, just come knocking at the side door. But not too late, now.”

  “Well, that’s real nice! I’m Laura Taylor, pleased to meet you.” We shook hands.

  Mrs. Giordano leaned forward and gave me a meaningful look. “I’ve got some extra ration coupons for sale if you’re interested. Meat, sugar, even gas … Just don’t spend them here, if you catch my drift.”

  “Err, no thanks,” I said. Those “extra coupons” would be counterfeit, and I wanted nothing to do with them. There was a lot of money changing hands in that racket, and I knew that organized crime was involved. Could Mary have threatened to report the Giordanos and they or their supplier decided that she was too dangerous to their operation? Mrs. Giordano turned back to the deli counter. A shaft of sunlight hit the knives hanging in a rack over her head, and her face was reflected in the broad blade of a cleaver, distorted into a brutal mask.

  Nancy and I grabbed our lunches and headed downtown. We found a little café just off Horton Plaza. It was called The Bomber. It had a red ceramic tile front wall and sported, over its door, a huge painted cutout of a B-24.

  Nancy and I squeezed in at the counter between clumps of sailors who looked like they’d been out all night. The mugs were thick and heavy and the coffee was hot. Not much more was needed for two factory girls after a restless night.

  “So you knew Mary?” I asked.

  “Not real well, she’d hardly been there a week before she left, and I’ve been busy with my beau, so we only visited a bit in the hall. But it’s weird the way she just left like that, and not taking her stuff. We’d talked about maybe going on a double date—my Fred’s got a cousin who was looking to meet a cute girl. But then … she wasn’t there anymore.” Nancy shuddered. “Gives me the willies.”

  I hesitated, then decided to take her into my confidence. Having someone on my side in that house seemed like a good idea. I explained, and her eyes got wide.

  “You’re a private dick? Holy cow, I never woulda guessed! But … what do you think happened to Mary?”

  “It looks suspicious to me. The whole neighborhood’s pretty creepy! Black-market coupons, those Mexican boys, the Smiths—what’s next, white slavers?” We both laughed nervously. “I think my first step is to poke around the house and see if I can find out anything. Is there ever a time when the Smiths aren’t there?”

  “Gosh, I’m not sure. I did hear Mrs. Smith talk about going out to pick some avocados today, maybe he’ll go with her.” Nancy glanced at her watch. “I gotta run, shift starts in fifteen minutes! See ya!” I saw her cross Horton Plaza in the bright sunshine, startled pigeons wheeling overhead.

  I went to the office and changed clothes—a wide-brimmed hat and quiet brown dress seemed less conspicuous than my bright shirt and bandanna—and made my way back to the boarding house. I positioned myself to the side of a hedge of jade plant and peeked around it now and then to keep an eye on the house.

  After a long two hours, while I repeatedly looked at my watch and sighed to give the impression of waiting for someone who was late, I saw the Smiths get into their car and slowly drive away. Everyone drove slowly those days, when they drove at all. Between the gas rationing and the impossibility of finding new tires, cars were used very cautiously. I missed being able to race down the Coast Highway from Del Mar, just for the joy of it. With Bill at the wheel of the Ford roadster, we’d laughed like maniacs and come home windburned and happy.

  I quickly crossed the street and let myself into the too large, too quiet house. The Smiths had kept the back parlor for themselves and used part of the adjoining old-fashioned kitchen for an office. I started there, rifling through the letters and files in the rolltop desk. Nothing unusual there. I picked open the center drawer and found the ledger book where Mrs. Smith had recorded my deposit and first week’s rent. The records began in 1942, after the Smiths bought the property and converted it to a rooming house. Her careful Spencerian script noted dates, amounts, and names. Each week, each girl’s payment would be recorded, and the room number she was paying for noted. Now and then a box in a separate column would be filled in with the word moved, and then that room number would show up with a new name, usually in the next week. Sometimes moved was written in red. I flipped to the previous month. Mary Przybilski was there—five-dollar deposit, five dollars for the first week, then the notation moved. In red.

  I felt a chill. I found the other girls’ names with the red final entry and jotted them down. Then I put the
ledger back in the drawer and locked it again. My heart was pounding. Red entries in a ledger didn’t mean anything—did they? I pulled open a bulky file drawer and found the folder of rental applications with mine on top, as the newest resident. There was a tiny notation in pencil at the bottom, a Y. Did that mean, Yes, rent a room to her? The next application was for Betty Andrews, a leggy blonde I’d said hi to on the stairs that morning. At the bottom of her application, a tiny N. Betty’s application listed her parents as references and they lived in nearby Lemon Grove. Then, Mary’s application. Her parents were listed as references, but they were in Iowa, and there was a Y on the bottom of her form. I thumbed through more of the file, finding N after N, then about six months back another Y. It was for Bessie Jones, originally from Oklahoma—and her name in the ledger had ended with a red moved.

  I paged back through the rental applications looking for the other girls on my list. Three … four … So far all of them had no local ties and Ys on their forms. My hand trembled as I searched for the sixth.

  Just as I found her application I heard a car door slam and then Mrs. Smith’s grating voice: “Just wait there. I’ll go through and open the back door so you can bring in that box direct to the kitchen.”

  Her firm tread on the front steps sounded like pistol shots. Bam! Bam! I gulped and stuffed the folder back in the drawer. Bam! I gave the drawer a good shove and got it mostly closed. Bam! I ran for the back door, and peeked out its small window. I could see the nose of the Smiths’ car. Bam! I slipped outside and frantically searched for someplace to hide. There was a huge gardenia bush by the back steps and I scrambled behind it. The heady smell of the flowers was overwhelming.

  Mrs. Smith popped out of the back door like a giant cuckoo. “Would you believe it? Unlocked! One of those stupid girls must have stuck her nose out for some fresh air.” Mr. Smith, biceps bulging, carried a wooden box piled high with avocados into the kitchen. The door closed.

  I stayed frozen in place for just a couple of minutes to make sure neither of them came out again. I crept out the side garden gate and walked briskly away down 19th Street.