City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  The White Front rolled to a halt, bright neon winking and blinking around them, laughter and music and the out-of-tune calliope, uncanny cackle of Laffing Sal and the smell of fresh blackberry pies and fried chicken.

  The driver intoned “End of the line” in a pleasant baritone.

  Last stop.

  Playland-at-the-Beach.

  Eight

  Playland-at-the-Beach was the City’s own ocean-front amusement park, usually full of kids, couples, sailors, screaming high school girls, and carnival grifters in crumpled hats with chippies on their arms, trolling for day jobs or a quick buck to fix an unlucky streak.

  Desperate or merry, gay, fey, or on the lam, Playland was the last stop, and not just for the Market Street Railway.

  For the last couple of years, Treasure Island and the Gayway almost made it redundant. The Whitney Brothers—purveyors of play and owners of land, moguls of the sea all the way up to and including Sutro’s venerable Cliff House—even the Whitney Brothers had jumped ship to run the Fair “amusement zone” when asked by Leland Cutler and George Creel and Mayor Rossi.

  To their credit, the brothers let the Gayway concessions run themselves, gave Sally a free hand with the Nude Ranch, and looked the other way when Miranda cracked the Incubator Baby case. And after ’39, after the bankers and old money had looked down from the Tower of the Sun, mouths pinched and faces pale, descrying the Whitneys, shaking fingers at the Gayway, and come crawling back when the amusement zone was the only goddamn thing to turn a profit—after that, the Whitneys could do no wrong by San Francisco.

  The Fair would be history in eleven days, the City’s amusement zones confined once more to Ocean Beach or the International Settlement, Chinatown alleys and the road up Twin Peaks, but tonight Treasure Island still beckoned, Magic City’s last, dying splendor, last days to catch a glimpse of French tit in the Folies Bergère or watch Diego Rivera paint or even take another splash in the Diving Bell, Ken Silverman and his new wife Nina still exploring under the Bay.

  Miranda leaned against a lamp post and breathed in, salt on her tongue, eyes on Louise and her cream-colored hat.

  Playland wasn’t playing much tonight. Most of the rides sat still and quiet, grifters and carnies, drunks and hustlers outnumbering marks and tourists two to one.

  The blonde turned left down the upper midway, past the Flying Scooter and the Lindy Loop, silent and lonely while the Big Dipper hurtled again down the steep wooden hill, lone scream from a young girl punctuating the heavy air and making her jump. Miranda followed, careful to keep her footsteps quiet, her pace unsteady.

  They passed the Tilt-A-Whirl, boys in Berkeley letter sweaters and neatly coiffed coeds waiting for the operator to send them flying; passed the Octopus and the Fun House, Laffing Sal scaring the hell out of a group of little boys on a sneak out; finally turned toward the Chutes Lagoon and the cheaper, more tawdry concessions, the balloon darts and the shooting gallery, shell games and confidence swindles, Madame Lavinsky and your past, present, and future through a cloudy glass ball.

  The calliope hiccoughed and the Big Dipper screeched again, smell of blackberry pies hot out of the oven from the Pie Shop mixing with the vanilla ice cream and chocolate-dipped oatmeal cookies from the “It” stand, hot dog vendor trying to outshout the tamale cook.

  Miranda’s stomach growled.

  She hadn’t eaten an “It’s It” in a long, long time.

  Memories flooded over her like the Creamsicle waves, still highlighted orange in the almost-set sun, memories of Chutes-at-the-Beach, the Playland before the Whitneys arrived, of spinning around on the Figure Eight when she was fourteen and nearly throwing up afterward, of sneaking out for longer and longer hours and days, riding the streetcars all the way to the West, the edge, wondering, when she was eight or nine or ten, whether she’d fall off and drown and knowing no one would ever know or care if she did.

  Other memories, later memories, less painful, less true, of the Ferris Wheel and the Aeroplane Swing, of the boys from Oakland and Berkeley with their hands on her knees, of the gin flask on her hip. Playtime, gay time, the 1920s spinning around and around, women voting, women smoking, Mills College classes and parked cars with rumble seats, the Black Bottom and white hot jazz, spirits as high as the hemlines.

  She remembered trying an “It” when Whitney first sold them, right before the Crash when everybody had a nickel or knew where to get one. After Spain, back in San Francisco, back to the only home she ever really knew, she rode out to Playland once, drifting like the wood on the beach, wandering like the little girl from twenty years earlier.

  She bought another “It,” but it didn’t taste the same.

  Louise was threading her way toward the stand now, past a Skee-Ball concession, straight toward the Great Highway, not hesitating, not looking around.

  Miranda nodded to herself. The secretary had done this before.

  The blonde bent forward against the sharp wind rising from the beach, collar raised, sand starting to blow, and darted into the warm Pie Shop next to the “It” stand.

  Miranda’s stomach growled again. She hunched over and threw a dime at the hot dog man tucked in a corner next door to the Pie Shop, eye on the door, and ordered a mustard, sauerkraut, and onions as gruffly as she could.

  Three minutes later she was devouring it, chewing greedily, face burning from the cold wind, watching the stragglers filter through on the way to Topsy’s down the street, smell of fried chicken making the hot dog tasteless.

  Footsteps behind her, steady and heavy.

  She gulped the rest of the hot dog and tossed the paper boat in a garbage can, slipping back to the “It” concession, the pimply-faced man in the soda jerk hat shivering and dying to close up. Fog was thick and blowing in hard from the sea, wind unrelenting.

  A large man with a soft belly—late thirties, wearing some kind of uniform, not police or fire, maybe a security guard—was marching up from the Chutes area. She shrank a little more against the side slat board of the “It” booth, watching him.

  His face was set in a grim line, scars on his forehead and cheek. Hair short, arms hanging but not loose, the threat of physicality strutted in front of him, pushing people out of his way before he even got there.

  Deliberately, not hurriedly, as if the temperature weren’t dropping as fast as the wind was rising, he walked into the Pie Shop.

  Miranda lit a cigarette.

  Five minutes later, Louise walked out with him.

  * * *

  They headed north, passing another Skee-Ball joint, the tamale shop, and Smith’s Yum-Yums. Louise struggled to keep up, hand crushing her hat to her head, while the lumbering Scar-Face strode on.

  He barked something at the blonde when he reached the corner of Cabrillo, and crossed the street against the stop sign. He glanced behind impatiently when Louise was still in the middle of the road, jerking his head toward the north side of the Merry-Go-Round, and stomped past the entrance of the ride, finally halting in front of another Yum-Yum shop next door.

  A couple of teenage boys were playing Skee-Ball and the Big Dipper was doing bigger business, or at least carrying louder screamers. Between the roar of the waves and the clattering, groaning wood and palpable whoosh of the cars and girls in the front seats, the barkers at the shooting gallery and Goofy Village were as silent as Charlie Chaplin.

  Louise was shivering, still clutching her hat, and finally joined Scar-Face. She looked up hopefully and hooked her arm through his, leaning against him. He bent over her, face set in harsh, angry lines, yelling something that made the blonde shrink against the slat board wall. A yellow neon sign sputtered above her head, advertising SALT WATER TAFFIES and PUFFED RICE CANDY.

  Miranda lingered by the Merry-Go-Round entrance, peacoat collar up, desperately hoping her hat and bobby pins would stay in place. The operator was on the other side of the ride, comparing racing notes with a shooting gallery shill, while a little girl bobbed up and down on a white horse and a
young man in a good suit and ingratiating smile held his hand out to a plain young woman with full lips and very thick glasses.

  Clat-tat-tat-tat-tat-rattle-rattle-rattle-BOOM …

  The screamers screamed again.

  By now, Scar-Face was gripping Louise’s arm roughly. The secretary’s face was blank, almost like she didn’t know where she was or what she was doing.

  No one else was in line for the Merry-Go-Round. Miranda inched closer, still facing the ride, her back to them both, desperate to catch a word.

  Scar-Face’s voice was rich and booming, a voice used to wielding authority, unused to a demand not being met.

  “Whaddya mean ‘no’? You work there, don’t ya? Jesus Christ, don’t you care if I get my goddamn job back? Why the hell ain’t you—”

  Clat-tat-tat-tat-tat-rattle-rattle-rattle-BOOM …

  Louise muttered something, drowned by the screams. Miranda risked a quick glance backward. The blonde was visibly upset, eyes red, crying. She tried to disengage her arm, turning to go, and Scar-Face yanked her toward him hard enough to send her sprawling on the cement.

  Miranda took a step forward, fist clenched on her Baby Browning, then bit her lip, stomach tight, and turned slowly back to face the Merry-Go-Round. Two round-eyed boys of twelve were waiting in line, staring at her.

  She bent her head into the peacoat collar, straining to hear. Scar-Face lowered his voice, not as angry, not as demanding, phrases bobbing above the storm of sound.

  “… Alcatraz, baby, not the fucking Palace … Cretzer don’t know jack … job for life and plenty of kale, you’d like that, baby…”

  Clat-tat-tat-tat-tat-rattle-rattle-rattle-BOOM …

  One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi …

  She turned toward the white caps on the gray-black ocean, no longer flecked with red through the blowing fog, head twisted just enough to see Louise was standing again, posture bent and crooked, face buried in her hands, left stocking torn.

  “Aw, Jesus Christ, quit the bawlin’. It’s gonna be me and you again, me and you and the goddamn beach. You like that, don’t you baby? You like a good—”

  Clat-tat-tat-tat-tat-rattle-rattle-rattle-BOOM …

  The blonde nodded several times, still not looking at Scar-Face. He finally pried her fingers away, surprisingly careful, and grabbed her by the arms in a clinch, kissing her long and hard. The boys were becoming more interested in the scene than the Merry-Go-Round, but the operator was finally ambling back to take tickets, Daily Racing Form marked and tucked under his arm.

  Scar-Face put his arm around Louise, and they strolled past Smith’s Yum-Yums toward Fulton, the secretary leaning into his uniformed mass.

  Miranda watched them go, face momentarily lit by a match. She inhaled deeply on a Chesterfield, watching Louise’s crushed, crumpled, no-longer-cream-colored hat wink out in the distance.

  * * *

  She splurged on a Yellow Cab, catching one in front of Topsy’s Roost. The driver was about thirty, with clean fingernails, and enough San Francisco panache to not stare at her clothes.

  She leaned back, head against the brown leather, and closed her eyes.

  So Louise Crowley from Olympia—confident, capable, pretty, and smart—Louise Crowley was hiding a brute of a lover, the kind of bastard that thought a hard fuck could always cure a fat lip.

  Her fingers twitched, remembering how Scar-Face had thrown the blonde, remembering how Duggan had backhanded her a few months ago, remembering the crooked cop and Kaiser, the sadistic lion tamer on the Gayway.

  Miranda’s fingertip touched the Baby Browning in her pocket.

  No wonder the blonde had been attracted to Jerry Alexander, young, good-looking rich boy whose penchant was the same.

  Slap and a kiss, punch and a poke, tear drops in the goddamn beer, boys will be boys and men will be men and hitting women was the only way to show them who was the fucking boss, the man of the house, the wearer of pants, the bearer of prick, all hail, all hail, all hail.

  She opened her eyes and lit a Chesterfield.

  The women cried and dried their eyes, thinking how goddamn lucky they were. They had a man, after all, a real man with a real temper, not some foppish mannequin or closet queer. Men with hard muscles and short tempers, men who smelled of perfume that their wives couldn’t afford, men who would fight off other men and win, men who understood about life and about the darkness under the sheets, the sin that felt so good, mamma, you always told me to close my eyes and let them do it but I wanted to, God, I wanted to, so bless me, Father, because I have sinned, and I’ve sinned again in liking it so goddamn much …

  The make-believe Merry-Go-Round of love, around and around she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows, nobody except Louise Crowley from Olympia, content with a pat on the head and a ram between the thighs, torn stockings and bruised arms, the little lady knows her place, gave up on Prince Charming, gave up on herself.

  Like Pandora Blake, like Betty Chow, like Phyllis Winters, like nearly every goddamn woman she knew.

  Confusing strength with violence, love with sex, need for desire.

  Oh my man, I love him so …

  Never knowing or understanding the difference.

  Miranda took a deep drag on the stick, Johnny’s face reflecting in the dark glass of the taxicab.

  * * *

  She woke up heavy-eyed the next morning, 6:30, dreams of Spain and blown-off limbs and dropping bombs. Miranda sighed, shifting in her robe, stirring brown sugar into the watery oatmeal.

  Scar-Face mentioned something about getting a job back. What was it Louise said at Fong Fong? I can take a blow, Miss Corbie, I know it’s hard on a man to not have a job and be tired of looking …

  The phone rang and she dropped the teaspoon against the milk glass bowl.

  “I—oh, Miss Corbie—can you—can you come here now?”

  Miranda held the receiver closer to her ear. No other sounds.

  “Where are you, Louise?”

  “I-I’m at work. And—oh, my God…”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Jesus—I can’t believe…” Her voice trailed off in shock, breath heavy on the phone.

  “Louise—tell me—”

  Audible catch in the secretary’s throat.

  “Mr. Alexander—Niles … he’s … he’s dead.”

  Act Two

  The Plot

  “The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

  Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.”

  —William Shakespeare

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V, scene i

  Nine

  The Monadnock was buzzing when Miranda strode through the doors, Meyer waddling slowly behind, cane barely keeping time on the marble floor.

  She peered around a fat man with a cigar to check the magazine and cigarette stand. Gladys didn’t see her, the blonde already overwhelmed with curiosity-seekers wanting to know the story about the police cars outside, impatient reporters pressing against the counter.

  Miranda’s eyes searched until her breath caught, remembering.

  No lopsided smile, no crinkly blue eyes, no bullshit half-Irish lilt.

  No Rick.

  Goddamn it …

  “I’m sorry to drag you down here this early, Meyer. I’ve got a feeling Louise might need you.”

  He brushed off toast crumbs from a pale-yellow shirt, freshly starched.

  “If what you told me in the taxicab is true, my dear, I’m sure at least one of you shall.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Follow me.”

  Miranda pushed her way to the elevators, waiting impatiently next to an elderly lady in a beaver stole looking for Pinkerton’s, and a reporter trying to disguise himself as a less predatory species.

  They crowded in, the reporter stepping on Miranda’s foot. Meyer spoke in a low voice.

  “Miss Crowley must have—”

  She gave him a poke with her elbow and made a m
otion with her eyebrows toward the reporter, who was studying his nails. The attorney nodded.

  The elevator emptied on the sixth floor, men and women spreading out in singles and small groups. Miranda grabbed Meyer by the arm and whisked him to the closest corner, HIRAM THORPE, C.P.A. painted on a door in prim black letters.

  “As I was about to say, Miss Crowley must have followed your advice and telephoned Inspector Fisher.”

  Miranda nodded, glancing down both hallways and motioning at Meyer to follow. She moved quickly around the corner toward a rumbling of voices gaining volume with every step. Coats and hats, mostly fedoras with a few derbies, in shades from black and brown to green and blue, blocked their progress at the end of the hall.

  Reporters.

  Miranda whispered: “Jesus. It’s only been a little over an hour since Louise called. Either Alexander must be more important than I thought or it’s a slow day in San Francisco. Brace yourself.”

  Her attorney frowned, cane loudly stabbing the marble in front of him with a series of sharp cracks. A small cluster of the reporters turned at the sound, staring.

  “Ain’t that the shamus-broad? Miranda Kirby? The one you bastards always run photos on?”

  “Corbie, you idiot. She’s what’s-his-name’s girlfriend, the hack from the News—”

  “Who’s the fat old guy with her?”

  They started to walk-run toward Miranda and Meyer, shouting questions, sniping at each other, more competition joining the race. Miranda threaded her arm through Meyer’s and drew the attorney close.

  Goddamn it, they were outnumbered. And no Rick to run interference.

  Time to throw on the electricity.

  She took a step forward, head up, hips shifting slightly, weight on her left foot. No Elizabeth Arden this morning, no fucking time for allure, just a quick slash of Red Dice lipstick and barely a brush through long hair, navy skirt and simple wool sweater under a long black coat, old pair of black gloves and a navy blue beret perched awkwardly on top.

  She struck the pose and waited a few seconds, the reporters gradually quieting, some grinning, fedoras pushed off their foreheads. They formed a perimeter around Miranda and Meyer, one whistling under his breath.