City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  He muttered, as if to himself: “Jesus. Keep a lid on an attempted murder, lie to the goddamn press, find a killer, shut down goddamn Alcatraz…”

  He looked up sharply at Miranda. A light was still flickering in his eyes behind the layers of dirt and sweat and exhaustion.

  “Anything else, Miss Corbie? Can the San Francisco Police Department do anything else for you?”

  She cracked a grin. “Yeah. Don’t bring George Blankenship in until after I’ve talked to him. I’m heading out there now. I’ve convinced him you’re after his pathetic ass and I’m his only hope.”

  Fisher fell back into his chair and started to chuckle, shaking his head, the sound growing louder in the crowded room until a middle-aged bookie three desks down interrupted his confession to watch the inspector laugh. Fisher wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

  “A pip. A goddamn pip, that’s what you are, Miranda Corbie. San Francisco sure in hell won’t be the same without you.”

  Twenty-Three

  She passed Smith on the way back to the waiting room. He stared stonily ahead, not looking at her, tense and stiff. He was escorted by a uniform, not Gonzales or one of the other homicide cops, and he shook his arm when the bull tried to lead him down the hall.

  Quite the temper had Mr. Smith …

  Meyer was still sitting in the dully-lit waiting room, nodding to sleep, shiny black cane supporting him in a semi-upright position. Rick rose when she walked in.

  “Any news?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to make a call and take a taxi down to Playland right away.”

  The tall man in the uniform grinned. Almost looked like the old Rick, the one she drove away …

  “You got a sudden hankering to ride the Big Dipper?”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “No, got someone nearby I need to brace. Louise’s boyfriend—her alibi for Alexander’s murder. He was going to meet me in the office at eight, but I can’t wait that long. Not now.”

  He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “That should put us at Whitney’s in time for our dinner. Come to think of it, I’m hungry for a tamale and an ‘It’s It.’ Been a while.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  He grinned again, pushing up his cap like it was a Champ fedora.

  “Hell no, Miranda. I told you I’m in for as long as you and my schedule allow. Besides, I—well, I need to talk to you and Playland’s as good a place as any.”

  She looked up quickly. Meyer cleared his throat.

  “My dear, are you finished, one hopes, with Inspector Fisher? At least for tonight?”

  “Yes. At least I think so. Go on home, Meyer … it’s going to be a long evening. I’ll let you know how—how Louise pulls through.”

  He stood up, wobbly on his feet, and shuffled closer. Patted her on the arm.

  “Miss Crowley is a strong young woman, my dear. She’ll survive.” He yawned, covering his mouth with a fist. “I’m sorry—haven’t caught up on my rest. Phone me tomorrow, please, Miranda.”

  “I will, Meyer. And thanks.”

  They watched him tap his way down the marble hallway and lean against the double doors, pushing them open.

  “I’m gonna need you to do me one last favor as a newshawk, Rick—or a former one.”

  “No such thing as an ex-reporter, Miri, you know that. What’s up?”

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ll tell you in the taxi if we can find one without big ears or a big mouth. We’ll need your pal Caen on this, too. Can you find a driver while I make this phone call?”

  Rick nodded. “Sure thing.”

  She watched him stride through the doors, Bay blowing in, sand and sea and a ship overseas, when you comin’ back, Miranda, when you comin’ home?

  She shook herself, and shut the wooden door of the phone booth with a slam.

  * * *

  George had a playmate.

  Matthew the janitor, about forty-five, thick of body and brain, with small, shifty eyes and nerves like a hophead. Noises from the upstairs dining and kitchen area filtered down to the dim basement room he’d led them to, along with smells of fatty roast beef and creamed potatoes.

  Rick looked at the peeling walls and mildewed mops with distaste.

  “Why’s he meeting you here, Miranda? I thought you said he’s off work at five and it’s after six now.”

  She threw a glance at Matthew and sat gingerly on a three-legged stool splashed with gray paint.

  “I guess George wanted backup and the woman at the desk would recognize me if we came in the front door, so his lackey here took us through the back entrance, sight unseen.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the tin bucket of dirty mop water, took in the magazine pinups and crude drawings from jo-jo books pasted on the walls. “His apartment’s a shit hole, too.”

  The janitor giggled, teeth yellow and throat red, nostrils pink and scaly. “You got a nasty mouth, lady. You might upset me with that mouth.”

  Rick walked deliberately toward him. Matthew backed up against some steel shelves holding boxes and cleaners until a box of White King soap flakes tottered and fell off the rack.

  “W-what? I ain’t said nothing. It ain’t my fault he ain’t here yet. It ain’t my fault.”

  “I’m sure you’re as innocent as a lamb.” Rick’s voice was dry. “But why don’t you just shut the hell up.”

  Heavy footsteps from the staircase around the corner. Matthew’s eyes got bigger, grin of triumph and anticipation.

  “That’ll be George. George’ll tell you. George knows everything, he knows I ain’t done nothing wrong, doncha George?”

  Blankenship stood before them scowling, large hairy hands holding his belt, brutish features taking in Rick with surprise and disappointment.

  Miranda rose from the stool, lips curved upward in a satirical smile.

  “What’s wrong, George? Did I forget to mention I was bringing company? Silly me. No, I brought two friends this time. The Browning’s in my pocket.”

  Matthew let out a whistling sound between his teeth.

  “You ain’t said nothin’ ’bout guns, George—I don’t like guns!” His head pivoted back and forth as he backed closer to George. The larger man snarled at him.

  “Shut the fuck up, Matthew. This is business. She ain’t gonna shoot you.”

  Miranda casually withdrew her hand from her coat pocket. Rick stood beside her, tensed and waiting.

  “That’s right, George. Business. So if you were thinking of getting the jump on me with your gunsel over there, thinking now that Louise is dead your troubles are over and you don’t have to play along … well, you’re not much known for your thinking, are you?”

  “I told ’em, George, told ’em you knew everything an’ I didn’t do nothing.” Matthew licked his lips, gaze flickering over the guard. “I di’n’ do nothing, George, now did I?” he repeated softly.

  Blankenship ignored him, flush of anger slowly draining out of his face, practicality sinking in. He nodded, thumb on his teeth, looking at Miranda and Rick.

  “You keep the cops off my back?”

  “I said I’ll try. They’ll bring you in for some standard questions about Louise and they’ll want an alibi.”

  “But the papers say she tried to off herself, don’t got to have no alibi for a fucking suicide—”

  “You’ll need an alibi, George, and the papers don’t get everything. They don’t even know Louise is dead. You’ll be all right as long as you can explain where you were this morning between about 9:00 A.M. and 1:00 P.M.”

  “I was sleepin’ til eleven, then I ate at the Koffee Klub an’ went back to work early. Jawed with Matthew here.”

  The janitor giggled again. “You sure did, di’nt you, George? I can jaw real good, jus’ ask him. He ain’t murdered nobody, whatever that dame says. Her mouth ain’t clean.”

  Rick’s mouth tightened with distaste. “Let’s get on with this. And get rid of him.”

  Matthew was backing up against Bl
ankenship again. “I ain’t done nothin’! Don’t let him talk to me like that, George—I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!”

  “Go upstairs and finish work and don’t say nothing to nobody.” Blankenship barked out the order, eyes not leaving Rick’s face. “I’ll talk to you later, Matthew.”

  The janitor slipped back to pick up the mop and bucket then slid past George again, heading slowly up the stairs, pink nostrils flaring, eyes glued to the larger man.

  Miranda waited until they heard the footsteps stop and the upper door click shut.

  “Spill it, George. Why’d you want Louise to steal the book?”

  He looked from her to Rick again, hesitant, face growing redder, until the words came out in a flood.

  “’Cause I wanted my fucking job back is why! Ain’t got no cause to fire me, no more’n they had on Al or Petey or anybody else. I figured stealin’ this book would get me back in with Link and Miller.”

  “Miller the associate warden?”

  “Yeah. But Link—he’s head of the prison guards an’ Miller jus’ does what he tells ’em when it comes to hirin’ and firin’. Them bastards got you by the curlies—even when they fire you, you can’t tell nobody nothin’.”

  Miranda stared at him thoughtfully. “Why were you fired?”

  “For nothin’. Don’t matter. What matters is I want my goddamn job back.”

  Panic filled George Blankenship, panic and embarrassment and even a little shame, unusual combination in a bully and abuser. She papered over his discomfiture, asking smoothly: “Just start at the beginning, George, with the book. How did Louise know about it? Did she read it?”

  “She heard Smith an’ Alexander talkin’ ’ bout Shorty Kyle—her own brother-in-law—an’ she panicked. She knew Smith was writin’ about the Rock but didn’t know it was about Shorty and Cretzer, too. So she wrote—maybe called, I don’t remember—her sister and finds out it’s true … Smith talked to ’em when they was up in McNeil, before they got transferred.”

  “Was she worried that she’d lose her job if Alexander found out? About her brother-in-law, I mean?”

  “That’s so.” He removed a pack of Camels from his jacket pocket and lit one with a Koffee Kup matchbook. “That’s why she snuck a look. Di’n’t even tell me nothin’ then—told me after she’d got a peek.”

  “How’d she do it? The book was locked up.”

  He nodded, growing more comfortable. “Yeah, when it was finished. But a few weeks ago he was goin’ through changin’ the words or whatever and she got a hold of some new parts—you’d’a had to ask her how she did it, too late now—and told me about it—finally.”

  “What did she tell you, George?”

  He grinned, the Camel clamped between his teeth. “Easy Street, peeper. Easy Street. Louise said that Smith talked to Kyle and Cretzer all right—before and after they escaped from McNeil. That’s what them changes was about. An’ after they was caught and knew they’d be comin’ here—when they shot that bull up in Washington—they gave Smith an earful. They told him that every pen’s got a system ’tween guards and inmates and even wardens, too, a lot of times, an’ no place was escape-proof, not even Alcatraz. That’s how they got offa McNeil in the first place. Then Smith wrote it right there in black an’ white for the whole goddamn world to see. Guards in cahoots wit’ prisoners, takin’ bribes and kickbacks, same as the fucking brass.”

  Miranda glanced at Rick. His eyes were wide and eager, two-inch headline and a byline burning behind them.

  “And you know—from experience—how accurate that report might be … don’t you, George?”

  This time he grew bigger, more expansive, end of the stick glowing bright red. “You bet I do. An’ they—Link and Miller—they know it. I ain’t gettin’ jack from keepin’ my mouth shut, am I? That Smith was writin’ ’bout how the ginks on the outside contact their buddies, how it works, how the wheel’s greased. An’ he was gettin’ money—good money—for it, while I was cleanin’ bed pans for rich widows snortin’ too much dust.” He shook his head with disgust. “Ain’t no point in keepin’ quiet, not anymore. Not without gettin’ somethin’ for it. So’s I told Louise to steal the book.”

  “And she didn’t want to?”

  “Hell, no. She may a’ been good for a roll in the hay and she’s dead now, an’ I’m sorry an’ all—but Louise weren’t no genius. So there she was, rubbin’ her hands and worryin’ over maybe losin’ her job, and I told her—I told her if she takes the book I’ll give it to Link. He’d know what to do wit’ it—burn it, probably, but make sure Miller knew ’bout it. Make sure we get somethin’ outta it. An’ if she just lifted the goddamn thing she wouldn’t have to worry no more about her sister or losin’ her job or anything … an’ I’d get my old job back, with a nice, fat bonus. Shit, I coulda counted on retirin’ with a goddamn gold watch.”

  He snorted, tossing the cigarette stub on the cement floor.

  “But she didn’t steal it. And instead, you’re still here at Greer … and Louise is dead.”

  The guard looked up at her quickly. “I ain’t touched Louise, like I told you on the phone, and nobody’s pinnin’ that on me. She killed herself, pure an’ simple. Never was real stable. Hell, I met her when she was lookin’ for work, helped her out of a jam even then. Now what about you, peeper? You gotta keep your side of the bargain—keep those bulls off my back.”

  Miranda made a motion toward the stairs with her head, signaling Rick. “I’ll try to buy you time, George. Time to find yourself a waitress who saw you at the Koffee Kup.”

  “Me? Why do I gotta find somebody? You do it—you said you’d—”

  She stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned around to face the guard.

  “I said I’d help keep the bulls at bay. Not find you an alibi.” Her eyes bored into him, voice silky. “Why did they fire you from Alcatraz, George? What was the cause?”

  He reddened again, stepped backward. “None a’ your fucking business, bitch.”

  Rick started down the steps. Miranda thrust out her arm to block him, eyes still on George’s face.

  “I’ll protect you from the cops, George. But someone’s killed Alexander and Louise. Somebody who’s got something to do with Alcatraz. So maybe it’s not just the cops you need to worry about.”

  The guard’s eyes widened, black pupils darting between Miranda and Rick.

  Miranda climbed the stairs and didn’t look back.

  * * *

  Smell of cotton candy and shrill screams from the Big Dipper, music from a calliope, different from the Gayway’s, not quite as melodic, not quite as entrancing. Sound of sand and surf and seagulls, cars honking in the parking lot, and Laffing Sal’s cackle drifting from the Fun House, high on the wind, growing stronger as they walked down Fulton.

  HaaHAHAhaahaaHAHAhaahaa …

  Rick peppered her with questions: What else did she know about the Alcatraz connection? Was it a gang, like Tony Lima’s boys or with connections to Cretzer and Kyle? What was she doing to protect herself and was she telling Fisher?

  Miranda’s stomach growled. She cut a left corner and they walked through the Standard Oil station on 48th, treading carefully around an oil patch, watching the line of kids at Laff in the Dark and couples lined up at the Ferris Wheel.

  HaaHAHAhaahaaHAHAhaahaa …

  “Fisher will get it out of Smith, Rick. I’m working with him, not for him. Christ, I’m hungry…”

  He rubbed his nose. “Me too. I’ll lay off grilling you til we get something to eat, but I still want to know what you’re planning … if you can tell me.”

  Menacing, mechanical laughter, the shrill cries of coeds and gulls and frightened children, and a car speeding by on the Great Highway, Sing and Swing with Sammy Kaye blending and bending with Playland …

  Let there be you … let there be me …

  Miranda paused for a moment, smiling, and raised her hand to his cheek, tracing it softly with a gloved finger.

  “I�
�ll tell you what I know. I’ll even tell you what I think. But first, let’s get a goddamn hot dog.”

  Rick grinned down at her, took her arm, and led her back down Fulton along the concrete and wire fence protecting Playland, drawing closer to the screams, smells, and the sound of crashing waves.

  * * *

  They stuffed themselves on tamales and hot dogs, man with a handlebar mustache and a stained white apron giving them funny looks when they came back for pretzels and peanuts.

  They strolled by the Octopus and the Lindy Loop and took a spin on the Tilt-A-Whirl, where Rick almost lost his hat. They played Skee-Ball and rode the Big Dipper, the wild wind and sudden drop making their cheeks puff out, the shrieking wood and screaming children more frightening than Miranda wanted to admit, too much like Spain.

  Too much like Spain.

  They toured the Fun House while Rick ate an “It’s It,” and studied the new mechanical hostess, Laffing Sal, Whitney’s newest edition to Playland, she of the cackle that belonged in Greer or maybe even Napa State. Sal leered like a drunken sailor but was far less terrifying in person—it was her laugh that sent shivers through the backs of children, reminding adults of parochial school nuns and Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein.

  The protector of Playland and by extension, San Francisco, Sal kept the specter of war at bay and frightened away the ghosts of 1906 … surely the City, like Rome with its Colosseum or London with its Tower, couldn’t fall as long as Laffing Sal kept laughing …

  Miranda, grinning, fed her another nickel.

  Rick pulled her out of the Fun House and led her to the games, where he threw baseballs at bottles and won a kewpie doll for her, and finally, out of breath and out of change, horizon line gray and pink against a wine-dark sea, they entered the Pie Shop for coffee and coconut cream.

  HaaHAHAhaahaaHAHAhaahaa …

  They talked and Miranda told him about Alexander and Louise and Bunny and Smith, told him about James and London and the Cameronia. Told him, a little, about her fears and her dream of finding her mother … the mother he’d helped her discover.

  HaaHAHAhaahaaHAHAhaahaa …