The reporter whispered: “Get ready. That’s the storm known as Bunny Berrigan. And I don’t mean the bandleader.”
“I’ve heard the name—and not just the bandleader.”
“You’ll hear more than that when she gets here. She’s Alexander’s public relations maven.”
Bunny was about twenty-eight with a good figure but a slightly bent posture, as if she were trying to apologize for her five-foot-nine height. The gown was custom-made, gold satin with silver sashes. The smile, when she approached, was ferocious.
“Darling Herb—how are you? Where’s Bea?”
He grinned. “The missus is visiting her mother—even showgirls have mothers, unfortunately—so I’m indulging in as much free champagne as I can. By the way, Bunny, this is Miranda Corbie.”
The redhead extended a firm handshake, no recognition or competition in her eyes. “Nicetameetya.” Her voice lowered. “Sylvia? You know where she is?”
“If you mean Sylvia Alexander, as I’m sure you do, she’s with Roger Roscoe on the other side of the elevators.”
Bunny held her hand to her brow as if scanning the sea for U-boats. “I don’t see Sylvia or Roger. Or Jerry. Oh—there’s Niles. All right. Take me to her.” Demand, not a request.
Caen raised his eyebrows and bowed to Miranda, curly hair gleaming with oil. “Miss Corbie—I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”
She smiled. “As long as it’s not in your column, Mr. Caen.”
He threw her a crooked smile and followed Bunny, who was attempting to drag him along at a faster rate.
Miranda lit a cigarette and stiffened when she felt a hand on her bare shoulder. She pivoted, expecting to slap Jerry Alexander.
Roger Roscoe was looking down at her, deep, anxious lines around his mouth.
“I’m sorry to startle you, Miss Corbie. It’s obvious I know who you are. And I wanted you to know … something’s wrong about Louise.”
Four
Miranda inhaled the Chesterfield, studying the writer through a puff of blue smoke.
“If you know who I am, Mr. Roscoe, then you know who I’m working for and what I’m working on is confidential information.”
He shifted his weight, blue eyes shiny, moisture dotting his upper lip. Cast a glance backward toward the seating area and Sylvia, who sat, quiet and limp, in an overstuffed chair by a window.
“Don’t feed me disclaimers, Miss Corbie. Louise must have hired you and I know why—I was there when she received the chocolates. I’m the one who told her to open them up and tried to get her to phone the police.”
“Mr. Roscoe—”
“Listen—I can walk you over to Louise right now and she’ll verify what I’m telling you. I know why you’re here. Don’t let’s waste time.”
No theatrical charm, no poetry. The writer was nervous and twitchy, glancing back again toward where he’d been sitting with Sylvia.
“What exactly do you mean ‘something’s wrong about Louise’?”
His eyes were grave. “Look, I care about her. She’s young, she’s naïve—and she’s hiding something. I don’t know what, but whatever it is—maybe that’s what’s behind all this. I practically begged her to call the police about those damn chocolates and she refused—tried to laugh it off. But she’s scared, all right. Scared plenty.”
Miranda tapped ash in a floor tray, frowning. “Any idea why?”
He hesitated. “No—but it’s there. I don’t think—I don’t want to think—that it’s Niles, up to old tricks. That’s the irony of it all—if anyone at Alexander Publishing is primed for death threats, it’s Niles himself.”
“By ‘old tricks,’ I assume you mean seducing small-town secretaries?”
“Yes. Among other things. Niles, I’m sorry to tell you, won’t be missed by many people. I’d hate—I’d hate to think he’s somehow responsible for this.”
She raised her eyebrows. “That’s quite an accusation, Mr. Roscoe.”
He brushed it away with a gesture. “That’s not what I mean. And call me Roger. No, I’m just wondering how and why someone would do this to her, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s a jealous lover somewhere. She’s hiding something or someone, I know it. Perhaps someone stirred up by Niles’ flirtation—and reputation.”
“In that case, why not target Alexander, too?”
He nodded. “Why not, indeed. Speaking as a writer, I can think of a hundred motives to kill Niles and not a single one to harm Louise.”
“He has that many enemies?”
“My dear girl, between the ruined women and the ruined writers…” Roscoe sighed. “And I can personally testify to the latter. He convinces young, naïve publishing virgins—and they’re all young and naïve if they’ve never been published, even if they’re as old as Grandma Moses or run a brothel—to sign a personal contract. Emphasis on personal. He owns the rights to your future works ad infinitum. So you either churn out pabulum for profit—and a miniscule one at that—or you rail against the gods. And you know how far the latter gets you.”
“Then why publish with him?”
The writer withdrew a small silver cigarette case and lit a Lucky Strike, glancing backward again before facing Miranda.
“Thanks to the contract, I have no choice. And that’s precisely why I haven’t had a book out in three years. B. F. Goodman wants to publish me. He’s Houghton Mifflin. I’ve got a novel I’m really proud of just sitting in a desk drawer. I won’t let Niles have it, but I can’t get out of the contract.”
Miranda examined the end of her Chesterfield. “Unless he dies.”
“Precisely. Not that I want that to happen—you may have heard—we still have something of a working relationship and his wife is a dear friend of mine.” Roger breathed in the cigarette, eyes shrewd and focused on Miranda’s. “But, as I said, I’m far from the only one with a motive. Take Smith, over there.”
He nodded toward the bar, where a small, hunch-shouldered man in a wrinkled gray suit jacket was seated at the bar.
“Howard Carter Smith, writes books as colorless as his name, old-news exposés and crackpot conspiracies and criminal life stories ten years out of date. He drinks too much, but that’s the gold standard for writers. Smith’s trying to make a comeback and you can bet Alexander is riding him hard. Maybe too hard.”
Miranda twisted the cigarette out in the standing ashtray, glancing up at Roscoe. “And here I thought all writers did was write.”
The author gave her an ironic smile. “We’re like actors you know—give the public the image of what they think a successful novelist should be, a writer with a capital ‘W,’ and sooner or later, so the saying goes, you become what you mimic. Whether or not I feel successful is beside the point. Not all of us can be Hemingway, but we all need to eat.”
Miranda inclined her head toward the bar. “Does that rule apply to Forester—or your friend Mr. Smith?”
Roscoe shrugged. “Forester is the quintessential English intellectual. Smith is a misanthropic drunk. Both are variations and roles well played.” He glanced backward again. Sylvia was gone.
“I must be getting back. My only motive in talking to you like this was to let you know about Louise. I’m worried for her—and about her.”
Miranda nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Roscoe. We may need to speak again.”
He bent over her hand, lips dry on her skin. “‘I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve/For sweet discourses in our time to come.’”
Roger Roscoe, pulp writer with a propensity for Shakespeare.
Miranda stared at his thin, upright back, threading his way through the crowd, the sound of faint, phony laughter and tinkling glass wafting from the bar.
* * *
The Sky Room was more scenic than advertised, windows to characters and plots more tortured than anything in Romantic Detective.
Maybe Caen had a point. Johnny used to call her the Light Brigade, charging where she shouldn’t …
You’re a good soldier,
Randy … a good soldier …
She swallowed another gulp of weak champagne, shoving aside the memory. Navigated the room, focusing on the view.
Herb Caen’s ubiquitous grin lit up a dark corner, Bunny Berrigan never relaxing her grip on the columnist. The redhead sat across from Sylvia Alexander and Roger, carrying on a loud and apparently one-sided conversation with the publisher’s wife.
Alexander stood nearby, laughing at his own stories of famous-writer gaffes, ignoring his wife and dictating to Louise, watching her, fondling her shoulders, his eyes growing smaller, his skin more red and his mouth more carnal with every passing Scotch and soda.
Jerry Alexander sat slumped in a chair on the opposite end, watching his father, drinking too much and too fast, his date gazing out the big dark window, pink tulle dull and drooping.
Roger Roscoe doted on Sylvia, whose nervous implosion grew with her husband’s appetite for liquor. They escaped from Bunny and disappeared together while the party was in full swing, hurrying to the freight elevator, Roger’s arm supporting her.
Howard Carter Smith, meanwhile, took his turn in the arena, propelled by Alexander. Short and stocky, about forty-five, thin brown hair plastered to his scalp, the “true-story” writer wore a Sears, Roebuck blue plaid shirt under his wrinkled gray jacket, all mismatched with brown corduroy trousers, cuffs frayed.
Miranda frowned. Not exactly Esquire, but his shoes were new two-toned wingtips.
Alexander ignored Smith’s glum eye and monotone grunts, praising him to a small circle of hangers-on. Miranda caught a few words like “literary” and “bestseller” and “Alcatraz.”
The party burned out in an hour, those at the periphery filtering out to find more and better excitement, others drinking at the bar until they had to be escorted to the exit. Louise was surreptitiously downing a gin and tonic in between shepherding various guests to the elevator instead of the stairs. Miranda cornered her by the now-empty champagne and canapé table, voice low.
“We need to meet. What time tomorrow?”
“I’d almost managed to forget.”
“You can’t afford to. Chinatown will be safely away from the office. Shall we say noon lunch at Fong Fong?”
The blonde blinked a few times. “Fong Fong? Where is that? What is that?”
“A soda fountain. Eight hundred block of Grant. And don’t forget to bring the other letters.”
The secretary suppressed a yawn. “I won’t. Thanks, Miss—Miranda. See you tomorrow.”
Miranda nodded. “Be seeing you, Louise.”
A crowd was clustered around the freight elevator, laughing in loud, slurred voices, men and women discussing business and war and politics with the detached amusement of the social register in a country safe from bombs.
She glanced around the pale blond warmth of the Sky Room, Alexander still backlit by the lights of San Francisco, Forester sill nursing a Manhattan, Caen gossiping in a corner with Bunny Berrigan. Jerry Alexander and his date were nowhere to be seen.
* * *
Miranda woke early, cursing under her breath at the empty milk bottles in the refrigerator. No oatmeal this morning.
Even twenty-five cents for breakfast was a consideration, especially if she wanted to keep her lease here and at the Monadnock, no more I. Magnin frocks and silly, frilly hats, no more splurging on perfume and moisturizing crèmes.
She was sailing into a war zone, goddamn it. And a penny saved was a penny toward keeping her life intact, the life she’d fought for, the license in her wallet, the apartment on the hill.
The life she wanted to come back to.
She looked around the bright kitchen, yellow light from the living-room window filtering in, wood floors golden, smell of cigarette smoke and coffee.
Hard to believe she was sailing away, sailing across the Atlantic under fire, sailing toward bombs and fires and underground shelters, toward meatless dinners and no milk for four o’clock tea.
Sailing toward a mother she never really knew—maybe—sailing toward the blood and the death she’d left behind in Spain three years ago.
Left behind with Johnny, buried in red Spanish earth.
John Hayes, newshawk with dock-hardened muscles and tousled blond hair, smell of his shirt collar and taste of his skin, the way he threw back his head when he laughed and then grew serious, blue eyes lit with fire over Spain …
Miranda took a shuddering breath. Three years ago.
Another lifetime.
And Johnny’s friend and her friend, the man who always wanted more than she could give, the friend who’d left New York and led her out of Dianne’s, Rick was in the goddamn army now, not Spain, no, but somewhere soon, in Europe or Africa or the Pacific, somewhere where other men would die, bodies blown apart by shrapnel, arms and legs riddled with bullets, streets, walls, roofs the color of blood … Rick, who always tried to watch over her …
There’s a somebody I’m longing to see …
Miranda shook herself, holding on to a kitchen chair with both hands.
The tightness in her chest passed. She’d eat breakfast at the St. Francis.
* * *
Miranda’s short heels clicked on the downhill pavement, calves straining to balance, the snug beret and light navy wool skirt tight against her thighs.
What the hell did she actually find out last night? Too much and not enough. Publishing was a business like any other except it wasn’t, what with personal contracts and gridiron heroes and misanthropic authors in plaid shirts and new Florsheims.
Louise Crowley was dutiful and pleasant and good at her job, everything a nice girl from Olympia should be. Except someone was trying to kill her, and not even Roger Roscoe’s pulp-writer imagination could come up with a reason why.
Miranda frowned. The writer saw fear in the secretary, too, maybe even the same sense of hesitancy, of holding back … of hiding something.
Niles Alexander was an exploitative bully, a philandering social climber, and there were no shortage of people who’d like to forget he existed … but Alexander hadn’t received threatening letters, hadn’t been pushed into a streetcar, hadn’t been mailed lethal chocolates.
And Sylvia …
Sylvia’s face was like a death mask last night, small teeth drawn up into a prematurely aged mouth, eyes dark pinpoints of rage.
Miranda looked up at the St. Francis, stern gray visage smiling benevolently, nothing but blue skies and fresh bay air for Union Square.
She frowned again, her stomach rumbling.
The blonde was in trouble, the danger around her palpable. What the hell was Louise Crowley hiding?
* * *
Gladys was sitting behind the Monadnock counter, bored and reading Modern Screen, brightening when she saw Miranda.
“Miri, sugar, I haven’t seen you in days! I’ve got two packs of Chesterfields and four Lifesaver rolls saved for you with the Chronicle.”
Gladys’ blond hair was newly arranged in an upswept style that formed a halo of curls around her face. Miranda smiled.
“Thanks, Gladdy. Been working late.”
The newsstand girl clucked, eyeing her with concern. “You won’t be in any shape to make an ocean voyage, Miri, not like this. I know you’re set on finding your mother and all—”
“Gladdy—”
“And I’m not sayin’ not to go, even though I’ll worry and I’ll miss you, and, well, U-boats and bombs and everything else … I’m just saying, sugar, that you need to put your best foot forward. We want you back in one piece. That nice Inspector Gonzales isn’t going to wait forever, even though he was here first thing this morning, asking about you, and I just think you—”
Miranda held up a hand. “Gonzales was here? What did he want?”
The blonde shrugged. “I’m not sure, Miri, he just bought some cigarettes and Sen-Sen and asked if I’d seen you. I told him you’d been working all hours,” she added accusatorily.
“Anything else?”
“Well …
he seemed worried about something. I think you should call him.”
Miranda put a dollar on the counter and turned toward the elevator banks. “I’ll do that, Gladdy. Be seein’ you—and thanks.”
The blonde was distracted from finishing her lecture by a portly man in a gray derby who wanted a can of Sir Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco. Miranda hurried to the elevator.
Gladys was a trusted friend, the woman who’d saved her life when she’d been kidnapped by Martini’s thugs. But she laughed at Andy Hardy and wept at one-reelers, resolutely believing in a happy ending and desperately wanting one for Miranda and Mark Gonzales.
Miranda lit a Chesterfield, first smoke of the morning. She’d have to tell her friend the timetable for England had been moved up and set.
But not today.
She stepped in with a middle-aged couple and a young brunette. Hit the button, brow furrowed.
Wondered what the hell Gonzales wanted.
And why she still cared so much.
The crate clanged open at four and the brunette hurried out, hesitating in the corridor, trust fund written all over the Joseph Magnin dress and May Company hat.
“You’ll find the Pinkerton offices to the left—big double doors.”
The brunette stammered “Thank you very much” before bolting portside. Miranda passed her, grinning, then saw the light under the door in Allen’s office.
She strode toward the unmarked door, rapping decisively with her knuckles. A male voice rumbled “Come in.”
Allen Jennings, fat, bald, and toughened by more than forty years of life, twenty-five of it spent in gumshoe work. He sat back in his office chair grinning, hands behind his head, an Old Gold clenched between his teeth.
“Well, well, well, if it’s not Frisco’s most notorious girl shamus. How you doing, Miri? Any news from the G-men?”
Miranda flicked a glance of mock disapproval at him while she crushed the cigarette in a glass ashtray and plucked two lemon drops from the candy dish next to it.
City of Sharks Page 4
