City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  Her hands were shaking. No time to deal with Collins, not tonight. She was in a goddamn jam, and the only thing she had, the only thing she was, the only map that counted was in her wallet, no Gideon Bible, no fucking How to Win Friends and Influence People, just a crumpled, stained copy of a California license.

  Miranda Corbie, Private Investigator.

  Her client, the blond secretary with pretty skin and even teeth, the capable girl Friday and incapable judge of men, the girl from a small town in Washington State, was a liar and a would-be thief.

  And according to Allen and the copious Pinkerton files—according to the cryptic message he’d left her—her client, Louise Crowley, was also the sister-in-law of one of the country’s most infamous criminals.

  Arnold Kyle.

  Miranda hailed a cab cruising down Kearny, a watery-eyed man in a blue cap and a yellow taxi. Gave him the address of the Monadnock.

  She’d need to call James, figure out the angle, get an appointment. Interview the warden, cage what info she could.

  She leaned back in the cab and closed her eyes.

  Arnold Kyle, bank robber and murderer. With his partner “Dutch” Cretzer, he’d recently been transferred from McNeil Island in Washington State …

  Transferred to Alcatraz.

  Act Three

  The Draft

  “And as imagination bodies forth

  The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

  Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

  A local habitation and a name.”

  —William Shakespeare

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

  Sixteen

  It’s not the pale moon that excites me …

  Dinah Shore warbled upward on an unexpectedly warm breeze, September night in San Francisco.

  The Tascone’s juke was blaring full volume, velvet notes sliding under the open window of Miranda’s fourth-floor office, somehow drowning out the still-rumbling Market Street Railway trains competing with the Municipals, roaring their way to the Ferry Building as though they would drive into the Bay, louder than the shrill whistles from the pool hall across the street, the late-night ramblers and factory workers trudging home, streetlights warm and yellow against the midnight sky.

  Oh, no … it’s just the nearness of you …

  Miranda shoved the cold Tascone burger to one side of the large black desk and rubbed her eyes.

  Still Thursday, September 19th, 1940. Tomorrow still six minutes away.

  Her client found a dead body this morning, one belonging to her boss. Was subsequently arrested but not charged, only because Miranda discovered one of two big lies her client kept hidden, this one in the person of George Blankenship, disgraced former prison guard at Alcatraz, now a boorish, brutish raconteur at the Greer Home.

  The other lie was a sister, one with an even worse track record in judging men. Said sister was married to Arnold Kyle, partner of Joseph “Dutch” Cretzer, both men bank robbers and murderers, both formerly of McNeil Island, Tacoma, Washington, both now spending the fall season at Alcatraz.

  The Pinkerton report—waiting under her door for her and now spread out on the desk—spelled out an old tale and familiar one, of the Crash and small-town girls and absentee fathers and just enough to eat to not look too hungry. The mother tried selling home-canned jams and hand-sewn dresses and eventually took in a lodger.

  That lodger was Arnold Kyle, a young man with wide, nervous eyes and no chin, amiable and not bad-looking, but the kind of bo with a one-way ticket to the federal pen, stemming mainly from a relationship with Joseph “Dutch” Cretzer … his brother-in-law.

  Cretzer was the more dangerous of the two, a thick-bodied, square-headed bird, known for a volatile temper and liking for violence. The two were partners in crime, off and on, for more than fifteen years, talents in place and groomed by Prohibition before the Depression made bank-robbing a career choice.

  So Louise’s sister Thelma falls in love with the doe-eyed “Shorty” McKay, as Kyle calls himself, and they get married and have a kid, Thelma staying home with Junior while Shorty and Dutch embark on a new, exciting life of travel and hit up West Coast banks for five years. Eventually Cretzer makes the big time—number four on the most-wanted list. And, like all bedtime stories, this one ends, too, with a Minnesota drunk-driving charge for Kyle and a Chicago arrest for Cretzer in ’39.

  They were both sentenced to McNeil Island, where they lived unhappily but not ever after, until the restless Cretzer engineers an escape of the “You’ll never take me, coppers” variety. Caught again, they make another break for it during the trial, and in the process injure a bull, U.S. Marshal Artis J. Chitty. Chitty suffers from a bad ticker and dies from the strain.

  Cretzer and Kyle are transferred to Alcatraz.

  On August 29, 1940, just three weeks ago, Shorty and George were indicted for the murder of Marshal Chitty. Both faced life or the gas chamber.

  An addendum: Kyle’s wife—Louise’s sister—was currently residing in Oakland, California.

  Miranda pushed the report from Allen to the side. Banged open the desk drawer and took out the worn Big Chief tablet. Opened it to the last page of notes.

  Outside, the jukebox was quiet, street noises subsided. Far away, like a lost seagull, church bell tolling.

  Dong … dong … dong …

  Midnight. A brand fucking new day.

  She sighed, fishing around her desk drawer for a fountain pen with a cartridge, eyes heavy and dry.

  Picked up the pen. Scrawled MISSING KEY.

  Louise had her own main office key and access to Alexander’s—all she had to do was use it. She could waltz in, twirl the combo, which she could’ve learned from Alexander or discovered on her own, and steal the manuscript for George. So why the hell would she steal an extra key? Or did she? Was the nervousness—the hesitancy—because of all the other lies? Or was the missing key in the hands of the murderer?

  Underneath the entry she wrote: INTERVIEW EDITOR HANK WARD. ASK LOUISE.

  New column. JERRY.

  Miranda yawned, shaking out a Chesterfield. Why was Jerry at home the night his father was murdered? Exactly how often did he spend time with pater and mater? And, most importantly, where was he between 11:30 and 1:30 last night?

  She wrote CHECK ALIBI under his name.

  New column. SYLVIA.

  Sylvia. Sylvia was a fucking problem. Not completely crazy, but sane enough to hide. Not strong enough to drag a body but weak enough to write letters threatening Louise … and maybe plant cyanide in the secretary’s desk.

  But whoever planted the cyanide would only know about the spill on Alexander’s shirt if he or she killed the man or was an accessory. Why bother otherwise? And if she wrote the letters but didn’t plant the poison, then who the hell did?

  Miranda shook her head, inhaling the Chesterfield. Wrote??? next to Sylvia, and CALL SCIENTIFIC SUPPLY HOUSES RE: CYANIDE below.

  She raised heavy eyes to the clock on the wall. Damn it, where the hell was Gonzales with Louise?

  Then there was Bunny. Miranda noted her name and under it wrote TOOK OVER BUSINESS. That much was true, sure, but she’d bet the money in her safe that Bunny was clean and clear, a woman genuinely in grief, maybe not for Prince Charming, but for a man she truly loved.

  Bunny was guilty, like Louise, of poor taste in men, guilty of cheating on a friend with her boss—though Sylvia didn’t seem to blame her—but goddamn it, Bunny didn’t murder Niles Alexander and wasn’t the type of woman to send threatening letters or poisoned chocolates to Louise, even if she did have a motive—which from all appearances she didn’t.

  If she wanted to get rid of Louise, she would have told Alexander to fire her, not kill her.

  Miranda set down the fountain pen. Crushed the cigarette stub in the ashtray, rubbed her forehead.

  Louise, Louise, Louise. It always came back to Louise.

  Who was threatening her, and why? Was it the s
ame person who murdered Alexander and presumably stole the missing manuscript?

  A sigh turned into another yawn and she picked up the pen again.

  THE MANUSCRIPT.

  The manuscript was the one common denominator, the only motive that made even a half-assed kind of sense.

  Maybe Smith’s book was an exposé of prison malfeasance, some kind of highly explosive and litigious page-turner that would blow the lid off Alcatraz. George hinted as much: if he could get the book and deliver it to his former bosses, he’d get his old job back, his confessed motive to a planned but not executed theft.

  Hell, maybe the manuscript explained everything … maybe how Ted Cole and Ralph Roe escaped in ’37, maybe how Cretzer and Kyle skipped McNeil Island. Maybe … maybe it was about how to escape Alcatraz and contained enough dirt to bury the warden.

  Was a gang—some associates of Cretzer and Kyle—after Louise, figuring they could put pressure on her to destroy the book? Did they murder Alexander in order to stop publication? Was whatever Smith discovered a threat to the bulls or the hoods? Or both?

  And where the fuck was Smith?

  The phone rang suddenly, the insistent bells piercing the stillness of the room and making Miranda jump. She picked up the receiver, heart still in her ears.

  “Miranda? Inspector Gonzales is driving Louise home.”

  Meyer’s voice was cracked with exhaustion. He was too old to go through this kind of punishment.

  “I’m sorry, Meyer. Can I come down there to see Louise? I asked Fisher—”

  “No, my dear. Louise doesn’t want to talk. She’s all talked out, I’m afraid. As am I. Inspector Fisher passed your request to Inspector Gonzales, who very kindly permitted me to phone. He said to tell you that any delay could bring reporters, and that he’s sorry to keep you waiting. I know you had planned to escort Miss Crowley to her apartment but the good inspector feels it’s safer if he drives her there alone. He said you’d understand.”

  Miranda clenched the phone in her left hand, eyes swollen and dry from not enough sleep.

  Her voice was terse. “Tell him I get it. Go home, Meyer. I’ll visit Louise in the morning.”

  Her attorney yawned. “Excuse me, my dear. Yes. We shall compare notes then. Good night.”

  “Good night, Meyer. And thank you.” She hung up the phone.

  Miranda wanted to cry, but no tears would come.

  * * *

  Soft, skittering feet down alleys damp with fog and lukewarm dishwater, white rice stuck between cobblestones. Giggles, grunts, and the unmistakable sounds of a trick being turned, light enough under the moon and the torn paper lantern, lurid shadows splayed against brick tenements, sleeping families crowded seven to a room.

  Off the alley and back on Grant Street, music swelled, from Forbidden City and the Twin Dragon, from the sixth-floor windows of the Chinese Sky Room and a scratchy Victrola in the basement of the Li Po bar. A trombone solo melded with the aroma of freshly baked fortune cookies, and a rat stood up on his hind legs on Sacramento, long whiskers still twitching.

  Not yet 2:00 A.M. Still early for Chinatown.

  Miranda listened to the echo of her shoes on stone, stomach full from a plateful of shrimp fried rice at Sam Wo’s. Fog blew in clusters down Grant, giant gray puffs belched from the Pacific assembly line, moist wads of cotton kissing stucco dragons and pagoda roofs, yellow neon snapping and paper lanterns hanging limp, streaks and drops forming puddles on red-painted doors.

  She walked, holding the small bag of sesame balls pressed into her hands by the waitress, sent off into the night armed with bean paste and rice flour fried in sesame oil.

  Chinatown.

  Her sanctuary, her safe place, despite the predatory pimps and tongs selling hop, despite the loud-mouthed tourists and the watered-down drinks, despite the all-night nightclubs and questionable chop suey.

  And on Sacramento Street, a dead Japanese boy …

  Miranda looked up the hill at Grant and Sacramento, rat long gone and shimmied up a water pipe. She managed to find some justice for Eddie Takahashi back in February but the war raged on in Chinatown streets, Japanese businesses boycotted, Nanking a wound that time would never heal.

  Not in a culture where memory lasted a thousand thousand years, where tradition and honor was continuity and life.

  She stared at the wet pavement and darkly shuttered shop, almost hearing the firecrackers and music from the Rice Bowl Party. She shivered from a cold wind blowing down Sacramento and walked on.

  Chinatown.

  Nothing like it anywhere, not in New York, not in London, not in China. “Chinatown, My Chinatown” the song ran, but it didn’t mention that it was a Pan-Asian city, didn’t describe the dirty cops and cops on a mission, the stern lady missionaries and kindly whores, the well-used laundry hanging from attic windows, the toothless smile of an old lady selling ginseng, the creak of warped wooden floors and the smell of oolong tea.

  Chinatown.

  Always there, her ghetto-parent. Squalid and stable, poor in everything but its heart.

  And now she was saying good-bye …

  Someone whistled from Old St. Mary’s, and Miranda quickly craned her head, surprised to see No-Legs Norris sitting on his plywood board under a splash of streetlight. She walked across the street, smiling.

  “Hello, Ned. It’s been a while.”

  “Too long. Heard on the grapevine that you’re leaving. Goin’ overseas.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Got around a few weeks ago, since that last big case you took on, that Nazi spy shindig. Heard it pretty soon after that. Blind Willie told me.”

  Miranda rubbed her neck. “I don’t know how Willie found out, but … yeah, it’s true. I’m heading for England, soon as I finish this case.”

  The thin man’s face crinkled like brown wrapping paper.

  “I liked the Limeys when I was over. Talk awful funny, but damn good to have with you when your back’s up against barbed wire and the foxhole needs bailin’ out. When you comin’ back home, Miranda?”

  “Soon as I can, Ned.”

  “Show them Nazis a thing or two, won’t ya?”

  “Gonna try. Say, listen—can you keep an eye and ear out for me? Tell Willie to listen up, too.”

  “’Course. Whaddya need? More spies?”

  “Not this time. You hear about Niles Alexander?”

  Ned’s brow furrowed while he absentmindedly scratched under his thigh. “The book fella? One in all the papers?”

  “Yeah. If you hear anything about his son Jerry or wife Sylvia—or anything at all about the Cretzer-Kyle gang—”

  “Them bos on the Rock? The bank robbers?”

  “Yeah. You hear anything about their gang in San Francisco, any news, you let me know, usual way. OK? It’d be a big help.”

  No-Legs yawned, showing one less molar than Miranda remembered. “Sure, Miranda. Be happy to. Make sure you let us know when you leave, me and Blind Willie’ll come and see you off.”

  Kaleidoscope of San Francisco.

  No-Legs Norris propelling himself through Chinatown streets, rawhide gloves nearly worn out again, Blind Willie and his pencils, voice high and squeaky like a teakettle whistle. Treasure Island and Sally Rand’s lisp, always trying to protect the girls, the Gayway folks and Shorty the midget, Gillespie the beat cop and Phil watching her pour tea at Dianne’s, eyes desperate and longing and old.

  Gonzales and French cigarettes and his long, lean body, Fisher’s face damp with worry and faith. Bente’s red hair and bellowing laugh and picket signs and Gladdy’s blond, bouncing curls, a “Good morning, sugar!” from the Monadnock stand. Meyer arguing for her, always there, pressed linen shirts and white spats, cane punctuating every point …

  Neon winking at Joe’s Club Moderne and Raphael’s appreciative nod over the new City of Paris dress, Joe’s protective hand on her shoulder, a “Bella dea d’amore!” and proud, fatherly smile. Allen and a
shot of whiskey at the Rusty Nail, bald head shining, tough exterior melting like a wax candle. Brown leather booth at John’s Grill with Rick, a lopsided Irish grin and battered brown fedora, easy laugh and careworn eyes …

  She bent her face to hide, digging in her purse, lifted it up again with a plastered-on smile. Dropped two tens on Ned’s platform.

  “For you and Willie. More later.”

  He scooped it up. “Thanks, Miranda. Well, gotta be gettin’ home to the missus. Don’t forget to let me know. Be seein’ you.”

  “Be seein’ you, Ned.”

  She climbed the grade next to the old brick church, turning on Bush toward the apartment on Mason.

  She was tired from the long day, the murder discovered, the client arrested, the alibi located. But she wouldn’t have too many more chances to stroll through Chinatown to the pale cream and green Drake-Hopkins, not too many more chances for sesame balls and No-Legs Norris and the clang of a lonesome cable car climbing up Powell Street.

  Miranda’s steps echoed, sounds of Chinatown receding, the occasional Pontiac or Ford whooshing by. Fog wrapped around her like a blanket and the streetlights shone like stars.

  She walked and she listened and the tears finally came.

  Seventeen

  Light was already streaming through the bedroom window when the telephone woke Miranda. She reached for it groggily, half-remembering the alarm clock she’d turned off an hour earlier.

  Maybe it was Louise, maybe it was Meyer, she should’ve gotten the hell out of bed at seven …

  “Hullo? Miranda?”

  She blinked a few times and sat upright, an unexpected tightening in her stomach.

  “Rick?”

  Rick Sanders, friend from New York, friend of Johnny’s, oldest friend she had, the newshawk who’d followed her, pestered her, haunted her office, the man who found her in the Napa woods and saved her life and watched over her like a goddamn mother hen, the man who’d introduced her to Burnett, helped get her out of Dianne’s.

  The man who was in love with her.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve completed basic and am looking at a few days’ leave before my next assignment. You’re speaking to Sergeant Sanders now.”