City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  The bullshit half-Irish brogue was gone, replaced by a new confidence, almost a swagger. Miranda reached for a pack of Chesterfields on her nightstand and shook one out, mind still groggy.

  “Where are you?”

  “You know where I am—right next door.”

  She lit the stick, remembering. There’d been a postcard from San Diego, explaining he’d changed his mind about the navy—something about forgetting he’d get seasick—and that he was enlisting in the army instead. Then another card from the Presidio saying he was entering basic training. Maybe two or three more after that, the kind with sad-faced comic soldiers peeling potatoes, always scrawled with an update on his progress and a “Hope you’re OK” and signed off with a “Be seeing you, Rick” …

  Rick was stationed at the Presidio. A world and less than five miles away.

  “Congratulations. Whatever happened to that school you wrote about—officer’s school, or something? Did you get in?”

  “Officer’s Candidate School. I heard about it last year through a News story but the government moves like molasses in January. General Bradley won’t have the program up and running until next year, but when they do I can apply. My degree will make me eligible and in the meantime I’m an NCO.”

  “I didn’t know you have a degree.”

  “B.A. in history from City. That’s how I met John. Two Lower East Side boys at the poor man’s Harvard…”

  City College of New York, class of ’28, Johnny Hayes, B.A. in political science, track team, newspaper, tight, hard muscles from working the docks late at night, from one too many fights in Irish Alley, confidence like the sun and smile just as blinding, you’re a good soldier, Randy, a good soldier …

  “Miranda? You still there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here, Rick. So what are you doing for your leave? Any plans?”

  Drums started to beat on the other end of the phone and then a trumpet blast, sounds of a marching band. His voice, when he finally spoke, sober.

  “Sort of depends on you. See, I’m—I’m probably getting transferred to Washington. Seems the HQ brass wants to tap into my newspaper experience. I’ve told my CO I signed up to fight when the fighting comes, but in the meantime it looks like I’ll be leaving San Francisco a little early. I’d like to see you before I go. Say good-bye.”

  Miranda stared at the blue flowers on the bedroom wallpaper, cigarette burning unnoticed.

  San Francisco without Rick.

  The memories without him were old ones, when she wore short flapper dresses and danced the Black Bottom, and as a child before that, when she escaped from Hatchett and fled to Spider Kelly’s, the ladies with big bustles and deep décolletage offering her bites of mutton and sips of Irish whiskey.

  An older City but always hers, and it was still there, the San Francisco she came back to after Spain, the San Francisco she remembered, the San Francisco where Rick Sanders was waiting for her, new and gleaming with two bridges and a man-made island in the Bay, the City that Knew How, the City she’d never forgotten.

  And Rick was a part of it.

  When she was in London, huddled in an underground shelter listening to wailing babies and the click of knitting needles and someone playing the harmonica, she’d picture him here still, battered brown Champ fedora pushed high off his forehead, wrinkled suit covered in ashes and yesterday’s lunch, hunched over a Royal typewriter, pounding one key at a time, looking up with that goddamn look on his face whenever he saw her, cheekbones strong and blue eyes warm …

  “That’s—that’s big news, Rick. And of course I want to see you. I’ve been meaning to write—”

  “You’d make a lousy foreign correspondent—”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. Listen, I’m—I’m leaving, too. Finally got a ship berth in just a few weeks. The Cameronia. Provided the Nazis don’t sink her first, of course, but—”

  “The Cameronia? You mean you’re actually going? You’re heading to England in the middle of the Blitzkrieg?”

  Miranda looked down at the cigarette clenched between her fingers, red rim eating slowly through white.

  “I’ve got to find my mother, if she’s there—I owe her the attempt, anyway—and I was trained as a nurse—”

  “For about two weeks from a woman who was flying higher than a kite most of the time. This isn’t like Spain, Miranda, it’s a new kind of war and it’s even worse. Are you sure you want to do this? Absolutely sure?”

  One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi …

  She crushed out the Chesterfield in the small glass ashtray.

  “It’s not something I want to do. It’s something I have to do.”

  Silence again. More band music from the Presidio. Rick’s voice, slow, quiet, firm.

  “That I understand … more than you know. Well, then—you have my blessing. When do you leave?”

  “Just a few weeks. October 21st.”

  “Jesus, you don’t have much time—”

  “Yeah, I know. Planning to close up shop after I finish up the case I’m on.”

  “Any time to see me?”

  “I’ll make time.”

  She could hear the smile on his face. “How about tonight?”

  “If you don’t mind maybe getting dragged along. I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

  “Sounds like old times. And after KP and drills, even the Nazi consulate would be a cakewalk. Pick you up at home or the office?”

  “Better make it the office. And I may not be able to dress for the occasion.”

  “I’m flattered you’re treating it as an occasion. You in anything at all, Miranda, is OK with me.”

  His tone was appreciative, warm, fond … but with no hidden longing, no lovesick desperation, just an old friend seeing another old friend for old time’s sake. Auld Lang fucking Syne, not the Rick Sanders who’d scolded her and worried over her and stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, the Rick she’d pushed away, hard and fast, for over two years, the friend who always wanted more.

  The friend she hurt.

  Whatever else the army had done, it looked like it had cured Rick Sanders, no more lovesick longing, no more possessive, protective worry.

  So why the hell were her hands shaking?

  “All right, let’s say seven o’clock. Your buddy Herb Caen has been a big help on this case, by the way.”

  Rick laughed, a rolling, hearty sound with a just a memory of Irish in it. She missed that goddamn laugh.

  “I figured he would be. Herb’s a good egg, and he’s got an eye for the ladies—appreciates a well-turned leg. But he’s married, so he’s safe.”

  “That’s usually when they’re the most dangerous. But you’re right, he’s a gentleman. Thanks, Rick.”

  Sudden conversation in the background, muffled. Rick’s voice, more urgent.

  “Miranda? I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at seven.”

  “Yeah. See you tonight.”

  Miranda slowly replaced the phone on the cradle, gazing again at the blue forget-me-nots dancing on yellow wallpaper.

  * * *

  She dressed in a hurry, digging through her purse until she found Louise’s number in her notebook.

  Seven rings before an answer.

  “Hullo?” Louise’s voice was slurry, still asleep.

  “It’s Miranda. We need to talk.”

  Talk about her client, about her client’s boyfriend, her client’s family connections to convicted felons, her client’s lies …

  Louise yawned audibly, teeth clicking together. “Oh—Miss Corbie—yes, I’m—I’m sorry about—”

  “Lying to me? If you want my help, Louise, you need to come clean with all of it—about George, about Smith’s book, about your sister and her husband and what role you think they’re playing in all this. I want the whole story—every word, every possible connection. Or I walk and leave you to the mercy of the San Francisco Police Department. Am I clear?”

  Silence. Even breaths, in and out
.

  “Yes. And you’re right, of course, Miss Corbie. I’m—I’m dead tired from last night, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get to work until later in the day. I can meet you at the Monadnock in the afternoon.”

  Sounds of Louise moving the phone, voice muffled. “And it looks—it looks from my window as though there might be reporters outside. Oh, God … am I in the papers?”

  “You were last night—I slept in myself and haven’t seen the morning editions yet. If the newshawks put a target on your back, that’ll complicate things. We can meet at your apartment or I can help get you to work if you’d like.”

  “I don’t know what I want except for things to be normal and simple again and without all these people hounding me…”

  “Prison is a lot worse than a pack of reporters.” Miranda’s voice was dry. “And I don’t think you’ve seen the near side of ‘normal’ for a long time.”

  Silence again. More shuffling. Louise, when she finally spoke, sounded somber.

  “You’re right, I—I shouldn’t be complaining. Yesterday was so horrible … like a bad dream … it was all I could do to hold on. Poor Mr. Bialik—without him and without you I’d be in a cell right now, facing prison, maybe even the gas chamber. All right, Miss Corbie. Give me a few hours and I’ll meet you at the Monadnock … let’s make it three o’clock to be safe, as I really should talk to Bunny first. If I feel too outnumbered I’ll give you a call, but I’ve been brave enough with some things and I need to be brave enough with this.”

  “Good. I’ll find out what the papers know and what they don’t know and we’ll figure out the next steps … after we have a long talk about everything else. Meantime, just stick it out. You run into trouble, call me at the office, and if I’m not there, leave a message with the service.”

  “If you see Bunny this morning, will you tell her—tell her I won’t let her down?”

  “Sure thing, Louise. Go on back to bed. Don’t worry about Bunny or the hacks outside. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

  The voice was trailing off now, reassured and sleepy. “Yes, I’m not—not feeling too well. Could use another few hours of sleep. Thanks, Miss Corbie … see you later.”

  Click.

  Miranda studied the phone in her hand, stomach rumbling.

  Time for breakfast … and the fucking morning papers.

  * * *

  Miranda swallowed a bite of hotcakes and sausage, barely tasting it. Next to a photo of Wendell Wilkie was LONDON RAID: NAZIS ATTACK FOR THIRTEENTH NIGHT IN A ROW.

  Goddamn it.

  She turned the page quickly, blocking out the Blitz, Wilkie’s campaign appearance in San Francisco and the Chronicle’s ecstatic welcome to the Wall Street Republican who would restore Greatness to America. Page two, page three …

  Medium headline: SECRETARY TIED TO CRETZER AND KYLE GANG; HELD AND RELEASED FOR ALEXANDER MURDER.

  Could be worse. If not for Wilkie, Louise would’ve made the front page.

  Chances are her client was a page-one headline in the News and page two in the Call-Bulletin, given the former was hot for any murder, especially with a whiff of the salacious, and the latter was supporting FDR and couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Wilkie.

  Miranda’s eyes narrowed and flickered over the article. How the hell did it leak this fast? She hadn’t said a word about Kyle and Cretzer to Fisher, carefully protected her client and the motive, and now Thelma Kyle’s name was featured in the first paragraph and the whole sordid little tale was opening mouths at kitchen tables across San Francisco … and in the Hall of Justice.

  Shit. Fisher.

  Miranda pushed away the half-eaten plate, hailed the waitress, and lit a Chesterfield. She’d call the inspector, explain it was privileged information, complain about how she didn’t see this coming and didn’t know who the hell could have leaked it.

  Except … yes. One person.

  George Blankenship.

  She quickly scanned the article again. No mention of George, just “the accused was with her male friend on the night in question.”

  Miranda nodded, jaw set and grim. George Blankenship sold the story to keep his name out of the papers. Greer Sanitarium, with all its airs and graces and pretense toward modern, well-bred, and expensive mental health, would not appreciate any link to suspected murderers or criminals doing time on the Rock. The bastard was saving his job at the expense of Louise Crowley.

  She took a puff on the cigarette, blowing a stream of blue smoke toward the Powell Street window.

  She’d see how long he’d keep it when she was through with him.

  * * *

  No reporters at the Monadnock, at least not on the ground floor. No Gladys, either, so she couldn’t get the skinny on the early part of the morning. Maybe the blonde was on break.

  Miranda frowned, thinking about how much she’d miss Gladys, and frowned again when she saw the front page of the News (“MURDER VICTIM’S SECRETARY LINKED TO BANK ROBBERS”). The Call-Bulletin featured a smaller article on page two, slightly less incendiary (“ALEXANDER MURDER CONNECTED TO CRETZER/KYLE GANG?”).

  She strode into the elevator, scanning the articles. The Pinkerton offices were busy as usual, but no light under Allen’s door. Her own office smelled like smoke and Lifesavers, so she tossed the newspapers on the desk and pulled up the window. Picked up the phone, took a breath, and dialed Fisher’s number from memory.

  Strange voice, not Fisher or Gonzales.

  “Is Inspector Fisher available?”

  “No, he’s not. Who is this?”

  “Miranda Corbie. May I leave him a message, please?”

  The gravelly voice rumbled while it looked for a pen. “You the private eye broad on the Alexander case? Your client’s all over the goddamn paper this morning. We got the Oakland Police Department angry as hell because they’re working overtime tryin’ to keep the sister under wraps.”

  “I didn’t give them the story.”

  “Whatever you say, sister. What’s the message?”

  “Blankenship leaked. Call when can.”

  A pause, while the bull on the other end worked out the words, his breath heavy on the phone.

  “I’ll put it on his desk.” He clicked off before she could thank him.

  Miranda drummed her fingers on the black wood, picked up the phone again.

  “Greer Sanitarium, please. Yes, the one on Fulton.”

  Connection, ring. “Greer Sanitarium, Incorporated.”

  Sounded like the gorgon she’d met before.

  “George Blankenship, please.”

  The voice dripped ice. “I don’t know where you found that name, ma’am. We don’t give out information about employees or guests.”

  Miranda leaned forward in her chair, eyes glittering. “Listen, sister. I know he works there, so save the spiel. You tell him to call EXbrook 3333 if you want to keep your fucking clip joint out of the evening paper.”

  Miranda slammed the phone down in the receiver, breathing hard.

  Next stop, Bunny Berrigan.

  * * *

  Two reporters were lounging against the door to Alexander Publishing. Goddamn it. Two or three ink-slingers were harder to shake than a whole pack. She started to duck behind the hallway wall when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Why don’t you fellows find someplace else to stake out? Louise Crowley isn’t here and Bunny Berrigan doesn’t want to talk.”

  Warm, jocular, and flippantly confident. Herb Caen.

  Miranda smiled and strode down the hall.

  “At least not to us,” one of the reporters groused. “They always got three dots for you, Caen.”

  The columnist preened, stretching a bow tie and a smirk in front of the publisher’s door. “Can I help it if I—well, look who it is, boys! Miranda Corbie, the private eye most private eyes would like to give the eye to … you here to see Bunny, Miranda?”

  The two other reporters, one in blue rumpled pinstripes, the other in gray, trotted tow
ard her, pencils poised, questions in high gear.

  “Who’re you working for exactly, Miss Corbie? I heard it was Louise Crowley, the accused—is it true her sister’s married to Kyle? Is their gang behind the murder?”

  “Why wasn’t she charged? Was Alexander two-timin’ with his secretary? Was it a fit of jealous passion?”

  Miranda held up a gloved hand against the onslaught while Caen made clucking noises and took her by the arm.

  “Now boys, you know she can’t answer questions, just like she knows you can’t not ask ’em. So why don’t we accept the futility of it all and you two run along home to mamma?”

  The younger reporter with sharp features and the blue pin-striped suit clenched his fist and took a step toward Caen, while the older one restrained him, voice resigned.

  “C’mon, Ed. We can find someone else to shake down.” He led the younger one down the hall, the latter still craning his neck backward and glaring at the columnist.

  Caen studied Miranda, his leprechaun smile growing bolder. “I was just on my way to your office. Got a message from Rick this morning telling me I’m off duty for a couple of days as of tonight.”

  “Off duty? You mean … oh, I see. You’re my Lochinvar until the real one shows up, is that it?”

  The curly-headed journalist made a face. “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that. He’s just trying to protect you, Miranda. With all this rumble, you need as many Lochinvars as you can get.”

  “‘So faithful in love, so dauntless in war.’” Her lips curled up at one corner. “Thanks just the same. Though I do appreciate the help on fending off the wolves.”

  Caen executed a short bow and tipped his fedora. “M’lady.”

  “Rick say anything else?”

  “Something about shipping out to D.C. in a few days.” The columnist shook his head and sighed. “Thing is, war’ll come soon enough for all of us, so why he felt the urge to join up now I don’t understand. The boy’s a good reporter”—Miranda suppressed a smile at the diminutive, since Caen was a good ten years younger than Rick—“but he’s an idealist, determined to tilt at windmills.” Caen cocked his eyebrow at her. “You two really were made for one another, weren’t you?”