City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  “Jesus…” the State Department man swallowed hard. “Listen—I’ll try to do something on my end. Type up whatever you got on the Rock and send it to the address I gave you last time. That’s still good. But please, Miranda—try to lay low. For everybody’s sake.”

  “Everybody’s sake or yours, James?”

  “Both. Send me your information and—and don’t call for a while, OK? I mean, telephone before you leave on the Cameronia, but … just lay low in the meantime. All right?”

  “Fine, James. Just grand. You can even give the Bureau a message for me: next time, I won’t aim for his fucking legs.”

  She slammed the phone down with a clang and sat against the black leather, heart thumping in her chest.

  * * *

  The Four Roses bottle was almost full.

  She poured herself a shot and threw half of it back, bourbon stinging down her throat, watching the cars drive by Market Street, watching the trains roar past.

  Heartless and promiscuous, fickle and fancy-free, dancing for the highest bidder, flash of gold, flash of gam, pride of the Pacific and pearl of the Bay, the most beautiful city in the world. And San Francisco used the beauty, used it to gather hearts and lives and then cast them aside, worn out and used up until she could gather more, another generation to hold her, to keep her, to save her from herself.

  Maybe she couldn’t be saved.

  Maybe no one could.

  The phone rang and Miranda lifted the receiver, half-expecting James again.

  “Miranda? Herb here.”

  Charm poured across the receiver like wine.

  “Hello, Herb. What can I do for you?”

  “Plenty, but I’m happily married. Listen, Miranda, I know Sanders is flying off to D.C. and not around to squire you anywhere, and seeing that Bea’s busy and you and I are both covering the Alexander affair at Gump’s, I thought I’d pick you up at seven. Whaddya say?”

  “I say yes, as long as you’re not looking for an exclusive.”

  Fake gasp on the telephone. “I? No, this is strictly for fun. Of course, if you do come through with the details, I’d like an exclusive at some point. When you’re ready.”

  “I already owe you big for helping with Louise. I promise you, Herb—if I can get a handle on this thing, you’ll get it first—the whole story—which you won’t be able to print, I know that much.”

  “You’d be surprised at what this bright boy can do with three dots. All right, beautiful, the office or your apartment?”

  “My apartment. 640 Mason Street, number 405. I’ll see you then.”

  She rang off, checked the clock. Locked the manila envelope with her name on it in a desk drawer.

  Whatever Allen found out about Linkletter would have to wait.

  Three o’clock—time to meet Emily.

  * * *

  Alexander Publishing was humming with voices, the clatter of typewriter keys and the electricity of a deadline.

  No reporters camped outside, no bored cops.

  Louise’s desk sat forlorn and alone, a pariah of inactivity. Miranda ran a finger along the top of the typewriter, still coated with fingerprint powder.

  Bunny flew out of Alexander’s former office and took three steps toward the side rooms before she realized Miranda was standing in the waiting area. She stopped abruptly and twisted her head back.

  “What the hell happened to you? You look like crap. Jesus—is it three o’clock already? Emily’s in here.” Bunny nodded toward the door dividing the office suite and shoved it open. “C’mon in.”

  Hank Ward and Emily Kingston were arguing, Hank looking a little less rumpled and a little more sober. Emily’s hat—a good five years old and top-heavy with a bunch of dilapidated flowers above the brim—trembled with indignation.

  “—the subjunctive mood, Mr. Ward, not the indicative, and I thank you not to erode what little standards of grammar are left in American English—”

  Bunny put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. Hank jumped, glancing from Bunny to Miranda, lingering on Miranda’s bruises, then made a motion with his eyes and head to suggest Emily was crazy and walked back to his desk. Emily blinked a few moments and smiled, teeth large and slightly yellowed.

  “Miss Berrigan—so sorry—Mr. Ward and I were discussing that most interesting case, the second conditional, and how it relates to the future less vivid in Latin…”

  “Yes, yes, Emily, glad to see you two getting your manuscripts ready. It’s past three, and Miss Corbie here wants to talk to you.”

  Emily’s pale blue eyes intently poured over Miranda’s face. “Oh yes, Miss Corbie. Do you mind if I take notes? I must say, you look—well, you look like you got the ‘dry gulch’—was it a Mickey Finn? A sap, perhaps? I’m developing a list of American idioms related to criminality, and I’d be so pleased if you could help—”

  “Over here, Miranda.” Bunny opened the door to the larger meeting room across the foyer. She lowered her voice and spoke close to Miranda’s ear. “Just yell if you need help.”

  Miranda grinned. Emily entered and sat primly on the edge of a chair, holding a notepad and a pencil as though she were about to take dictation. Bunny rolled her eyes and shut the door.

  The copy editor looked Miranda up and down. “You should ice that cheek before the swelling gets worse. Was it a ‘button man’? A ‘chopper squad’? Or maybe just a ‘bad gee’ on ‘giggle juice’? How thrilling the gumshoe life must be, Miss Corbie, I’d love—”

  “I’m here to ask you some questions, Miss Kingston, not to discuss my injury, however unfortunate it is. I’m afraid your criminal philology will have to wait.”

  Emily nodded. “I understand. You’re ‘behind the eight ball,’ shall we say, and don’t wish to ‘bump gums.’ I must say, you speak English extraordinarily well for a woman of your—your pursuits.”

  “That may be because I earned a degree in it.”

  Emily blinked. “What—what did you want to speak to me about, Miss Corbie?”

  Miranda pulled out a chair and sat down, shaking out a Chesterfield. “Do you mind?”

  Emily looked horrified but fascinated, and shook her head no.

  “Just this—Alexander Publishing, like all publishers, was besieged by people who wanted to publish a book but couldn’t write a parking ticket. I’m thinking of people like Geoffrey Hutchinson, Esquire. One of them may have killed Mr. Alexander—or Louise.”

  The older woman wrinkled her brow. “I thought Louise committed suicide. A mortal sin, yes, but—”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The papers, Miss Corbie. The News all but said it was suicide because she was involved in Mr. Alexander’s death.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. So what about Hutchinson or anyone else who was on the ‘crackpot’ list?”

  Emily tilted her head for a moment, then shook it decisively. “I should think not. Many people are delusional about themselves—some think they’re handsome when they’re not, some think they’re talented or lucky when they aren’t. I don’t think anyone I’ve met here could qualify as homicidally delusional … though Hutchinson would come the closest. His temper is certainly explosive.”

  Miranda leaned forward. “Over what?”

  “He became quite irate when I explained that he’d borrowed—perhaps ‘stolen’ would be more apt—the plot of The Petrified Forest. Mr. Alexander had to intercede and threw the man out of the office. I was so—so shell-shocked, as it were, I had to immediately go home and lie down for the rest of the day.” The copy editor put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath, reliving the memory. “To be honest, Miss Corbie, I find his particular post-nominal to be highly suspect.”

  Miranda grinned. “In other words, he’s a fakeloo artist.”

  Emily scribbled on her pad. “Is that f-a-k-e-l-i-e-u?”

  “Two o’s, not derived from the French.” Miranda reached across the table to rub the cigarette out in an ashtray. “One more question, Miss Kingston
. What kind of writer is Mr. Smith? I mean, what is your opinion of his talents?”

  Emily paused. “I would call Mr. Smith a gifted storyteller. Perhaps too gifted for the exposés Mr. Alexander sought.”

  “Did you read any of his Alcatraz book?”

  “I? Heavens, no. They kept it under lock and key. Mr. Alexander was the only one to edit that and he would probably have given it to Hank to copy edit when the time came. I’ve read Mr. Smith’s other work, though, one about unfair labor conditions in Salinas—heavily influenced, of course, by Mr. Steinbeck—and his fiction. Not his latest fiction, mind, Niles was even more secretive about that than the Alcatraz book. He read the first draft very quickly and had high hopes for it—a thriller but possibly award-worthy, from what he said. I understand Smith was finishing his final rewrite when Niles was killed.”

  Miranda nodded. “How does Smith compare to other authors—Roger Roscoe, for instance?”

  “Oh, dear Roger. Such a charming man. He’s a far better stylist than Smith, on the surface at least, but he does leave one a bit empty, if you know what I mean.”

  “No substance?”

  The copy editor frowned. “No heart. Roger is so busy impressing us all with his turns of phrase that he forgets about the mechanics—his plots are notoriously weak—and our feelings, the emotions involved when we read. Not in person, of course, Roger is, as I said, a dear. As for Mr. Smith … well, the least said about his personality, the better. I would say he will become a bestseller before poor Roger does, though one never knows. That muscular, Hemingway prose is quite popular.”

  Miranda stood up. “Thanks, Miss Kingston. You’ve been a great help.”

  The older woman smiled graciously. “My pleasure, Miss Corbie.” She flicked up her eyes, ever-hopeful, pencil poised over the paper. “Would you mind leaving me with one or two particularly vivid expressions for my list?”

  Miranda paused, hand on the doorknob. “Well, I guess you could tell that Ward hombre to go climb his thumb next time he throws an ing-bing and confuses his protasis with an apodosis.”

  She smiled at Emily’s open-mouthed look of astonishment and closed the door behind her.

  * * *

  Music drifted into John’s Grill from the bar across the street, new tune by Glenn Miller. Miranda pushed the plate aside and studied Allen’s report again.

  Precious little on Frank Linkletter. Arrested for assault in Hayward five years ago, charges dropped. Since then, a bull at San Quentin, then Alcatraz, now captain of the guards and Miller’s right-hand man.

  Icy blue eyes on her face, memorizing detail … too bad it wasn’t Linkletter she’d shot.

  And now here she was, back on familiar ground. Forget what she’d done about the Musketeers, forget about her success working for James; forget about any protection.

  She was on a list somewhere, stamped, tagged, and labeled—and Hoover was the kind who never shredded a list. No telling how far the Red brand would go, if they’d try to track her, spy on her. Depended on how much influence Miller had and how far Hoover was willing to run.

  Miranda sipped the bourbon, noting the diners around her, an eye on the entrance.

  And then there was James, the man who helped start her on a new life, who made her legitimate and not just a sideshow carnival act, escort turned gumshoe, only clients on the gray side of legality.

  “Let it go,” he said. As though she were in some sort of petty dispute at the beauty parlor. “Just lie low.”

  She shoved the report on Linkletter back into the envelope, signaled for the check.

  A man was murdered. A young woman almost was. And men—criminals, yes, some of them deserving the worst the law could hand out—were being raped on Alcatraz.

  Which amendment was it? The Eighth? “Cruel and unusual punishment” … ancient tortures like the iron maiden and the oubliette, not here in the new Republic, not here in America, where all men were created equal …

  As long as they were white, rich, and Protestant.

  Miranda drained the glass and set it down with a clink as the waiter smiled perfunctorily and handed her the bill.

  She looked around the dark room packed with insurance men from the Flood Building and newshawks from the De Young, City Hall supervisors and an occasional tourist wandering off Market Street for a taste of real San Francisco.

  Murmur of City gossip swirled around her, deals soured and deals made, every clink of an ice cube another sawbuck in someone else’s pocket …

  Miranda closed her eyes. Her face hurt, she was smoking too much, and she almost made a wrong turn with Gonzales. Rick … Rick was lost, lost before he could truly be found.

  Everything at once, all in one goddamn week. Maybe she was leaving the country just in time.

  She stood up, tucking the manila folder under her arm, and pulled out her wallet.

  She’d send what she had on Miller and Linkletter to James and hope he’d come through. Maybe they’d talk to Smith, slap him with a subpoena. Maybe they could force Miller’s hand and put his captain behind another set of bars. Maybe she could fight the cruel and unusual punishment on Alcatraz, Miller and Linkletter, one sitting, the other standing, hands on bully sticks, smirking, fog swirling and thick off the Bay …

  Miranda threw a dollar and two bits on the table.

  Fuck “lying low.”

  Thirty-Three

  Herb Caen carefully placed a gin and tonic at the foot of the enormous gold Buddha, clapped his hands together and made a low, theatrical bow.

  “How I love the Gumps. The family motto should be ‘making China safe for the rich American since 1861.’”

  Miranda laughed and then touched her cheek. “Ouch. You’ll make my face swell up again.”

  The reporter gave her an impish grin. “Your face is always swell, beautiful. Sanders is a chump for missing this. You know he left for D.C. early? Requested the transfer be immediate. I don’t know what’s cookin’ with you two kids, but you’d better get it off the stove.”

  Miranda looked down at the highball in her hand and shook it until the ice rattled. “Rick and I are friends, Herb. Just friends. We go back a long way.”

  He cocked his head at her, curls dropping on his forehead despite a copious amount of Wildroot hair oil. “To the cradle? C’mon, Miranda, don’t kid a kidder. You two are crazy about each another. Any fool—even this one—can see it.” His eye caught a glimpse of a socialite at the other end of the room. “Oops—gotta amscray. There’s a Phelan I oughta be feelin’. Be back to check on you later.”

  Miranda nodded, watching the dapper young man charm his way through the crowd. She smoothed the front of her dress—an aquamarine number, almost glacial, with two straps in a faux-Greek style, plunging neckline and a lot of pleats. She hoped it would divert attention from the bruises on her cheek and eye—couldn’t hide them fully, not even with thick makeup.

  She sipped the bourbon and set her glass down next to Caen’s in front of the Buddha.

  The main floor was packed with Blue Book types, silver mine heirs and Junior League misses, ladies’ club auxilliaries and a smattering of literary intellectuals from Berkeley and beyond.

  Probably half the socialites didn’t know who the hell Niles Alexander was, but they appreciated good hootch and a chance to mingle with famous and not-so-famous writers in Gump’s private playground.

  Thousand-dollar statues from ancient temples perched on the second floor like five-and-dime mannequins, looking down with distaste on the crowd below. Silk tapestries and water-colored scrolls lined walls above Ming vases, while cases of jewelry stood sedately in a dark corner, shining with pearls and gleaming with stones, jade trinkets ornate with age, treasures bargained for in decaying palaces and ancient, crumbling shrines.

  Quick, Marge, this one’s on sale from $700—how much of your monthly allowance do you have left? I feel like going Oriental for the opera this year …

  Sandalwood incense added to intoxication levels and exotic music
played softly on a well-tuned Victrola. Not quite like the Chinese violin Miranda normally heard in Chinatown, plaintively crooning “Red River Valley” …

  Gump never missed a trick. He mingled with the crowd, bestowing charm and well-worn anecdotes of adventures overseas to the favored attendees, while well-trained staff made sure all questions of price and payment were immediately answered.

  Toward the front of the room, near the podium and a table laden with flowers, Roger Roscoe was showing off a magic trick—something to do with cards and disappearing coins, from what Miranda could see—to a gaggle of young women.

  Sylvia—the adored, soon-to-be-wed Sylvia—sat next to him, looking up with a new glow of life, grief and position otherwise lending her an air of exquisitely feminine dignity.

  Her son was nowhere to be seen and neither was Howard Carter Smith.

  A tap on her bare shoulder made Miranda spin quickly enough to force the man to step backward. He was tall, thin, with burning blue eyes and curly dark hair and an intense, wolfish smile.

  “Miss Corbie, isn’t it? Bunny Berrigan told me you wanted to talk to me. I’m Charlie Segal—Howard’s agent.”

  Miranda smiled and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Segal. Have you seen your client?”

  “You mean at the party?” The agent shook his head. “Howard’s perpetually late. What is it—eight o’clock or so? I never expect him until an hour in at any party. I’m sure he’ll arrive soon.”

  A waiter in a red silk cummerbund whirled close to them with a tray of champagne glasses. Segal picked one up and handed it to Miranda.

  “I supposed this is for a toast. Poor Niles. He would have enjoyed this so much.”

  The agent sipped at the champagne, looking up at Miranda, eyes shrewd.

  “Now then, Miss Corbie, what did you want to ask me?”

  Miranda glanced around and motioned for the agent to join her behind the Buddha. It sat alone toward the rear of the main floor, isolated from the more popular sales tables and counters, amidst an eclectic arrangement of sacred statues, temple bells and other objects for the serious collector.