City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  He took a gulp of air and deflated. “Yes, I know, I’m—I’m sorry about that. Louise probably—probably told you about us. I liked her, I really did. You—I think you’re too smart to think I had anything to do with either her death or, or, my father’s … but Sylvia—my mother marrying Roscoe—that’s just too much. I can’t bear it. Does she think I’m going to take this? Just take it?”

  He started to jump up and Miranda reached a hand out to stop him.

  “Sit down. We’re not done.”

  “We’re done when I say!” he snapped, then slowly sank back down on the leather seat, Miranda’s eyes holding his.

  “Sit down and listen, goddamn it. I’m no alienist, but you’ve got a problem. Maybe you didn’t get enough love from Mommy and Daddy, maybe too much. Maybe your whole family’s been crazy for generations—I don’t really give a goddamn.”

  She crushed the Chesterfield out in the ashtray until the tobacco splintered.

  “What I do know is this: You’re through taking your anger out on women. Paid or not, whore or not. Maybe beating up whores—or giving them syphilis—gives you some kind of kick, some kind of revenge on your mother. But you won’t be finding any open doors in San Francisco, not if I can help it. From Chinatown to the International Settlement, the City’s closed, Jerry. Not for sale.”

  Miranda slid out from the small booth, looking down at him. His powerful shoulders and arms were slumped and lifeless. He already looked old again, anger evaporated, rage his only fuel.

  Her voice cut through the stupor. “Or maybe you are just a sick, perverted bastard with an Oedipus complex who killed his father and a would-be girlfriend.”

  He raised his face to hers, spoke quickly. “I didn’t kill my father. I was staying with my parents while I was getting the treatments. That’s why I was at home that night.”

  Miranda’s eyes flickered over his rumpled, expensive suit, his still-shaking hands.

  “Go home. Sober up. See Dr. White.”

  She left him huddled in the dark booth, hunched over an empty coffee cup.

  * * *

  The phone was ringing when Miranda finally limped back to the office, foot pinched from a piece of loose shoe leather. She slipped out of the navy pump and hopped to the desk, handbag sliding across the sleek black surface.

  “Miranda Corbie.”

  “Miranda?”

  She maneuvered to the desk chair and sank into the overstuffed leather.

  Gonzales.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Just walked in. What is it, Gonzales? Louise? Did she wake up? Is she gonna be all right?”

  His voice was soft. “Yes, that is the reason I called. Miss Crowley did regain consciousness, and her sister is with her now. She has not been able to speak more than a few words, but she shows no sign of brain damage.”

  “Thank God.” Miranda exhaled a long breath and slumped in the chair. “Thank God. When can I see her?”

  “She is too weak to see anyone right now. Even her sister has been given only a few minutes. Telephone the hospital tomorrow, and perhaps she will be strong enough then. Though you must know, Miranda, that her memory is affected. The doctor says she may not be able to tell us what happened for days, weeks … possibly longer or not at all.”

  “That’s OK. As long as she’s OK.” She shook out a Chesterfield from the pack in her bag. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  His tones were warmer now, almost caressing. “You are most welcome. I would—I would like to see you, Miranda. I’m leaving here at seven. Would you consider meeting me for dinner?”

  Miranda lit the stick with the desk lighter. Took three goddamn tries and it didn’t help that her hands were trembling.

  “I’m planning to eat at the Moderne tonight.”

  “May I join you at seven-thirty?”

  Deep inhale on the stick, then a long, steady stream of smoke toward the window.

  “I’m not the best of company these days, but sure, Gonzales, if you want to.”

  “Very well. I look forward to it.”

  She dropped the phone in the cradle with a loud clang, and exhaled another stream of smoke.

  * * *

  The State Department was busy but James wasn’t in—she left him another cryptic message and told the woman with the machine-like voice on the other end that it was urgent he get back to her.

  Miranda frowned, staring at the phone, then pulled open the desk drawer and found the Big Chief tablet.

  A publisher had been murdered and his secretary almost, and the crimes—the motive, the means, and the opportunity—still didn’t fucking fit.

  Maybe all the circumstances pointed to Alcatraz for the motive—Alcatraz and what happened behind locked bars—but there were too many personal touches, too much inside information and access for this to be just about a pair of gangsters or the rival gang that guarded them. How would Linkletter know about Louise’s apartment? How would Cretzer know she liked chocolates or that Alexander drank gin?

  Miranda studied the notes, shaking her head. There was a connection somewhere—maybe Blankenship, maybe Smith, maybe someone else.

  Her finger traced the numbers Bunny gave her, numbers belonging to the desperate and deluded, would-be writers Louise called the “crackpots.”

  She glanced at the clock, opened the phone booth, and started to dial.

  Millicent Pryne. Shy older woman, voice barely above a whisper. Ran a boardinghouse. Wrote reams of romance, mixture of Wife vs. Secretary and White Collar Girl with Gone with the Wind thrown in for good measure. Eager to let Alexander Publishing know she’d turned to spiritualism and her newest novel was being dictated by a relative of Marie Antoinette.

  Check.

  Randal B. Brandt. Middle-aged accountant with a thirst for blood. Hard-boiled was his game and his hero was tougher than Spade, liked women better than Marlowe and knew law better than Perry Mason … his responses were congenial, precise, and detailed. Too detailed, in fact, as his latest book was a whopping 957 pages and he hadn’t quite finished it yet. Asked Miranda if she knew any Communists he could interview for the last few chapters. She smiled weakly and hung up.

  Check.

  Anastasia Decker. Anastasia was sleeping, Miranda was told, as her job at Bimbo’s kept her up all night. She was the “girl in the goldfish bowl” and had aspirations of being the next Gypsy Rose Lee … Miranda left her number with the bored roommate, just in case.

  Check.

  Ida Winegarden. No answer, no answering service. Miranda frowned and underlined her name.

  Geoffrey Hutchinson, Esq. A so-called mouthpiece with suspiciously bad grammar. He stumbled around, admitted he’d written a book, admitted he’d gotten angry over his treatment by Alexander Publishing. She suggested they’d reconsidered their opinion, asked when he was available. He swallowed the bait and tugged hard at the line, ready to meet her tonight, as he lived only fifteen minutes away. She held him off, said she’d call him in a few days.

  Miranda bit her lip, bothered by Hutchinson’s proximity to the office. Made a note to telephone the State Bar and see if his credentials were real.

  Check.

  She stretched in the chair and phoned Bunny Berrigan, telling her Louise regained consciousness with no lasting damage. Asked casually if Emily Kingston was in the office.

  “Can you ask Emily to meet me here tomorrow, say three o’clock?”

  “I’ll ask her. What’s it about?”

  Miranda’s voice was dry. “Tell her I’d value her opinion on the case.”

  Bunny chuckled. “Don’t be surprised if she grills you. She’s a bloodthirsty little dame and she’s mentioned you a couple of times already—I’m sure she’ll say yes. But I don’t think Emily’s got a connection with Alcatraz.”

  Miranda yawned, glancing at the clock. 5:17.

  “Sorry. Neither do I. But ask her anyway, OK?”

  “Will do. You find Smith, by the way? Is he coming to the memorial tomorrow evening?”

 
“Yeah. I imagine he will, if he can stay sober enough to remember. I’ll be there, too.”

  “Good. It’s—it’s hard to even think Niles is gone—I—I haven’t been able to get enough done—I keep expecting him to walk through the door…”

  Bunny’s rapid-fire voice was now slow and it rose on the last word, syllable cracked and broken.

  There’s a somebody I’m longing to see …

  Miranda spoke gently. “I know. I’ll see you at the memorial, OK?”

  The redhead cleared her throat. “Yeah. Got books to edit. So long.”

  Miranda had just replaced the phone in the cradle when the bell rang again.

  “It’s Fisher—that you, Miranda?”

  “Yeah. Gonzales phoned me earlier about Louise—”

  “Good news—great news—but that’s not why I’m calling. Those letters—the ones Miss Crowley showed you—typed on her machine. You were right.”

  “I wish I’d been wrong.”

  The cop snorted. “So do I. I don’t know which way is up anymore, but I know this: George Blankenship is on his way to LA. We cracked Matthew. I gotta get Blankenship in custody by tomorrow or I’ll be back to rousting drunks out of wharf-front bars.”

  She traced a circle with a pencil, around and around, on the Big Chief tablet cover.

  “We need to talk. Someplace not in your office.”

  “You got something for me?”

  “Tomorrow. I need to get my thoughts in order. You’re not the only one spinning on a goddamn merry-go-round.”

  Pause, while typewriters banged out reports in the background and the sounds of a siren and a woman’s sobs poured through the receiver.

  “Miranda … don’t hold out on me.”

  She spoke wearily. “I’m not, Inspector. I was at Alcatraz this morning, remember? I’m tired and hungry and have a dinner waiting at the Club Moderne. I’ll meet you at eleven. We can go to Sam Wo’s to talk.”

  “The Chinese place up on Washington?”

  “Yeah. Meet me in front at eleven. And don’t worry so much.”

  She grinned at the cascade of words pouring out of the receiver and dropped it in the cradle.

  Thirty

  Another redhead was warbling “Embraceable You” at the microphone. Clark bowed, hairpiece almost hitting the floor, and Jorge flashed a dimple deep enough to swim in.

  Potted palms, soft lights, seashells, and grappa. Kansas City tourists and couples from Pasadena, local drunk in a rumpled tuxedo nursing a shot glass of rye, fat old ladies dressed in sequins, eyeing Blue Book matches for unmarried daughters.

  A lounge lizard was giving her the eye until Benny the barman tapped on his shoulder and shook his head. She could almost hear Vicenzo calling out numbers for the magic wheel in the gambling room behind the stage.

  Joe Merello’s Club Moderne.

  Home.

  Gonzales rose from the table, teeth white against smooth, tan skin.

  “Miranda—you look lovely.”

  “Thanks. You’re early. Everything all right with Louise?”

  He pushed her chair in and resumed his seat. No tuxedo, thank God, just a well-tailored double-breasted silk suit, navy blue, with a paisley tie and a cream-colored display handkerchief.

  A less elegant man would have chosen red.

  Gonzales smiled easily under the trimmed mustache. “Everything is well, Miranda.”

  Her eyes met his while the orchestra and girl-singer limped through the finish. Goddamn it, her palms were sweating.…

  Jorge appeared at her elbow. “Wonderful to see you, Miss Corbie. The regular tonight?”

  “Yes, please, Jorge. Joe here?”

  “He’s in the back.” The waiter winked. “But he’ll come out if he knows you’re here.”

  Gonzales cleared his throat. “Steak Florentine with linguini, please, and a cold tomato salad for an appetizer. House wine.”

  Jorge raised his eyebrows and nodded, shooting a glance at Miranda. She grinned.

  “Tell Joe hello for me, Jorge. I’d like to see him.”

  The Argentinean bowed like a bullfighter and danced away on his toes. Miranda flicked a glance at Gonzales.

  He was still staring at the black velvet dress with open admiration. She’d paired it with small emerald earrings and a matching necklace, nothing too ornate, and her hair was upswept in a chignon that kept threatening to tumble down.

  She started to take off her gloves. “Thanks for calling me today.”

  “Of course, Miranda. I was glad I could report good news. And I have a bit more for you.”

  “What? You found fingerprints? Got an ID? Somebody saw some—”

  The cop shook his head. “Nothing like that. But we did find George Blankenship. He was in Buellton.”

  Miranda’s forehead wrinkled. “Buellton? Where the hell is Buellton?”

  “About two hours north of Santa Barbara. He apparently bought a used car—emptied his checking account—and broke down just outside the town. It is a small place, and a neighboring policeman saw the wire we sent and arrested him. We are waiting for him to be transferred.”

  The soft whisk of a gaudily flourished dinner napkin reannounced Jorge. He presented Miranda with a bourbon and water, no ice, and used the napkin to uncork a bottle of red wine from Sonoma, pouring it with exquisite delicacy into Gonzales’ glass.

  Miranda sipped the whiskey, watching the play of shadows on Gonzales’ face while he tasted it, the broad shoulders and muscled arms beneath the deceptive silk, and remembered how his skin smelled the night they’d eaten at Julius’ Castle.

  She stared at him, eyes wide, palms sweating again. She could forget for a while, forget with Gonzales, sate her body, quiet her mind. It had been so long, so long, since she’d last felt anything …

  “Fuck him, Randy,” Bente implored last time she’d seen her. “Just fuck him and forget him. Works for men and it works for us, too.”

  Bente said to fuck him.

  Gladys, her other friend, the starry-eyed blonde behind the cigarette counter, Gladys thought Mark Gonzales was a dreamboat, a Kearny Street Cesar Romero. Gladys wanted her to marry him.

  And Rick …

  Miranda swallowed the whiskey and set the glass down with a clank.

  Three blind mice, see how they run, had to be blind if they were her friends, friends never lasted, never stuck around, they got blown up by mortar shells or married blondes in Santa Rosa, what the hell did her fucking friends know?

  “Miranda—Miranda? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Thanks for telling me about George. He didn’t kill anyone but he might have more information that could lead us to who did. I’m just worried about”—she leaned closer over the bourbon and dropped her voice—“Louise. The fact that she’s alive is the only card we hold, and the longer we hold it, the bigger the chance it’ll slip.”

  He nodded. “That is so. Now that she has regained consciousness, Inspector Fisher is pulling the twenty-four-hour detail as of tomorrow morning. He has no choice—we don’t have enough manpower.”

  “Figures.” She frowned, studying the glass of amber liquid, then drained it. Wiped her lips with a napkin, Red Dice smearing the white. Looked up and held Gonzales’ eyes.

  “I’m confused as hell. Been swinging around in circles trying to figure out what’s going on.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m just tired, but I feel so goddamn useless.”

  Gonzales reached a large, warm hand across the table and held hers. His voice was soft.

  “I see the waiter coming with our dinners. For the rest of the evening, let us pretend, you and I, that we are just two people spending time together. You will—you will be leaving San Francisco soon, and I will be returning home in not too many days … we may not have another chance.”

  Warm skin, smooth but masculine, with strength in the fingers and softness at the tips … skin that felt oh so goddamn good against hers, skin that would feel good around her, on her, in her …

/>   She shuddered suddenly, and spoke in a low voice.

  “‘Though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run…’”

  “Miranda?”

  Jorge and another waiter arrived with two large platters and another bourbon and water. She looked up at Gonzales’ puzzled face and smiled gently.

  “That would be fine, Mark. Let’s pretend.”

  * * *

  They talked about the end.

  The end of the Fair, the end of the world. Hitler and Mussolini, how long the British could hold out, how long America would pretend it resided on a different planet. No thank you, my appointment book’s filled, can’t be bothered to save civilization as we know it, keep ourselves to ourselves, stay out of all that Your-O-Pee-An mess, and besides, that Hitler may have the right idea after all, country’s not the same as it used to be, put America first, America first, America first …

  They talked about less toxic things, too, about what was playing at the Fox and the Alhambra, about whether Artie Shaw was better than Benny Goodman, about whether another racehorse could ever equal Seabiscuit.

  Music swelled from the stage, “The Way You Look Tonight” and “On the Sunny Side of the Street” and “Let’s Fall in Love,” and Miranda had three bourbon and waters and threw her head back and laughed, his strong hands clutching her back, black velvet pressed against begging skin, and she laughed and she danced, losing time, losing place, losing pain.

  Joe tapped on her shoulder, beaming like a grandfather, red boutonnière fresh in his creamy-white jacket. He kissed her on each cheek, patted Gonzales on the shoulder. “Bellina mia” he called her, making her promise to see him again soon.

  And Miranda danced, her hair fallen down around her shoulders, her body leaning against his, warm and strong, resistant and receptive, until the orchestra broke, and the clock moved past midnight, and the glass slippers threatened to shatter.

  She wiped her mouth, leaning with one hand on the table.

  Time to get her wrap. Time to go home.

  They walked out together, her arm through his. She leaned against him, shivering, gusts of fog down Sutter Street dampening the black velvet.

  Still a line to get inside Joe’s, still neon glowing, still taxis ferrying couples to the Top of the Mark.