City of Dragons (37 page)

She lit another Raleigh with the new lighter. “It’s not what I think. It’s what is, as the philosophers say.”

He shook his head, leaned forward with his hat on his knees. “I’m sorry. Holden was out of line, as I said. I did not intend for you to be subjected to that.”

She blew a smoke ring toward the window, frowning at the thin line of gray. “Phil’s the least of my worries. Frankly, I’m more disappointed in you.”

“Me?” The shock made him rise from his seat, and his fedora fell to the floor. He picked it up, threw it in the chair, and walked to the window, then paced back to the front of Miranda’s desk.

Gonzales drew a hand across his forehead. She could see sweat glistening on it. “How have I disappointed you? I’ve risked much, working with you, sharing information, trying to protect—”

“—and that’s the fucking problem, Gonzales. Protect. You, Phil, every fucking man I meet tries to protect me. From what? My job? My life? Because it is my life, goddamn it, I’ve fought for it and earned the right to call it my own.
My
life. Not yours. Not my father’s. Not Phil’s. And I’m damn good at what I do, too damn good to see what I saw this morning.”

She was standing, now, her face white. Fists clenched, cigarette forgotten.

“You think Parker doesn’t want to hush this up? He was investigating Winters, and the man turns up murdered. That doesn’t look so good on his record. So easy answers, Gonzales, easy targets. The usual list of public enemies. Don’t look farther than Chinatown, we’ve got Chinese involved. Or is it Japanese? God knows, none of you motherfuckers bother to recognize the difference.”

She sank back into her chair, not looking at him. Pried the Raleigh out from between her fingers, took a long drag. Gonzales stared at her.

“I do know the difference, Miss Corbie. I didn’t report your Gillio theory because I don’t think it would have been accepted. Not because I didn’t accept it. I’d like to find a connection between Martini and Gillio and Filipino Charlie and your Mr. Wong.”

Miranda didn’t bother to face him this time. Her voice was weary. “Then why didn’t you say something, Gonzales? Why toe the party line this morning? I expected … I expected more from you.”

He reddened, didn’t speak for a minute. Headed back to the window, opened the ledge. Miranda smoked in silence, staring at the opposite wall.

Gonzales hesitantly moved to the side of her desk. “Perhaps I could use some of that bottled courage. Do you mind?”

She pivoted the chair, opened the drawer without looking at him, handed him the bottle, her fingers brushing his.

Gonzales took it from her, unscrewed the top, and drank for a few seconds. He replaced it, handed the bottle to her. Miranda locked it back in the drawer. He resumed his seat.

He studied his fedora for a minute. Miranda blew another smoke ring.

“Your friend—Betty—”

“—was not a killer. Maybe she was there that night—the thought had occurred to me—but it wasn’t to help kill Winters. Betty was … a good girl, Gonzales. Maybe that’s hard for you to understand.”

He shook his head. “It is not.”

She looked at the half-smoked cigarette between her fingers. “Then you’re in the minority. They’re railroading her. Because she’s Chinese, and not from one of the ruling families. No family to speak of, actually. She’s a dead escort, which in their eyes makes her a dead whore. So she may as well be a dead accomplice to murder.”

Miranda rubbed her eyes with her thumb, and turned to him, speaking softly. “I’m going to clear her name.”

Gonzales hesitated, dusting imaginary specks off his fedora. His voice was heavy.

“That will be difficult. There is word from the top, Miss Corbie. The new chief does not want the department to … to spend too much of its resources on the Winters affair. He wants an answer quickly.”

“And he doesn’t give a fuck whether it’s the right answer. So you and Phil wrapped one up in a bow, and handed it to him. Strictly Chinese affair. Let the Orientals kill themselves, and serves Winters right and all that.”

“The maid testified—”

Miranda jumped up from the chair, strode toward the safe. “Fuck the maid! She testified that she saw a Chinese woman in the same dress as the picture you showed her. And maybe it was Betty—but that doesn’t prove a fucking thing, Gonzales, and you know it!”

She unlocked the safe door, took out the list she’d written and the newspapers from the Pickwick. Crossed the room, and threw them on the desk, scattering the sheets of newsprint.

“I’ve heard the tune. It plays whenever the wrong class of people get murdered. And the cops only listen to the wrong class when they incriminate one of their own.”

He stood up, his voice rising. “I interviewed her myself, Miss Corb—”

“So what? Did you talk to the elevator operator? Cheval, who saw a flashily dressed Italian go up and not come down? Or don’t you talk to Negroes?”

“I speak to whomever—”

“Did you pin the maid down on her times? On whether she’d cleaned the room? I found these newspaper sections in the trash can, and they had one thing in common—ship arrivals. And you probably didn’t bother to ask Estelle about the stationery, either.”

“What about the stationery?”

Miranda gave him a withering look. “He used it, Gonzales. Winters wrote someone that night. But I forget, you’re the delivery boy for neat and tidy packages.”

He was staring at the floor. “That’s not fair. Obviously, I wouldn’t have come here, leaving behind my work, the men laughing at me, chasing you to tell you—”

Miranda twisted her cigarette in the ashtray, walked up to him, looking him square in the face.

“Just why the hell did you come here, Inspector?”

For a moment, their eyes locked, hers uncompromising, direct and honest. Before Miranda could react, he grabbed her shoulders with both hands, pulled her to his chest and had his mouth on hers, hot and angry, trying to open her mouth with his.

She parted her lips without thought, responding to the warmth and pressure of his body. Responding to something inside of herself. For a moment, she enjoyed the scent of expensive European tobacco and sweat, his tongue devouring hers. Not knowing where she was. When she was. Who she was.

A church bell south of Market rang the half-hour. Miranda wrenched herself away from him, breathing hard. And threw everything she had into a right cross to his nose. Gonzales staggered backward, starting to bleed.

She was shaking. Walked to the desk drawer, pulled out the .22.

“You miserable bastard. I liked you, Gonzales. But that wasn’t enough, was it?”

He was covering his nose with both hands and his display handkerchief. The eyes that met hers no longer angry. Full of pain. Embarrassment. And something more underneath. As always.

She cocked the .22. And pointed it at him.

“Get the fuck out of my office. And out of my sight.”

He groped at the chair, picking up his hat with one hand. Red was seeping through the handkerchief.

“There’s a lavatory on the first floor. I hope I broke your fucking nose.”

He looked up at her, shook his head slightly. “It’s not broken.”

She sat in her chair, still holding the gun. He was standing before her, searching her face.

“Too bad.” She said it lightly. Then she waved the gun a little. “I meant what I said. Get out of my office. You’re useless to me.”

The words seemed to hit Gonzales harder than her fist. She watched him curl. Kept her face away from his eyes. Put the gun on the desk. And lit another cigarette.

“I thought—I thought—”

“You thought wrong. About a lot of things, obviously.”

He stood, smaller than a few minutes before, unsure. She saw him hesitate, saw him gather the tattered remnants of his ego around him like his camel-hair coat. Handkerchief still to his nose, he made a little bow.

“If events should prove otherwise—if you need help—”

“I’ll call for Superman.”

This time he nodded, turned to go. Stopped halfway to the door. Didn’t look at her.

“I’m … sorry, Miranda.”

She blew a smoke ring to the corner. “You say that an awful lot, Gonzales.”

The door closed slowly, automatically, while she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall.

She sat in the chair, stared at the wall.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

_______

She didn’t hear Allen tap on the doorway, and only looked up from the list on the desk when she caught his “You in, sweetheart?”

The Pinkerton man was holding mail; he grinned at Miranda and said: “Thought I’d deliver you your Valentines.”

Miranda stretched and yawned, mumbled “Thanks.”

Allen set the thin stack of bills and miscellaneous flyers on the desk, and stood over her, looking down.

“What happened to your face, kid? That’s your meal ticket.”

She touched her cheek without thinking about it. “It was worse yesterday.”

“Somebody swat you? John you’re chasing?”

She shook her head. “Bastards tried to run over me. And a cop took a cheap hit. This is a big one, Allen. New chief wants it shut down.”

The detective took Gonzales’s former chair, crossed his legs, and lit up a Camel with a match struck on his thumb. He looked at Miranda, added: “Trick they teach you when you get to be a Pinkerton.”

“They teach you to talk like Cagney?”

Allen threw back his head, laughed until his belly quaked. “You’re a funny girl, Miri. And a good kid. And not a bad shamus in your own right. You in over your head?”

“I’ve got to find a missing Japanese girl. Find out who killed her brother and why. And clear the name of a friend who was murdered.” Her eyes were steady on Allen. “She was an escort.”

He whistled. “Oh, is that all?” Took another drag on the Camel, and stood up, stretching. “I’ve been worried about you. Don’t like to see you get hurt.”

She shrugged. “Part of the business. That bald head of yours has taken a few blackjack imprints in its time.”

“Yeah, sweetheart, but it was never very pretty to start with. Me, I got a long life in the business no matter how ugly I get, you know what I mean?”

Miranda sighed. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“You need any help—off the record? We’re not real busy just now. Everybody’s out spoonin’.”

She grinned at him. “Why aren’t you? Wife mad at you?”

He shrugged. “Her old lady’s stayin’ with us. You know how it is.”

“I can imagine.”

Miranda dug in her purse for another Raleigh, looked at it with distaste, and lit it with the new Ronson. She said slowly: “I could use some information.”

He gave his cigarette a deep inhale, then rubbed it out in the Tower of the Sun ashtray. “What have you got in mind?”

“Any connections between a numbers racket gangster named Filipino Charlie, Joe Gillio, ex-bootlegger, and Sammy Martini.”

Allen’s eyes widened. “Sammy Martini is big. He involved in all this?” He gestured to her face with the hand holding the cigarette.

“I think he’s behind most of it. Also, a Chinese hood named Wong. On the genteel side. Runs with an Italian gun named Bennie.”

The Pinkerton op scratched his eyebrow. “Either you’re nutty or something is going down in San Francisco.” He thought for a minute, then nodded. “You’ve got me for half a day, Miranda.” He checked his wristwatch. “It’s a little after twelve. I’ll see what I can get you from our vast Pinkerton resources before five.”

She looked up at him gratefully. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

The detective was already on his way out the door. “Don’t mention it, kid. And really—don’t mention it. They get hot and sweaty about this stuff. But hey—it’s Valentine’s Day.” He grinned at her before vanishing behind the glass.

She smiled after him. Took a deep drag on the Raleigh, which satisfied much less than the Chesterfields. Reached out to pick up the stack of mail.

On the top was an envelope from Rick. She picked up the Treasure Island letter opener, slit it open. Inside was a Valentine’s Day card.

It was one of those stupid cards with birds and roses and cupids, simpering and sighing, big-eyed and coy. The printing read BE MINE and it was signed, “Rick—Your Funny Valentine.”

Just the kind of card she hated. Why she hated Valentine’s Day. Why, at this moment, she hated Rick.

She pushed it aside to look at the other mail. An ad for a print shop, business cards on sale. Flyer for a bakery down the street. And another envelope, a little dirty, with handwriting she didn’t recognize. It felt empty.

She slit it open carefully. Turned the envelope upside down and shook it. Out fell a crumpled receipt of some kind.

She spread it open.

It was a receipt for a dress to be picked up from Herbert-Robert Cleaners.

Miranda was long overdue for a visit to 775 Jackson Street.

Twenty-Four

S
he caught the Powell Street Cable Car in front of the turnaround at the Owl. Her stomach lurched when they climbed past Union Square, and she remembered how hungry she was.

The irresistible smell of sourdough pancakes and sausage drifted from Sears Pancake House and across the street to the swanky, shiny Sir Francis Drake, home away from home for those who liked ice water out of a faucet and the fresh, clean smell of an indoor golf course. Miranda’s stomach growled, and led her through the double doors of Sears.