City of Dragons (44 page)

If they survived. Shoved into cars and trucks or smuggled into boxcars, down the long road to Los Angeles, and the even longer road to Tijuana, suffocating in the heat. She wondered how many wound up in ditches outside the racetrack, survivors of the Empire of the Sun, small-village women, some girls, some old, some married, watching husbands and fathers and brothers shot and bayoneted, smuggled on a ship, starved, not feeling air or water or sun on skin, then thrown into this house, a basement, a bed, no one to talk to, no one to understand their cries, raped again and again until they were found to be “good enough.”

She wiped her brow with her sleeve. Twelve minutes left.

“Betty Chow worked for Wong?”

The fear was wearing off; he was getting numb, going into shock. “Yeah. She could talk to ’em. The boss don’t want no Chinks no more, we been shorthanded. Lost one of ’em yesterday.”

“One of the women?”

“Yeah.”

“Noldano—who killed Betty?”

He was leaning against Capella with his right shoulder. The other man looked like he was still breathing, but very shallowly.

“Coppa. Double-crossing Chink bitch. Did her up like the boss likes.”

The shot rang through the house, and Noldano started with a jerk. Miranda stood over Coppa’s body on the other side of the threshold, the wolfish face drawn back into a smiling rictus, a fresh hole torn out of the back of his skull.

She stepped back in the room, grunting as she heaved Malone and Bennie over, removing guns and pistols from hands and holsters. The spent ones she tossed in the corner; a Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and another 9 mm Luger she stuck in her pockets. Four guns. Seven minutes.

Noldano watched her, sweating, his eyes unfocused.

“Why’d you waste a bullet on Coppa? He’s dead, lady. Why’d you waste one?”

Her hand was on the doorknob. She looked down at the body, glanced back briefly at Noldano.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

She stepped over Coppa’s corpse, and hurried down the stairs.

_______

She opened the door down the hall.

Small room, bed, closet, lamp. Nobody there. But the sheets were rumpled, dirty. Still some blood on the mattress.

Miranda closed the door softly behind her, listening for any noise from Capella or Noldano. She wanted them to live. Needed them to live.

Find a telephone. Fast.

She started down the stairs. The women would have to wait. She needed the fucking cops, needed them here to catch Martini and Gillio, needed them to see what they refused to see, what they didn’t want to see.

She was four steps from the floor when she heard the voices outside. Checked her watch on reflex—two minutes early. Or maybe she was two minutes too late.

Miranda ran down, ran to the right, looking for the kitchen. There. Through the door.

Kitchen was small. Stove with a layer of grease, a stained coffeepot. No place to hide. The door was starting to open in the front.

She grabbed the dirty porcelain knob on the opposite wall, opened the door. Large room with a table, like a boardinghouse. Nothing but a table.

Voices. They were in the house.

Across the floor and around the large square table, toward the door at the other end. Fast, quiet.

The bathroom.

Bathtub, shower. Thin, torn calico curtain. Toilet, sink with a rusty stain.

They were walking into the dining room.

No place left to run.

She sat on the toilet seat, holding the Browning. The other, bigger guns hung heavy in her pocket. If she was going to fire, she wanted it clean. A gun she knew.

The men were filtering in the large room, loud, garrulous voices echoing against the stained wallpaper. If Noldano and Capella were conscious and could hear …

Five voices.

One loud, authoritative. Charismatic, even, could have been on the radio.

Martini.

Southern accent. She’d read somewhere that Needles was originally from Arkansas. Check.

Older voice, gravelly. North Beach. Gillio? Maybe a lieutenant.

Two more voices, the subservient braggadocio of the hired thug, yes boss, no boss, anything you want, boss. Like the ones upstairs.

Chairs scraping the floor. Hand slapping the table.

“Where the fuck is Coppa and his boys? Risso, make some fucking coffee. And put some juice in it. This fucking headache of mine—”

“You want me to get you a wet towel, boss?”

Miranda held her breath. One Mississippi, two Mississippi.

“Nix. Coffee. And go upstairs and see if that fucker Coppa is fucking on the job again.”

Laughs all around the table.

Deep voice. “I’ll go, boss.” Heavy footsteps, across to the door and out.

Martini opened in a conversational tone. “So we got the Corbie bitch. Good. Find out where she’s got the Jap stashed, then turn her over to Coppa and ice her. She’s been a fucking headache, worse than the one I’ve got. Like finding that little blond cunt I dumped on Coppa.”

Laughter again. Then a shout from upstairs.

“Boss! Boss!”

Footsteps, chairs pushed back, Martini irritated. “What the fuck—what is it, Louie?”

More footsteps, agitated. Heavy pair running in, door flung open, banging against the wall. Voice panting.

“Coppa. He’s dead, boss. So is Malone and Bennie. Noldano and Capella are almost gone—Capella’s got a bad gut shot, he’s out. Noldano woke up, said it was that Corbie dame.”

Silence.

Hoarse whisper. “What the fuck—I don’t fucking believe this shit. Goddamn fucking skirt don’t make away with three men and shoot two more. Something’s fucking queer. Needles, go upstairs and—”

Slurred drawl. “Already on my way, Sam. Lead the way, Louie.”

Footsteps again. Pacing. Silence.

“You still want your coff—”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m thinking.” Pause again. Some muffled voices upstairs. Bodies being moved.

“It’s gotta be a hit. Somebody’s after the goddamn money, stole the Corbie broad. Somebody who don’t want us moving in. Charlie ain’t got the balls, and the other Chinks in town wouldn’t try it after Wong. Some fine fucking criminals, goddamn yellow cowards.”

“Yellow—that’s funny—”

“Shut up. Ain’t been the same out here. They got their own ways, and they’ve bought and sold and smuggled plenty of their own goddamn pussy, but they ain’t touchin’ the ones brought in by the Japs. So it ain’t Chinatown. So who the fuck is it, Romano? Capone?”

Gravel again. “He’s in Alcatraz, Martini. He can’t do nothing.”

“Maybe he can’t and maybe he can. Maybe he’s planning his own moves, direct from Cell Block Eight. You need to take this up with Gillio, for Chrissakes. I moved up on the slanties because he said it was clear. Now I’m down a damn good man, and it’s going to be up to Gillio to get me a replacement.”

The gravelly voice was careful, polite. “I’ll talk to Gillio. He knows a lot of people.”

Cigarette smoke drifted under the bathroom door to Miranda’s nose. Her hands started to shake again.

“I got about thirty Chinks downstairs waiting to be sold. L.A.’s doin’ good. I got good business in L.A. Holy Christ, I’m almost fucking respectable. And I come up here—at Gillio’s invitation—bring my best man, good boys like Noldano and Capella, and I lose ’em. That ain’t right, Romano.”

Small pause. Gravelly voice again, considered. “You just need to talk to Joe. He’ll sit you square.”

“Yeah. And tell him to find somebody who can speak Chink. That moron Bennie has a Chink wife, don’t he? Get her down here.”

“Bennie’s dead, boss.”

“So? What the fuck difference does that make? Get her down here.”

Pause. Romano clearing his throat. “I’ll just go and get Joe now, Sammy, if that’s OK.”

Pause. “Yeah. You do that.”

Footsteps, not heavy. Door open, door shut. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi …

Heavy whisper. “Risso—follow that prick. I don’t trust that goddamn Gillio, the fucking
culo
. Goddamn snobby-ass bastard. Follow him. But get Louie down here first.”

“Sure, boss.”

Heavy footsteps. A yawn and a curse from the table.

Then more footsteps, lighter ones.

Walking toward the bathroom.

The bathtub was a small claw-foot, and she crouched down, hiding behind the torn curtain. Trying not to breathe, trying not to shake.

Martini walked in with a cigarette in his mouth, lifted up the toilet seat. Unzipped his pants, groaned a little. The piss came out in a trickle, like it was hard for him to go.

Knock at the door. Miranda jumped, just a little. Martini turned around, saying, “For Chrissakes, what the fuck is it now?”

“Louie. Just wanted to make sure you’re there.”

Martini turned back around slowly to face the toilet. Too slowly. She felt his eyes on the flimsy curtain. And gripped the Browning tighter.

He shook out a couple of drops, zipped himself up. Dropped the cigarette in the toilet. Raised his voice.

“Stick around, Louie.”

“Yeah, boss.”

She held her breath. Martini started to whistle. Sounded like “It Had to Be You.” Pushed the flush.

Then he spun around and flung the curtain aside, staring down at her, a .45 Colt in his hand.

Miranda stood up slowly, the Browning feeling like a baby’s toy next to the .45. Martini looked her over. Said softly, “You the Corbie dame?”

She saw no point in lying, not now.

“Yes.”

He looked her over again, taking in the skirt, the shoes, the legs, his eyes on her body the dirtiest thing she’d ever felt.

His voice crooned. “Hey, Louie.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell the boys to get down here. I got a surprise.”

“OK.”

The big man lumbered off, making noise. Martini cocked his head to the side.

“You are a nice piece of tail, lady. Quite a ride. I’m looking forward to you.”

Miranda said nothing. Brought the small pistol up to where one shot could do it. He looked down at the tiny gun, lifted his head back up, and laughed.

“Lady, you think that water gun is gonna stop my .45? You might squeeze out a shot, but not before I blow your fucking boobies off. And that, as they say, would be a waste.”

He licked his lips, stared at her. “I’ll have fun with you, lady. I’ll make it last.”

“Like you did with Phyllis Winters?”

His face darkened, suffused with color. “Shut your fucking mouth. You been a real headache to me. You owe me, bitch, owe me a plenty good time.”

“Try the electric chair, Martini. Maybe then you’ll manage to get it up.”

He took a step toward her. Voice on the other side of the door.

“Everybody’s here, boss, ’cept Noldano and Capella. That leaves Needles and me, and he wants to get back upstairs. He’s worried about Capella.”

“Fuck Capella.” He said it through his teeth, a frozen grimace at Miranda. “I got a surprise for you. Open the goddamn door.”

Louie pulled it open. Two shadows fell across the broken tiles on the floor. Martini’s grin widened.

“I found the Corbie broad. She was sittin’ in here, takin’ a bath with her clothes on. That ain’t right. Is it, boys?”

“Whaddya gonna do with her?” Needles sounded like he had a professional interest.

Martini unzipped his fly slowly. Reached in, and started jerking at himself, staring at Miranda. She kept her eyes focused on his face, kept aware of Needles and Louie.

Martini spoke thickly, almost in a trance. “First I’m gonna make her pay me off. She’s gonna show me a good time, nice and juicy, just look at her. You boys can have her when I’m done. And when we’ve all been taken care of, she’s gonna tell us who killed my boys and where that Jap bitch is. And then maybe I’ll let her go to Mexico with me. If I like her enough.”

Louie took a step forward. Miranda said, very clearly: “You move again and your boss is dead.”

Needles spoke up. “But you’ll be dead, too, lady. Look at the size of his gun.”

She reached down into the pit of her stomach, fighting, not thinking. No fear, not now. Not to them.

“I’ve seen the size of his gun. I’m not impressed.”

Martini’s half a hard-on wilted, trance broken. Zipped himself up, eyes maddened, wild, the .45 shaking in his hand.

“You fucking cunt. You ain’t worth my time. No piece of me except a bullet. Talk. Who cut down the boys? Gillio’s droppers? Where’s the Takahashi tramp? Where’s the money? Talk, goddamn you!”

The force of Martini’s fury hit her like a wall. Her concentration couldn’t hold forever. Hands shaky from no nicotine, her courage dredged up from hard places she’d didn’t know she had. But it had to last. Or she’d be dead.

Deep breath. Go out with style, Miranda. Make it mean something. That’s what Johnny taught you—

“Fuck you. You’re a two-bit Hollywood Capone, Martini. Built your little empire on the backs of women, ones who couldn’t fight back.”

She held the small pistol with both hands, aiming it squarely at his head. “Go ahead and shoot. I’ll take you with me.”

Louie looked over at Needles. “She’s crazy.”

Needles shrugged. “Mexican standoff.”

The sound of the front door being thrown open made the other two turn, drawing their guns. Men’s voices filled the air. Police whistles.

Footsteps running upstairs, footsteps all over the house.

A voice from the rear, harsh, loud, tough. Behind Louie and Needles.

“Drop the guns. You’re under arrest.”

Gonzales.

Twenty-Nine