City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  She shivered and turned toward the shore, staring at the fog-wavy outline of Coit Tower, the squat gray solidity of pier after pier.

  Roy Gardner had it right.

  Forget the small, enclosed cell, forget the howling, freezing wind. Forget the physical threats, the predatory advances of other prisoners, the dark, cold dampness of isolation, depredations and deprivations a man could survive. Forget even the atrophy of regimentation, the hopelessness of fighting back, the death of identity and ego lost, a number among three hundred.

  It was the quick glimpse, a white reflection of the Ferry Building.

  It was the smell of coffee and chocolate, born high on the wind.

  It was the lonesome note of a cable car, drowning out a fog horn, sailing down the hill from California and Grant.

  To see and smell and hear and yet never touch San Francisco.

  The real hell of Alcatraz.

  An anxious “Hello there!” fought above the whistling wind and white froth batter of the waves. A fat little man was quickly walking down the steep road, waving his arms.

  He arrived, slightly out of breath, and skidded to a stop in front of her.

  “You Miranda Corbie?”

  She nodded.

  He threw out an arm, encompassing the low, hulking main cell block on the island’s crest and the more ornate, human, Spanish-style architecture of the warden’s house between the prison and the lighthouse. His smile was broad, teeth yellow.

  “Welcome to Alcatraz.”

  Twenty-Six

  The little man’s name was Henry, an accounting clerk Miller sent to escort her. He ushered her through the hulking main entrance and to the right, still panting and heaving from the steep climb to the main building. They walked past the officers’ lounge and captain’s desk, where a sullen-looking man eyed her suspiciously, and into a grim, prim waiting room, windowless and too cell-like for her comfort.

  A chipped placard on the door in front announced ASSOCIATE WARDEN, EDWARD J. MILLER. To the left, the reassuring sound of a typewriter floated through a half-open door: the office of the warden’s secretary, the supposed nerve center of Alcatraz.

  “He’ll—he’ll be with you in a few minutes, Miss Corbie. I gotta be getting back to my ledgers. It’s been a real pleasure—I didn’t know Hoover even allowed lady agents!”

  Henry wiped his brow, beamed at her, and retreated to the wing on the other side of the entrance.

  So that was the score. James insinuated in whatever telegram he sent that she was working with the FBI. A private investigator, yes, but one sanctioned by the G-men, the kind that never showed up on Gang Busters. She wondered who James was really feeding information to and why.

  Miller’s door opened suddenly, and a man who looked like a cross between Herbert Hoover and Al Capone stuck out his head.

  Short and squat with muscle long gone to fat, he wore a blue suit, carefully pressed. Deep creases fell downward on a round, unpleasant face, and his hair was thick and dressed like Hoover’s, oiled and parted in the middle. Mean little eyes measured and weighed her like a butcher, adding up the numbers and arriving at a total by the time they reached her face.

  No wonder they called him Meat Head.

  She stood up and plastered on a smile.

  “Warden Miller? I believe you’re expecting me. Miranda Corbie.”

  He nodded toward his office.

  “Of course, Miss Corbie. I arranged for Henry to meet you when I received the wire from Washington this morning. Rather sudden request, and spur-of-the-moment, I must say—it was 5:00 A.M. when we received the call—but we are always pleased to help the Bureau.”

  Miranda followed him inside, taking in the small, dark office Miller called home.

  “Thanks—I hope I haven’t been too much trouble for you.”

  “Not at all, not at all. Alcatraz Penitentiary is run with great precision. We can react instantly to any situation.”

  Her lips twitched. “You mean like last year’s escape attempt?”

  Miller hitched high-waisted trousers and sank into the large desk chair. His tone was frosty.

  “Miss Corbie, Alcatraz is a new style of prison. It houses the worst of the worst of federal prisoners, men who would kill at the slightest provocation or even for the sheer joy of it. Naturally, this type of hardened criminal presents a challenge—a challenge this prison was built for and one we more than meet. And remember, please, that Barker and the others attempted to escape—they didn’t succeed. Thanks, of course, to the diligence of our troops and organization here at Alcatraz.”

  She nodded. No print of FDR on the wall, standard issue for most government bureaucrats, but Warden Johnston stared down at them, unsmiling, and there was a posed photograph of Miller with J. Edgar Hoover next to an oval-framed portrait of a frumpy woman who could only be his wife.

  “Ever find out what happened to Cole and Roe?”

  “Drowned.” Miller snapped it out while rifling through small piles of papers, neatly stacked.

  Miranda perched on one of the hard-backed oak chairs lined up in front of him.

  “By the way, Warden Miller, I understand there was a fire in the mat shop recently. Did that have anything to do with the hunger strike or the escape attempt last year?”

  He raised his head, black eyes shiny and hard.

  “Only in the sense that the fire was started by Hensley—a labor agitator and the man behind the hunger strike. He’s a dangerous menace and a Red, and we’ve taken steps to ensure he won’t be able to influence the other inmates.”

  “Does that mean he’s in solitary?”

  “Isolation, yes. Now, Miss Corbie—”

  “Along with Henri Young and Rufus McCain?”

  The warden stiffened in his buttoned leather chair.

  “I was told you were to ask a few questions about Joseph Cretzer and Arnold Kyle. I fail to understand the connection.”

  Miranda gave an elaborate shrug. “Cretzer and Kyle are known for escape attempts and Young and McCain nearly succeeded. I was wondering where they are. Along with William Martin, of course.”

  Color rose in Meat Head’s cheeks, setting off the white line down the center of his scalp.

  “Are you working for the Bureau of Investigation or the Bureau of Prisons, Miss Corbie? You sound like one of those well-meaning Washington types. They’ve learned through the years that it’s best not to interfere with how Warden Johnston handles things here—in fact, with the new improvements he’s convinced the BOP to support, there won’t be any more escape attempts.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “How often does the Bureau of Prisons come by? After every strike or just every escape?”

  “Escape attempt.”

  Tense and tight, Miller bent toward her, desk pressed into a doughy gut, posture full of violence. All he needed was a club in his hand.

  He’d been a guard, she’d read—a guard like George Blankenship. A guard like so many she’d seen, lining up men on Spanish streets …

  The associate warden’s shoulders slumped and he leaned back in his chair once again, tone softened, body shrunk back to flaccid middle age.

  “As I said, the BOP has learned that Alcatraz can’t be managed on a blueprint. We don’t receive many visits from them or anyone else. In fact, I doubt if you realize how fortunate you are to be here.” He tapped the sheet he was holding. “I know Director Hoover, and I must say—I’m surprised that he would allow his agents to work with a private detective, especially a female. You are licensed by the state, I trust?”

  Miranda’s lips curled at the corners. “Oh, yes, Warden Miller. I’m legitimate. And I do realize how difficult it is to get any information out of Alcatraz. The newshawks like to say it’s as difficult to break into as it is to break out of.”

  “Pack of sensationalists. Just look at what they did with Gardner—made the man out to be some kind of hero! They print lies and coddle maniacs, every one of them.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s o
ut to coddle maniacs, with the exception of some former politicians in Europe and certain members of Congress. And we would still like to know where McCain, Young, and Martin are.”

  Miller looked up, better controlled this time, a typewritten sheet of paper clutched in a flipper-like hand.

  Miranda met his eyes, smile glued in place.

  “Isolation,” he snapped.

  “Martin, too?”

  He sucked on his upper false teeth for a few seconds. “Alcatraz is a federal prison and of course is segregated, as I’m sure you’re aware. He’s in colored isolation. And before we proceed any further, Miss Corbie, you’ll sign this.”

  He pushed the paper at her.

  “You agree to keep this interview and any information which you may receive confidential.”

  She picked it up. “If I don’t?”

  “Your interview is terminated. I doubt that your employers at the Bureau would appreciate that.” He flattened a thick hand on the desk. “Come now, Miss Corbie. I allotted fifteen minutes for you. I suggest you not waste any more time.”

  Miranda’s eyes glimmered green.

  “Pen?”

  He shoved one at her wordlessly. She scratched her signature and pushed the paper and pen back across his desk.

  “I’ll need a copy of that.”

  “I’ve included a blank form in the packet I’ve prepared for you, which will contain some basic information on Alcatraz and the report Warden Johnston received on Joseph Paul Cretzer, dated the 18th of April. I doubt I can add any information to that but I am available to you”—he checked his wristwatch—“for the next eleven minutes.”

  Her voice was dry. “So you’ve said. Mind if I smoke?”

  Remnants of Cuban cigars, smoked to the flat, smeary stub, filled his ashtray. Miller jerked out a nod.

  Women didn’t smoke, not in his world. Didn’t vote, either, and never asked questions beyond how many olives he’d like in his fucking martini.

  Miranda lit a Chesterfield, taking her time.

  “The main reason I’m here today, Warden Miller, is this: a book purporting to be about the inner workings of prisons, including Alcatraz, was stolen from a San Francisco publishing company. The publisher was murdered during the theft and his secretary was killed at home a day later. The author is under police protection.”

  Miller grimaced. “When you lie with dogs you get fleas. There are too many books of that sort, anyway—preposterous lies, all of them, starting with that reprobate Gardner’s. But what’s all this got to do with Cretzer and Kyle?”

  “The author interviewed them before their transfer here. About corruption and bribery in prisons and how they escaped from McNeil—”

  “There is no bribery here and certainly no corruption, Miss Corbie, and I resent any implication of such a thing. As for escape, Alcatraz, as we’ve demonstrated, is escape-proof. Cretzer and Kyle won’t even make an attempt.”

  Miranda blew a stream of smoke out the left side of her mouth.

  “There’s more. The secretary was seeing a man who used to be a guard here. He was fired.”

  The sudden breath was sharp and quick.

  “Fired? Who was it? Our men are all clean and sober—good men, every one of them. I pride myself, Miss Corbie, pride myself on our Alcatraz troops. I was a guard myself and attained my present position through hard work and clean living, and that’s the lesson I instill in my men. They know they can come to me with any problem, no matter how trivial—”

  She held up a hand. “Just a minute, Warden. I’m not finished. When the secretary told him about the book he asked her to steal it. She didn’t, but the point is this: he believed if he showed it to you and a guard named Linkletter that he’d get his job back. Now, I—we, I should say—would like to know why this ex-guard would think such a thing.”

  Meat Head looked around the desk, at the photo of Hoover. Wet his lips with a gray tongue and then raised his head to stare at her with shiny black eyes.

  “If a man was fired from Alcatraz, Miss Corbie, he can hardly be trusted as a source of information. I’m surprised—shocked, really—that you and your associates would even bother with such prattle. The man in question is obviously bent on revenge. As for Linkletter, he is Captain Linkletter now. He is above reproach, as his promotion demonstrates. And my own reputation speaks for itself.”

  She smiled, teeth showing. “Of course. But I’d still like to see Captain Linkletter.”

  Pudgy fingers crunched the piece of paper in his hand. He caught himself and smoothed it out on the desk.

  “Captain Linkletter cannot possibly hold any interest for you or your associates, Miss Corbie. And our time is nearing the end.”

  She stared critically at the glowing red end of the Chesterfield.

  “Someone’s taking an interest. More than one someone. And they’re all listening to George Blankenship.”

  No widening of the eyes, no sign of surprise.

  He’d been expecting the name.

  “Blankenship, Blankenship … oh, yes, I recall now. Insubordination. George Blankenship was terminated for insubordination after employment of just a few months. He came in with a good record, as I recall, working in other institutions. No wonder he’s spreading lies and insinuations—an angry man, from what I remember. Definitely insubordinate.”

  She leaned forward, knocking ash over the cigar remnants in his plain black ashtray.

  “May I see Captain Linkletter, Warden?”

  Miller stared at her, full mouth twisted, fists clenched. Sweat started to bead up on his forehead and the sides of his neck.

  He stood up quickly and strode to the door.

  “Linkletter—get in here.”

  Miller mopped his head with a handkerchief. The sullen-looking guard who’d been holding down the captain’s desk knocked softly on the open door. The warden waved him in, shutting the door behind him.

  Link was a big man, at least six-two, mostly muscle. His uniform was specked with lint, unkempt and dotted with mud. His jaw was sharp, but not sharper than the light blue eyes underneath his flat hat. He gave Miranda a sideways examination, a quick up and down before facing his boss.

  “Sir?”

  Miller made a motion with his head and Linkletter moved to stand at attention behind him, more private bodyguard than prison bull, a praetorian for 1940 who would look at home next to Rudolph Hess.

  “You remember George Blankenship, Linkletter?”

  The light blue eyes grew opaque. “Yes, sir. What about him?”

  “He’s been shooting his fool mouth off and may be involved in a murder. Spreading lies and rumors about Alcatraz, making insinuations that he could get his job back by coming to us with information.” Miller held on to the guard’s eyes and spoke carefully. “I’ve explained to Miss Corbie here—she’s working with Hoover’s men—that he was fired for insubordination.”

  Linkletter glanced at Miranda and back to his boss. He held his hat in his hands, huge body oddly paralyzed.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say, sir.”

  Meat Head shifted in his chair, impatient. “Just tell her what you know about Blankenship, Linkletter, when and why he was fired. You handled it.”

  The flat bull cap went around in a circle. “Yes, sir. I did. But you—I don’t want to get in trouble with the G-men, sir—”

  Miller’s hand hit the desk with a thud, making the papers and the guard jump. “Does she look like a G-man to you? We both know—both of us—that you’ve done nothing wrong. I gave you an order, Linkletter. Maybe you want to go back to the night shift.”

  Miranda uncrossed her legs and crushed the Chesterfield stub in the ashtray.

  “Maybe I can help you, Captain.”

  Her eyes flickered up to the sharp-angled jaw, to Linkletter’s muscular face.

  Now or fucking never.

  “George Blankenship seems to think you have something to hide. Something to do with certain prisoners getting certain privileges, somet
hing to do with Joseph Cretzer and Arnold Kyle, and something, maybe, to do with the rash of attempted escapes over the last couple of years. He says he’s tired of keeping his mouth shut and wants his old job back and was planning to stop a book from being published in order to protect you—and blackmail you.” She glanced over at the warden, sitting tensed in the chair, then back to Link, hat clutched and bent between massive fingers.

  “My question, Captain, is simple: What does Blankenship have on you and Warden Miller?”

  Cannon fire, thunder in the night, shriek of warplanes, and the bomb you never hear, you’re a good soldier, Randy, a damn good soldier, and the men in uniform, the police who kept order, they lined up the men from the brigade against the ancient gray stone, blood and bits of flesh hitting the wall, and they fell down, fell down, fell down …

  Miller’s broad face ran colors, splotchy, stretched skin a rash of red and whites. Linkletter shifted position, pale blue eyes narrowed, muscles poised for action, his neck red and bulging against the color of his uniform.

  One Mississippi, Two Mississippi …

  Miller’s voice was unexpectedly flat against the silence.

  “Blankenship was a bad guard and he couldn’t measure up and he got fired, end of story. We got nothing more to tell you except good-bye. I read up on you this morning, ‘Miss’ Corbie, made a few phone calls.” He patted one of the pieces of paper on his desk as if it were a puppy. “I know all about you. You’ll never work for Hoover again, you can count on that—and don’t count on getting that license of yours renewed, either. I’ve got friends in high places, too—plenty of ’em.”

  Miranda took out another Chesterfield and tapped it on the edge of the warden’s desk three times before lighting it.

  “Cards on the table, Warden Miller? I’ll play a hand. You’re the second associate warden Johnston’s had, and the last couple of years haven’t been very good for the prison, have they? Maybe Johnston needs to know what I know—what my employers know. Maybe he’ll wake up from his nap in his nice big office and realize he’s tired of making apologies to the BOP and San Francisco. Maybe he’ll realize you’ll make one hell of a good fall guy. Maybe you’d like to go back to busting heads at Leavenworth along with your bruno boy here.” She nodded at Linkletter. “If not, start talking. My fifteen minutes aren’t up yet.”