City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  “That’s because I haven’t been here before. I’m a friend of Sylvia Alexander’s.”

  He jerked a thumb toward room #300. “The hophead lady? Yeah, she’s high class … like you, sister. Figures you’d be friends. But you never had a ride so good in one of them fancy cars as old George could give you.”

  Blankenship licked his lips like a not-so-secret message.

  She smiled.

  “Is that your name? George?”

  “George Blankenship. What’s yours, gorgeous?”

  “Miranda. Hadn’t you better lock Sylvia’s door?”

  He turned toward the door and extracted a key from his belt. “Now, that’s a fact. I almost forgot. Nurse’ll be around soon to strap her in again. Why ain’t you inside? I walked up here at 3:05 … Carl wanted to give you extra time.”

  “She’s resting—poor thing is exhausted. But I appreciate the extra time very much. Please thank Carl for me.”

  He carefully turned the deadbolt from outside, then straightened up, hands back on his belt. “Why don’t you thank me? I’m a lot better to thank than Carl, believe you me.”

  She started to walk down the corridor. “You are a flirt, aren’t you, Mr. Blankenship?”

  Alarm crossed his heavy features. “Uh, now, Miss—Miss Miranda—don’t mind ol’ George, here, just I never seen you before, and you being so nice and so pretty an’ all…”

  Miranda paused midway to the landing, turning deliberately to face him. Laid a hand on his upper arm, and slowly, teasingly, traced his muscles with her fingertips.

  “You are a big man, aren’t you? Are you big all over, Mr. Blankenship?”

  Skin red, he took a step closer to her, breath hot on her face. “Honey, I’m as big as you could handle. Trust me.”

  She dropped her hand and shook out a cigarette, giving him time to cool down.

  “What time are you through this evening?”

  Broad grin. “Got a split shift, like always, but my place is real close. I can meet you at five, don’t gotta be back to work til one in the morning. Plenty of time, baby, plenty of time.”

  “You haven’t asked me if I’m married.”

  “Baby, I don’t care. And after tonight, neither will you.”

  Miranda raised a hand to his chest, slowly, and started rubbing it in small circular motions, voice a purr.

  “Maybe I won’t, at that. I could use a ride in something other than fancy. If you’re all you say, I’ll have to thank Sylvia for the introduction…”

  “I’m all I say, baby, and more besides. You won’t be sorry. Meet me at the Cliff House Apartments—4740 Balboa. Like I say, I’m off at five, but give me a few to get over there. I’m gonna fly.”

  He laughed, holding out a groping claw toward Miranda, which she deftly sidestepped.

  “Patience, George.”

  He nodded, sober again, and they walked down the rest of the corridor and the staircase to the lobby, past Cerberus, who pretended to study a chart. George escorted her to the door.

  “Thanks for visiting, miss.” He chased it with an eye crawl down her body.

  “Thank you. Greer’s a wonderful place—so glad Sylvia is here.” She lowered her voice, let her eyes drift downward and back up to catch his. Languidly pushed out a mouthful of smoke.

  Whispered: “In case you’re wondering, sport—I’m worth it, too.”

  She left him slightly bent over with his hands holding up his belt and walked quickly down Fulton toward Playland-at-the-Beach.

  Her legs were shaking. She needed a goddamn bath.

  * * *

  Long walk to Playland, fresh air and exercise a bracer after Greer. The fog was still blowing overhead, puffs of gray charging up Fulton, scent of wet eucalyptus from the park almost overwhelming.

  It was a good smell, a clean smell, and got the taste of boiled meat and disinfectant out of her mouth. Too bad she couldn’t scrub the memory of George Blankenship, at least not yet, not until she’d secured the alibi.

  She ran her palms down the sides of her skirt, frowning, staring at the Pie Shop.

  Sutro Baths would take too long, only an hour and a half before she met Blankenship at his apartment house.

  And the rented bathing suits were too goddamn itchy.

  She sighed, walked in, and ordered a slice of blueberry pie and a cup of coffee.

  The bath would have to wait.

  * * *

  The Cliff House Apartments catered to carnies, crooks, and quickies, a small three-storied affair built in the twenties, when “sea air” was supposed to be healthy and gin was the tonic of choice.

  No names on the mailboxes outside. “Man.” was scrawled on a handwritten sign on the single visible door, letters crooked and uneven. The lobby carpet was faded and threadbare, one lightbulb was burnt out, and a half-dead palm tree completed the décor.

  She raised the back of her glove and checked her watch: 5:20.

  A dark shape was moving toward her, down La Playa and the rear of Playland. She shook out a Chesterfield, lit it, and watched George run.

  He arrived slightly out of breath and tried to pull her into a clinch on the steps. She sidestepped again.

  “Wait a minute, big boy, wait a minute. I’m not some cheap two-bit B-girl you picked up at a fleabag. Wait til we’re inside.”

  Blankenship smiled, all teeth, eyes on fire. “You got that right. OK, let’s go.”

  He opened the main door with a key. Manhattan at Midnight was playing behind the building manager’s door, organ music and Energine Cleaning Fluid, make that grease spot disappear completely …

  George was ahead of her, impatient. “C’mon. I’m the second floor.”

  Miranda closed her fist around the comforting shape of her Baby Browning, still in her pocket.

  “What’s your apartment number?”

  George was on the landing now, and laughed out loud. “What difference does it make? You’ll see it in a second.”

  “I might not even notice the room, George.”

  He laughed again. “That’s so, doll. I’m number 211—your lucky number.”

  When she reached the landing, he was opening his apartment door. The smell of stale cigars and cheap rye and beer filtered through the small, dingy corridor.

  George’s throat muscles were working in and out, and his eyes were tight.

  “Hurry up, baby. I can’t stand any more waitin’.”

  Miranda knotted her stomach, palms slippery with sweat under the gloves, clutching the Browning in her coat pocket.

  He held the door open with his thick body, making her squeeze past him to get inside.

  The studio apartment was strewn with newspaper and dirty dishes, drapes faded and torn. No decorations and only a few pieces of furniture, a pair of mended brown pants and stained white shirt flung over the saggy-bottomed chair.

  George grabbed her hard by the arm, trying to drag her toward the Murphy bed jutting into the living space, open and unmade, yellowed sheets and gray wool blankets balled and rumpled.

  “No de-luxe here, baby, as dirty as you like it—c’mon, now, take it off before I rip it off—”

  Miranda slapped his hand off her breast as hard as she could. George’s face darkened, and he lunged forward.

  His eyes grew huge at the gleaming gun in her black gloved hand.

  “What the—what the hell—this a game, baby? Cops and robbers?”

  Miranda backed up until she was away from the bed and closer to the door, gun trained on Blankenship’s gut.

  “No game, George. And no ride. I’m here for Louise. Your girlfriend. Remember her?”

  His mouth fell open, face red, and his eyes darted around the room, confused, as if the blonde might crawl out from under the bed at any moment.

  “Louise—you mean Louise Crowley? What the fuck is this?”

  “Your girlfriend, asshole. Louise Crowley. She’s in the can and the bulls are about to charge her with murder. That’s why you’re going to walk into t
he Hall of Justice and tell the nice men in blue that you and Louise were in here fucking last night—all night, if that’s the case. You’re her goddamn alibi.”

  Quick, heavy step toward Miranda and she raised the gun again. The guard’s face was purple, contorted, eyes like slits, but the Browning made him keep a perimeter. He prowled it like a tiger in the zoo, searching for an opening.

  Miranda kept the barrel trained on him, hand steady.

  “I’m disappointed in you, George. You really should learn a little more self-control. See, I’m holding a .25 ACP Browning semi-automatic. It’s small, but it’s enough to blow a hole in your stomach or anywhere else. And I’m a good shot. Size isn’t everything.”

  His scars stood out stark and shiny white against a flush-red face. He finally came to a standstill in front of a countertop burner, covered with a frying pan thick with grease.

  “All right. So Louise is in the jug. So what? And who the fuck are you, other than some bitch with a phony setup?”

  “I’m the bitch with the gun, George. And I wouldn’t mind using it.”

  He scuttled sidewise, moving closer. “You? You ain’t fired nothing, lady, nothing ’cept blanks.”

  “I’ve killed a man with this pistol. I’ve shot a couple in the knees.” She extended the gun, lowering the aim to his crotch. “You, I’ve got something else in mind for.”

  Blankenship licked his lips, eyes on the Browning, eyes on Miranda. He sank slowly on the bed.

  Miranda gripped the pistol tighter. Now he was more dangerous.

  “All right, lady, all right, all right. What do you want? And what d’ya got goin’ on with Louise? She ain’t got no family.”

  He said the last word with peculiar emphasis, like a test of some kind. Miranda frowned. What the hell was he getting at?

  “She’s got me. She hired me. And you’re going downtown to testify she was with you last night.”

  The large man stared at her, sly smile starting to spread, posture more relaxed. He leaned back, propped against the wall, hands behind his head.

  “Lady peeper, huh, some kinda do-gooder? Probably hate men, doncha? All right, say I go with you downtown. What’s in it for me?”

  “You don’t lose your dick. The rest depends on whether or not you’re the one who killed Louise’s boss last night.”

  George sprang up from the bed like it was electrocuted and Miranda gestured with the gun again.

  “Hold on, hold on, I ain’t popped nobody, no how, nowhere. And I ain’t taking the fall for Louise. Sure, she was with me til I got ready to go back on shift at one—sound asleep, right there.” He gestured toward the flattened pillow behind him. “Then she walks down to the streetcar line with me, says she’s goin’ back to her place. She was still waiting when I was walkin’ up to Greer.”

  Miranda cocked her head, studying him. Something stank, and not just the dishes.

  She spoke slowly. “OK, George. That’s what you say. So if you didn’t murder Niles Alexander, why did you steal Smith’s book—the one on Alcatraz?”

  The burly guard flinched and retreated until his legs were pressed against the bed.

  “Louise tell you? What the fuck do you know, lady? She rat it out? Spill it, goddamn you—”

  “Did you steal it or not?”

  “You can’t prove I ever been near that place—”

  “You stole it and then hit Alexander over the head and killed him, didn’t you, George?”

  “If she told you so, she’s a lying bitch trying to save her own neck. I told you, I ain’t never—”

  “You left Louise and after work took a cab downtown, and you walked in with the key Louise made for you—”

  “I don’t have no key! I wasn’t there!”

  “And then you opened the safe—she gave you the combination—and when Alexander came in, you killed him, George, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  He swallowed a couple of times, throat muscles bunched like fists. Raised his face to glare at Miranda, eyes granite. His voice was quiet.

  “I ain’t been nowhere near there, peeper. Never took the goddamn book. You can’t prove I did. I was at Greer the whole goddamn night. If Louise told you anything else it was a lie, goddamn ungrateful whore, after everything I did—”

  He caught himself, choked off.

  Miranda’s voice was easy. “Everything you did for her? And here I thought it was Louise who was doing you a favor. After all, you ordered her to steal the book.”

  Breath in, breath out, raspy and ragged, a wheeze just under the surface while he thought it all over. He flicked his eyes up at Miranda, razor-thin smile stretching scarred skin. Sweat trickled down her shoulder blades and she repressed a shudder.

  “Somebody needs to pop you, lady, and that’s a fact. I’d do it for free. But seeing as how my gun’s in the dresser drawer and yours is loaded … yeah. I told her to steal the goddamn book. But she didn’t, ’cause I ain’t got it. An’ according to you, she’s in the can, so unless she hid it somewheres, it’s where it’s supposed to be or somebody else took it, if what you’re sayin’ is true. Me, I been workin’ all goddamn day, an’ Louise ain’t phoned, so I can’t tell you no more. But you … what else you know about it, peeper? What else?”

  Sweat beaded on the large man’s forehead and he wiped his face with his arm.

  Wished she knew what the hell it was he was afraid she knew …

  “Why do you want Smith’s book? What’s in it for you? I know you worked as a guard at Alcatraz—”

  He jumped quickly. Too quickly.

  “What’s in it for me is my fucking job back. They got a bunch of crooks runnin’ things out there, people don’t know jack. And this Smith guy, he’s supposed to be writing about it, see? So’s I figure, if I get the book and bring it to my old boss Link and Warden Johnston, they could hush it all up and I’d get my job back. I don’t wanna work with no crazy people, not anymore. ’Specially now. OK? I didn’t steal nothing. I can’t even get downtown, not with the split shift—so I asked Louise to do it. See?”

  Not pleading, selling. George spoke with contempt, conviction, certainty … but he was telling only part of the truth.

  Miranda’s arm ached and the rancid smell of decaying food and soiled sheets was making her stomach hurt.

  Time to fold the tent.

  “Here’s the dope, George. You and Louise are each other’s alibi—to a point, but the point may be far enough. You go downtown, you make a statement saying she was with you, and we’ll forget about the book for now.”

  The smile stretched wider before fading, replaced by doubt, and again he probed, eyes flat and canny and on Miranda.

  “What if Louise talks? About me asking her to steal it, I mean, and me asking her to make a key before that, like you said an’ all?”

  Was that what this was about? Louise? Something Louise might have told her—but didn’t?

  “Louise hasn’t said anything up til now. God knows why. But I’m not Louise, George, and if you don’t cooperate I’ll make sure your miserable ass is nailed to every broken law I can find until a judge locks you up and you’re scrubbing toilets in San Quentin.”

  His eyes widened at the threat as they stared at one another, Blankenship’s breath heavy.

  “OK, lady peeper. You can put the gun away. I’ll go downtown with you.”

  Miranda lowered her sore arm, barrel still aimed in the guard’s direction.

  “You got a phone in this joint?”

  He jerked his thumb toward Playland. “Can’t afford no phone. There’s one out by the Fun House.”

  “Then we’ll walk to the cab stand down by the carousel.”

  He balked a little. “Who’s paying for the hack? I ain’t.”

  “Relax, George, I am. Let’s go.” Miranda waved the Baby Browning again and motioned him toward the door. “My pistol will be in my pocket and aimed at your back with the safety off, so don’t give me an itchy finger.”

  “Your name really Mirand
a?”

  “Yes. I’m a private investigator.”

  “Figured you was a lady copper.”

  Miranda pulled the door shut as he stepped heavily across the landing, not bothering to look behind him.

  A church bell rang high on the wind, barely audible between the thunder of the ocean and the shrieks and laughter from Playland.

  Six o’clock.

  A long ride to the Hall of Justice with George Blankenship and a promised alibi delivered.

  And maybe, at the end, some goddamn answers from her client …

  Fifteen

  Miranda leaned against the cold stone of the Hall of Justice, watching the neon wink on Washington, watching Chinatown open its gates.

  The bail bondsmen across the square were still open, yellow light stabbing the littered sidewalks and cars screaming down Washington, somebody playing a scratchy record of “Scrub Me Mama with a Boogie Beat” from an open third-floor window.

  Cigarette smoke drifted and swirled above her, refracted by the lights into a nicotine halo. She nodded to a couple of uniforms hauling in a drunk and disorderly, high-pitched whine of the drunk a soprano accompaniment to the scuffling sound his feet made on the marble floors.

  The neon grew brighter, green and red, Coit Tower stark and pale against the black and blue sky. She could almost hear the jazz band from Julius’ Castle on Telegraph, smell the steak, rare and dark and seared on the outside, hear the conversation, about Rossi and City taxes, the Yankees and Artie Shaw, about the Fair and the Gayway, about the War and when we’d get in it, about love and the draft and what was on sale at the Emporium …

  She drank in the sound, the cool moisture of the Bay wind, the unblemished stars.

  She’d be gone soon.

  Gone to Britain, sailing on the Cameronia, sailing across the Atlantic on a gut feeling, trying to find a woman she could barely remember and one she never really knew, a postcard from Westminster Abbey her only guide in a country Hitler was trying to obliterate.

  Air raids and the Underground, bombs and fire and the dead in the street, just like Spain …

  Just like Spain.

  Uprooting herself from the only parent she ever had, the only one that stood by her through skinned knees and shoplifted apples and her first period and pregnancy scares, the only one that hushed her, that drowned out the roar of cannons with clanging trains and cable cars, the bellows of horns and ferryboats on the Bay; the only one who played music she could hear, the only one whose beauty she could see, an orange bridge and soaring white tower, all-night diners and fresh-made coffee and neon lights and grand hotels and the scuttle of mah-jongg tiles, only real comfort at three o’clock in the morning when she woke up, sweating, and she couldn’t stop remembering and she couldn’t get back to sleep.