City of Dragons (17 page)

She met his eyes. “You think talking to me will get you fired?”

He shook his head. “No, Miss. But maybe not talkin’ to you will.”

Miranda watched Reece ladle gumbo onto heavy plates. She knew better than to try money, not with Cheval. Finnigan would dig up his own mother for two bits, spit on the corpse for a five-spot. But not the colored man. He was scared, confused. A white woman treating him like a human being was too much of a fucking rarity.

“It’s between us, Cheval. Nobody else. And it’s your choice. I think you saw something, noticed something … something that could help me. Maybe help somebody else, too.”

Reece set two thick Buffalo China plates full of hot New Orleans–style gumbo in front of Miranda and Cheval. Hot sausage, ham, and Bay shrimp peppered the okra and corn file, all spooned over rice.

The fat man lost no time in downing his second shot. Miranda drank, too, as did Cheval. She poured more. The bottle was a little more than half-empty. She took up the fork, spread the paper napkin on her lap, and started to eat. Cheval joined her. There was silence in the small diner, except for the sound of the two of them eating and one or two flies drifting close enough to buzz hungrily. The smell of the gumbo filled the narrow diner with a warm and drowsy peace.

After a suitable interval, Miranda paused, wiped her mouth. Looked at Reece.

“Thank you.” She raised her glass as if in a toast, and the other two men didn’t wait this time, but joined her, the whiskey flowing down their throats together.

Reece smacked his lips. “You want some sweet potato pie?” Cheval nodded, as did Miranda. He went back to the kitchen. She poured another round. One more to go.

Cheval looked down at the plate, at the glass with a brown line of Old Sport near the bottom. Turned to her and lowered his voice.

“My pastor say we need to help people. My wife say keep your head down and mouth shut. I’ll do what I can for you, Miss. What you want to know?”

“You were on duty when Winters checked in on Thursday night.”

“Yes, Miss. I work from five until three in the morning. I go to day classes at a school couple of days a week, so sometimes I get real sleepy, but not on that Thursday, because I weren’t in class on Wednesday.”

“So you remember Winters. Did he go straight to his floor?”

“Straight to the third, and in a hurry. Can’t seem to get the elevator there fast enough for him.”

“Did you see him leave?”

“No. Never saw him no more. I was off work when they found him.”

“Do you remember—do you remember anyone who went up to the third floor that night who—well, who didn’t seem right to you? It would’ve been late at night, probably after midnight.”

Cheval stared again at the whiskey in the glass he held. Reece bustled over, whistling a Cab Calloway tune, and slid two pie plates covered in huge pieces of sweet potato pie à la mode. Miranda picked up her whiskey, and as one, they drained each of their glasses, this time more slowly, lingering on the taste of the Kentucky bourbon.

Reece wiped his mouth. “That is fine liquor. Fine liquor is good for a man.”

Miranda said: “So is fine gumbo, and sweet potato pie.”

He looked at her, then Cheval. “I’ll be in the kitchen, if y’all want anything else.” She got out her wallet, left two dollars on the counter. He protested.

“That’s too much, Miss.”

“It’s too little for fine cooking, Mr. Reece.”

He laid a large hand over the money, let it stay there for a second. “Thank you, Miss.”

She poured the last of the bourbon, giving Reece and Cheval the larger portions. They drank it quickly this time, not lingering over good-bye. Reece slapped the swatter down without catching anything, and waddled back to the kitchen, hand on his stomach. She and Cheval ate the pie and ice cream in silence.

When they finished, Cheval was still looking at his glass dreamily.

“I didn’t tell no one this, Miss. Coppers didn’t ask me, and I didn’t plan on tellin’ no one. Two men came up to the third floor about one in the mornin’. One small, carryin’ a bag like a doctor. He didn’t say nothin’, just stood there lookin’ at the floor. The other one, now, he worried me. He wore one of them big-brimmed hats, like somethin’ out of one of them movies. Big nose, dark for a white man. Ay-talian, I think he was. He stood in the corner of the crate, and I’d been tryin’ to keep my eyes open. One in the morning sure is a hard time for a man to work, even if he can sleep during the day. But when they came in, I got gooseflesh all over. Got awake after that. He smiled, an’ it just made my blood run cold. Wore a dressy coat, camel hair looked like, big buttons to match the hat, shiny shoes. Leaned in the corner of the crate, just said, ‘Three.’ That’s all he said, but I hurried that old elevator up like it was built yesterday.”

He shook his head. “I ain’t seen them men come down after that, and I looked, Miss. The big one weren’t right. I seen boys packin’, and I swore he was carrying something under his arm, even through that coat I could tell. But the funny thing is Mr. Winters weren’t shot or nothin’, so I stays quiet. I figure I’m safer that way.” He smiled at her, a little sadly.

Miranda picked at a piece of crust on her plate. “Would you be able to recognize them, Cheval? From a photo?”

He thought about it. “I would say so, Miss. But I wouldn’t like to do it, unless I knew my family was safe. I got me a wife with a baby on the way, and I’m tryin’ to get more education so’s I can get them something better. I want to help, Miss Corbie, but I can’t go puttin’ my family in no danger like that.”

She surprised him by putting her hand over his on the counter. “I understand, Cheval. I wouldn’t ask you to. And thanks for telling me.”

He pulled his hand out from under hers and smiled at her with embarrassment.

Eleven

S
he spread the newspapers out on her desk. Wheels screeched, and someone on Market Street laid on his horn. The office was cool, almost cold, though the fog hadn’t shimmied its way downtown yet.

Miranda studied the sheets, where they were wrinkled, what it was that Lester Winters read and cared about. Maybe died for. But detail work took concentration, and the day had already been too long.

She folded them and put them in the bottom drawer of her desk. Lit a cigarette. And unlocked the left-hand side drawer, drawing out the gun she kept in the office.

The long, sleek black line of it calmed her. She checked the cartridge, set the pistol down on top of the desk, and lifted the phone receiver.

“Operator? Can you connect me to someone about getting residential phone service? Yes, as far as I know. I’m calling from my office. The Drake Hopkins, in San Francisco. 640 Mason. Uh-huh. All right, I’ll be here until five-thirty or so.”

She hung up, staring at the phone with a dissatisfied expression. Then she picked it up again.

“This is Miss Corbie. Any messages?” Laying the cigarette in the ashtray, she opened the front drawer of the desk, taking out a pencil and a scratch pad. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. She leave a number, a time? All right. Thanks.”

Miranda set the phone receiver down carefully, slowly. Picking up the cigarette, she stood up and walked to the file cabinet. The old cathedral radio on top reminded her of the Pickwick. She twisted the knob, and pulled the antenna line out from behind the cabinet, letting it dangle off the side. She turned the volume down low, but enough to recognize human voices once the tubes warmed up.

She moved by the window, leaning out the sill, staring at the city, searching for a green Olds. A shrill whine and some static startled her. She flicked the tuner, managed to find a station with a voice, a rube on a banjo.

She sat down again, the chair comforting her as it always did. The chair and the gun.

She dropped the cigarette stub in the ashtray and opened the pack of Chesterfields in the desk drawer. Pulled out another one, used the desk lighter. One spark this time. Picking up the phone, she dialed, waited a few seconds.

“It’s Miranda.” Her voice was cold, hard as iron. “How long ago did Betty leave?”

Her foot tapped the floor in the near-silence, the twang of an instrument drifting toward her occasionally from the radio.

“I don’t care, Dianne. I really don’t. She called me, I wasn’t in. She’s in trouble about something … last night, at the Rice Bowl Party. On her way to the fashion show. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. Well, if she’s in trouble … no, not that. If you find out anything, let me know. Yeah, I’ll do the same. ’Bye.”

She leaned back in the chair, still tapping her foot. Betty hadn’t left a phone number, just a message that she’d called, that she needed to talk to Miranda as soon as possible. With no number listed, the only choice was to hit the clubs Betty worked, in order. But she’d left Dianne’s six months ago, so the club angle was a crap shoot. Still, Miranda would have to try.

A search in the desk produced a nearly full pint of apricot brandy, a gift from a client. She twisted it open with difficulty, took a swig from the bottle. It was sweet and fruity, and she appreciated the heat, though she would’ve preferred something more bitter to wash away the conversation with Dianne.

A church chimed the half-hour. Four-thirty. She pawed through the Kardex, and after two passes, found the business card. Lifted the receiver.

“Bente? It’s Miranda. I know, I know. In May. Yeah, I’m going back. No, I’ve been busy. Once you’re in the papers … yeah, I read about that. So no strike this year, you think? Well, it’s only a matter of time before we’re in it, and then—yeah. Yeah, I know. Listen, I’m on a case about a marine engineer … I don’t know yet, they’re doing an autopsy. Maybe. His name is Lester Winters, worked for NYK. Can you get me the skinny? Also on a Marine cop called Parker? Tall, thin guy, looks like he climbed out of a saddle. Bureau of Marine Investigation and Navigation. No, he was at the scene, talking to the house peeper … yeah, I know, that’s what I thought.”

Miranda sucked down the cigarette, making it glow brightly, before she set it back in the ashtray, stubbing out the end.

“Money, for one thing. Contribution to your fund. And I’m trying to find his daughter—maybe a frame job. She’s a snowbird. There’s a Chinese girl involved, probably a prossy … uh-huh. I figured you would. I might be able to use you for a nightclub job. No, they know me … Well, someone got in my apartment … yeah. This morning. I’m fine, they just left a warning card. Takahashi case. Yeah, that one. Nothing, except they drive a green Olds and eat at Joe Gillio’s. I’m working on it. OK, call me with anything you find. I’ll let you know. ’Bye.”

Bente Gallagher. An improbably named and improbable-looking Communist and union organizer who worked the waterfront, trying to prevent another 1934. Bente’s brother lost his job in the strike, figured he lost everything. Killed himself a year later. Bente tried to follow him in Spain, but lived to fight another war at home.

She was a couple of years younger than Miranda, with rich red hair inherited from her father’s Irish side, and the imposing figure of a Scandinavian goddess, the gift of her mother’s Norwegian heritage. She liked helping Miranda, especially when she could make a few extra dollars for her various causes. Most of them huddled around campfires and cardboard shanties, out by the waterfront Hooverville. It still squatted near the early-numbered piers, not part of the San Francisco–Treasure Island–See the West tour package.

Miranda yawned, staring at last year’s Pinkerton calendar on the opposite wall, letting the velveteen voice of a radio host drone about laundry soap. The chair creaked when she shifted suddenly, bending forward to open the center drawer. She removed two sheets of paper and the blotter.

Dipping the pen in the inkwell, she started to write, not slowing down or hesitating except to rewet the pen. She wrote “Eddie Takahashi,” and underneath a column of words:
sister, mother, bloodstains, store, address, money, Betty, Madame Pengo, green Olds, license plate, Joe Gillio’s, Mike (Ming) Chen, Filipino Charlie.
She blotted the paper, and set it aside, pulling the second sheet closer to her.

She’d written “Lester Winters,” followed by
Pickwick, Phyllis, coke supply, newspaper, poison, wife, money, other man,
and
stationery
, then paused, her mind drifting over the day, her ears tuned to the band music playing on the radio.

The voice was deep, and it said: “You should lock your door.”

She was on her feet and had the pistol in her hands and aimed, her finger on the trigger, when she recognized the lightly accented English. Gonzales stood in front of her, minus Duggan, smiling. She didn’t lower the gun.

“You should know better.” Miranda was breathing hard.

“Evidently.” His manner was easier than yesterday, almost familiar. He took off his hat and sat down in the chair across from her, crossing his long legs, and lighting a cigarette with a match he struck on his shoe.

“The pistol is a beauty. Spanish-made, I believe?”

“Republic of Spain. Nine millimeter. Shoots like a dream.”

He eyed the barrel, still pointing at his chest, then looked up at Miranda.