by Jenn Bennett
Astrid let out a slow breath. “Perhaps we aren’t.”
“Besides, I’m seeing a wonderful man now, so I don’t sit around pining for Bo. And I’m not the type of gal to try to take what’s not mine.”
“That’s good. Because I like you, but you were right earlier. If you try to take him from me, I will scratch your eyes out. I come from barbaric stock.”
“Mm. I’ll keep that in mind. I doubt Bo thinks of me as anything but a friend anymore, so you’re wasting your time worrying about it.”
“I don’t know about that,” Astrid mumbled. “He named his car after you.”
Sylvia’s eyes widened. “The Buick? You’re kidding.”
Astrid wished she weren’t. But as crazed and numb as she felt after absorbing all this news, something else was bothering her. An insistent guilt niggled and poked at her from a dark space inside her head. It was easy to ignore her own indiscretions when she was busy raging at Bo’s. Easy to forget that she wasn’t innocent, and her own indiscretions had occurred a lot more recently than two and a half years ago.
Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette. “You said earlier that you had a favor to ask.”
“Yes,” Astrid said, shaking off her self-reproach. Focus on right now, she told herself. She would deal with Bo later.
“You’re a telephone operator,” she said to Sylvia.
“I am.”
“So that means you have access to private addresses?”
“Yes.” Sylvia’s brow lowered.
“Bo and I are . . . well, we’re caught up in something. You remember the man who tried to attack me at Gris-Gris?”
Sylvia nodded.
“We’re looking for someone to help us with that.”
And after last night’s chaos—Bo getting stabbed, the trip to Dr. Moon’s . . . and every delicious thing that happened in the front seat of the Buick—Astrid woke up with an idea about a small detail they’d forgotten. On the night the yacht crashed into the pier, when Bo and she went on board, she’d remembered Bo talking to Officer Barlow about a man who’d claimed to have captained the yacht a year ago when it went missing. A man the police had dismissed as mentally unstable—just someone who’d seen mention of the lost luxury yacht in the papers and woven a fantastical story about swimming ashore.
What if his story wasn’t so crazy after all?
“This morning I called the police to ask about someone who’d been involved in a case related to the mess that happened that night at Gris-Gris,” Astrid told Sylvia. “They gave me his name, but they say he doesn’t have an address on file. He spent some time in a psychiatric hospital last year, and since then, he’s changed addresses and occupations. Honestly, I think the cops know where he’s living, but they won’t tell me. They’d probably tell my brother, but I don’t want to get him involved. And Bo says telephone operators know all the city’s secrets, so . . .”
Sylvia stared at her as if she thought Astrid needed to be in a psychiatric hospital herself—as if she couldn’t believe Astrid had the nerve to ask her this after all the wounds they’d both just reopened. But whether she’d realized that their conversation had created a strange bond between them, or whether she, like Astrid, refused to wallow in misery for too long, she relented with an exasperated sigh.
“What’s the name?”
“Marty Haig. He used to be a boat captain from Oakland.”
A black candlestick telephone sat on the table next to all the fingernail polish. Sylvia sighed heavily and grabbed it, pulling the tail of the cord that stretched across the room. “Let me ring Amy. She’s an operator, too. If she’s not too busy at her station, we can track him down.”
“Thank you.” Astrid rearranged her skirt over her crossed legs as Sylvia set the telephone base in her lap and picked up the earpiece. “By the way,” Astrid asked. “Do you happen to know what huli jing means in Cantonese?”
One finger held the telephone hook down. “Huli jing,” she repeated, enunciating slowly. “It’s . . . slang for a seductress. It literally means ‘fox spirit.’ It’s a supernatural creature from old Chinese folktales.”
Astrid sank farther down into the sofa cushion and smiled to herself as all the wounds she’d opened up in Sylvia’s apartment began healing.
EIGHTEEN
Bo parked by the curb on Market Street. After exiting the car, he pulled down the brim of his hat and strode down the sidewalk, passing in front of a six-story building with two steel radio towers atop it that both read “KPO.” Hale Brothers department store. He’d escorted Astrid here a dozen times over the years. He knew the floors by heart. One floor in particular . . .
This was where the Fitting Room Incident had occurred last year.
But he couldn’t think about that. He had worse things to worry about right now, like the possibility of Max jumping out to stab him again. And that Astrid had just been visiting Sylvia. Alone. Why in God’s name did she have to go and do that?
Umbrellas crowded the wide sidewalk. It was only drizzling, but the damp air made Velma’s minty nightmare poultice feel uncomfortably cool beneath his bandage. He ignored the pain and pulled up the collar of his coat, giving Jonte a little wave as he passed the familiar red-and-black Pierce-Arrow limousine. The Magnussons’ driver grinned and saluted Bo as he started the engine and pulled out behind a streetcar.
Yes, I’ve got her now, Bo thought with a mix of alacrity and dread. He watched Astrid’s fur-trimmed coat breeze through the department store’s glass doors and followed her inside.
The store was abuzz with shoppers happy to be out of the rain, browsing for holiday presents under boughs of festive greenery. He wove past shelves piled with towers of wrapped jewelry boxes and wood-trimmed glass cases filled with fancy bottles, ducking in time to avoid being spritzed with French perfume. Just past an enormous trimmed Christmas tree strung with glass-blown ornaments and silver tinsel, he spotted Astrid’s bell-shaped cloche and the blond curls peeking beneath it. She was heading for the stairs at the back of the main floor.
The thought crossed his mind that perhaps she really was only Christmas shopping, as she’d told Jonte before he excused himself to telephone Bo. But then he saw how fast she was taking the stairs and knew it was a lie. Astrid never rushed shopping.
Ever.
He stalked her through the millinery salon and the shoe section, where she paused to look at some pumps before resuming her whirlwind path up the stairs. Third floor, past the dresses—she really was intent on her goal not to stop here—and fourth floor, past the men’s clothes . . . and then fifth floor, past the cafe and the fur room. She was headed all the way to the sixth floor.
Nothing was on the sixth floor but the executive offices and—
KPO RADIO, a sign read on the wall. 680 ON YOUR DIAL. ALWAYS LIVE!
The National Broadcasting Company affiliate radio studio.
Breathless, stitches sore from all the stairs, Bo watched her breeze into the station’s front office and speak to a secretary. A few moments later, the secretary flagged down a silver-haired man who was walking down the hall. Station manager. That was who Astrid wanted to see, apparently. She shook the man’s hand, smiling prettily, and began chatting. Bo moved closer, just out of sight, so that he could better hear them.
“—and anyway, I’m sure you don’t have time to listen to little ol’ me.”
“On the contrary. I like your patter, Miss Magnusson. Anyone ever told you that you’ve got a pleasant voice?”
“Talking is my gift, sir.”
Bo smiled to himself. That was one way of putting it.
“If you ever were interested in putting that voice to work, we’re hiring voice actors all the time. Radio melodramas are the next big thing, mark my words.”
“You don’t say?”
He shook her hand again and she thanked him for helping her before he said som
ething to the secretary and left them, breezing past Bo. What the devil was she up to? The secretary, given some sort of permission from the station manager, was now escorting Astrid two doors down, where she knocked on a door marked: CONTROL ROOM A.
Enough. Whatever she was doing, Bo wanted in on it. He sailed down the hall, quietly stepped next to Astrid’s side, and stared ahead with her as the secretary got another man’s attention—some sort of engineer—who was working inside the control room.
Astrid jumped and put a hand over her chest. “Je-sus!” she hissed in a sharp whisper. “You scared the life out of me. Where did you—how? What?”
The secretary turned around and gave Bo a bewildered look.
Astrid cleared her throat. “This is Mr. Yeung,” she announced smoothly. Bo removed his hat and waited for her to finish with her normal cover-up—that he was there to carry her packages or that he was her driver or assistant. But she simply held her chin higher and smiled at the secretary as if she didn’t owe her any further explanation.
And maybe she didn’t.
“You’re in luck. Mr. Haig’s free now,” the secretary said, and moved aside.
Bo held out a hand. “After you.”
Astrid’s eyes flicked down his body. Back up. Her gaze met his and it was a searing jumble of indignation and rage. Rage . . . and a flicker of something he’d never, ever seen so baldly from her: raw lust. He knew it when he saw it. In no more than a single heartbeat, he felt the flame leap from her and catch him on fire. But just as quickly as it sparked, anger snuffed it out.
His head spun. Why was she mad at him?
What had Sylvia told her?
The door shut behind them, and Bo tried to quell his rising panic as he glanced around at the small, dark room. The walls were stuffed to bursting with large pieces of electrical equipment—amplifiers and switchboards, dials and wires. A small window looked out into the adjoining brightly lit room, which appeared to be the main studio; a small orchestra was playing in front of a live audience of twenty or so people crammed into folding chairs.
But here in this room, standing up on a cane from where he’d been sitting at a narrow desk, was a silver-haired man in his fifties wearing an ill-fitting navy suit. His eye twitched as he looked over Astrid, and then Bo. He was quite obviously confused as to why they were here.
Bo was wondering the same thing.
“Mr. Haig,” Astrid said, extending a gloved hand. Mr. Haig leaned on his cane and accepted the handshake with trepidation. “My name is Miss Magnusson, and this is my associate, Mr. Yeung.”
Associate. That was quite a demotion from last night’s erotic petting session in the front seat of his car. Was she punishing him for something she’d learned at Sylvia’s or merely being professional? He couldn’t tell.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to talk,” she said. “I know you’re a busy man, but we are investigating a minor incident and were hoping you might be able to help us.”
“Investigating? Like detectives?”
“Why, yes,” she said brightly. “Quite like that.”
Oh, this was straight out of her brother Lowe’s playbook. This was . . . so very Magnusson. But she didn’t have Lowe’s keen ability to lie with a straight face. The man would never believe—
“A young lady detective?” Mr. Haig said with the look of a man smitten. “I’ll be. That’s remarkable. Please sit and let me know how I can help.”
Bo rearranged two folding chairs in front of the man and waited until Astrid sat before he settled next to her. Then he crossed his arms and waited for what she’d say next. This was ten times more interesting than the show behind the window.
“It takes all of this to make those broadcasts come out of my radio, huh?” she said, glancing around. “How fascinating. Have you been doing this long?”
“About six months,” he answered. “Not as fascinating as it looks, I’m afraid. I’m good with machines. I used to repair ship radios—used to sail. But since this,” he said, tapping his cane against his stiff leg, “I’m better on dry land.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We are investigating the reappearance of a yacht that was lost at sea, and we understand that you once captained it.”
Now Bo understood. He snapped his head toward Astrid and stared at her, feeling just as awed as the engineer. How in the world had she tracked the captain down? With everything that had happened, Bo hadn’t even thought to do that. He now remembered talking to that pig Officer Barlow about a captain coming ashore last year.
He tried to give Astrid a pointed look but was distracted by the pallor that had fallen over Mr. Haig’s wrinkled face. The man was upset.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said. “Please leave. I have work to do.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Who sent you? Was it her? The widow? She said she’d leave me alone if I kept my mouth shut!”
“Mrs. Cushing?” Astrid shook her head. “Absolutely not. We’re not here on her account. In fact, we suspect she’s not a very nice woman.”
That was one way of putting it. And after assuring Mr. Haig several times that Mrs. Cushing didn’t know about this “investigation” or that they were even here, the old captain finally stopped trying to push them out the door. Astrid’s pretty smile certainly didn’t hurt. Neither did her confession.
“You have my word that no one will know about this conversation,” she told him. “But I fear that there is something dastardly going on with Mrs. Cushing. I am going to tell you something very private, Mr. Haig. I boarded the Plumed Serpent when she came ashore last week, and I experienced a very strange vision. It was so bizarre and chilling, I can’t get it out of my head. But I think something terrible happened on that ship, and I fear several people who boarded it a year ago did not come back.”
Mr. Haig stared at Astrid with a haunted look, and after a long silence said, “No one believed me.”
“I believe you,” Astrid said, reaching to put a hand on the man’s knee.
He flinched a little and looked down at her brown leather glove. She withdrew it and gave him an encouraging smile.
Bo spoke up for the first time. “We both believe you, sir. And we’d like to prevent it from ever happening again. But we need to know what happened.”
Mr. Haig’s eyes watered. He swallowed hard and crossed his arms over his chest, knobby fingers still clutching his cane in one hand. “It all started the summer of ’27. I used to run a charter service to Marin County, carrying private parties across the Bay. But during a storm, I tore the hull on some rocks and couldn’t afford to get it repaired. I was out of work for several weeks and a friend took me out to a club to cheer me up.”
Bo perked up. “Which club?”
“A place down on Terrific Street.”
Terrific Street wasn’t marked on any map. It was something locals used to call a stretch of Pacific Street in the old Barbary Coast red-light district. Bo thought about Little Mike’s story of the dope addict striking it rich at the Pieces of Eight club.
“Where, exactly, Mr. Haig?” Bo asked.
“An old dance hall called Babel’s Tower. It’s a black-and-tan, just down from the main drag, so it doesn’t get raided as much as the others. Back before the war, I used to go to Spider Kelley’s and the Jupiter and pay ten cents to dance with the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen. Present company excluded, miss,” he said, giving Astrid a small smile.
“Babel’s Tower is still open?” Bo said.
Mr. Haig nodded. “Not every night, and it depends on whether the cops are in a mood to jump it. But you couldn’t pay me to go back there. Especially not upstairs. That’s where they recruit you.”
Babel’s Tower, the captain proceeded to tell them, was a two-story dance hall. Anyone could pay the door fee and enter the bottom level, o
therwise known to regulars as Hell. Dancing, drinking, music, gambling—Hell had all the normal attractions one would expect to find in an old Barbary Coast establishment. It also had a little something extra: its “taxi dance hall” girls. You could buy a ticket to dance with a girl.
“One song,” he said with a shy smile. “Ten cents for a dance to one song.”
Astrid inspected her nails. “If you felt greedy, would they let you buy two tickets so that you could dance with two girls at once?”
Realization was a tingling sensation that crawled down Bo’s spine and constricted his stomach. Astrid knew. Sylvia had told her. She knew!
Bo furiously scratched the back of his neck, as if he could wipe away the shame, and fought the dueling urges to either bury his face in his hand or cart her off somewhere private so that he could explain.
He glanced at her and saw pursed lips, one arched blond brow, and two almond-shaped foxlike eyes slanted in his direction. Those eyes said: Oh yes. I know everything.
Shit.
Gritting his teeth, he silently cursed Sylvia. He supposed this was her little revenge against him. No doubt he deserved it, but he damn sure wished he’d told Astrid himself. In about ten years. Or possibly when she was on her deathbed and had lost her hearing. Or possibly never, never at all—ever.
Unaware of the current crackling between Astrid and Bo, Mr. Haig just coughed into his fist and said, “Uh, no, but you could buy several tickets to watch them dance in private booths . . . err, burlesque style.”
Mr. Haig didn’t dwell on the details, and his face turned redder than a cooked lobster as he apologized to Astrid for speaking frankly.
Astrid unbuttoned her coat, clasped her hands, and settled them on her knee as her foot bounced a steady rhythm. She couldn’t possibly sit up any straighter.
“Anyway,” the man said, “there was a girl there who first told me about Mad Hammett. He’s in charge of the dancers. And he’s the one who can get you into Heaven.”
Mad Hammett was judge and jury over who was allowed in the coveted second floor of the club, where the wealthy and poor rubbed elbows. Mr. Haig was allowed upstairs after Mad Hammett discovered he could pilot boats.
