City of Dragons (6 page)

Smoke from her cigarette drifted back down Clay, toward the people already lining up three bodies thick on Grant. She watched it swirl, wondering if it would form a tiger or a lion. Chinatown was a city of outcasts. They’d made the most of it.

So had she.

The fog was creeping down from the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont and the exclusive set on Nob Hill. It flowed sinuously over Stockton and Clay, past the GOLDEN STAR RADIO SIGN, drowning out the yellow neon in a sea of thick white haze, heading for the piers. A foghorn belched, the low hum filling one of the few silences in the heart of Chinatown. Real fog was an event, not just a shapeless cloud of moisture. As alive as the dragons of Chinatown and the ghosts of gold rush San Francisco.

One o’clock. Parade would start in an hour. No time for a stroll through Ross Alley or down to Manila Restaurant or over to Japantown. Miranda was out of smokable cigarettes, the day old enough already. And the bloody bandage in her bra was making her itch.

Chen’s left a sour taste in her mouth. She was getting too old. Use what you have, Miranda, use it up. Charlie Burnett on detective work. Her cases were her own, now, not Burnett’s setups or Dianne’s Shriners, wanting a decoration on their arms and a piece of something else after the show.

The drugstore next to the Republic Hotel was out of Chesterfields. She turned down the druggist’s suggestion of Lucky Strikes, and picked up copies of the
Examiner
and the
Call-Bulletin.
The pharmacy didn’t carry the
News
, and Miranda knew better than to think the
Chronicle
would run anything.

Eddie was a-second-to-the-last-page item in the
Examiner
, placed a couple of pages up from that in the
Call-Bulletin.
There was a quote from Phil about Eddie’s record, and assurances by a mouthpiece for the Bay Region Committee in charge of the Chinese Civilian Benefit Campaign, and still more from someone on the Chamber of Commerce. The conclusion was obvious: Eddie was a criminal, and no one really gave a fuck about who murdered him, as long as it wouldn’t spill over into Rice Bowl festivities and freeze out-of-town pocketbooks. Scratch it over, boys. Chalk it up to Nanking.

Back to the Monadnock Building, a few paces ahead of the fog. Miranda enjoyed the strain on her calves, the pain immediate, simple. Market Street was already loading up, ready to get loaded, Sunday night party in Chinatown. Gaiety that much more desperate since Monday morning was at the other end.

She walked into the lobby, the girl at the newsstand counter holding her carefully curled, not-so-carefully bleached head in her hand, bored and eyeballing a Latin-lover type with wide shoulders waiting for the elevator.

“Got any Chesterfields, Gladdy?”

The crate operator whisked up Cesar Romero, and Gladys handed Miranda three packs, with a sigh.

“Been savin’ ’em for you. I don’t know why everyone wants a Chesterfield, suddenly.”

“Haven’t you heard? They satisfy.”

Gladys snorted. “Who’re they kiddin’? Now, him”—she jutted a thumb out to where a thin bald man with an umbrella had replaced the Latin lover in line—“he was what I call satisfaction.”

Miranda quickly lit up a stick. “You got the latest
News
?”

Eddie had moved up in the world. The
News
ranked him on page two, and had the guts to point out the obvious: he was Japanese and murdered right before the Rice Bowl Party. She folded the paper and tucked it under her arm. The article meant she could expect a call from Rick.

“Say, Miri, that guy—the good-looker—he got off on the fourth floor. Maybe he’s coming to see you.”

She smiled at the girl’s hopeful face. “If he is, sugar, I’ll send him back down to you.”

She left Gladys a tip, took a spot in the queue. The Monadnock, survivor of the Fire, always busy. “The Railroad Building,” a good place to get a quick ticket to one of the invisible one-block Main Streets between here and Des Moines, Union Pacific or East Coast lines. A good building to get lost in.

Miranda squeezed into the middle car next to a fat lady with a feathered hat and a dead animal around her neck. She was the only person to get off at four. Started walking the big square to the small corner where her office was tucked, when the tingle came back. The green Olds on Commercial Street. She wondered if she’d noticed it outside but had been too tired to realize it.

Pinkertons was always busy, office as well groomed as a matinee idol. Low-key lighting, not too overdone, modern art not really modern, carpet thick enough to choke on. The only thing missing was a spritz of Chanel No. Five every three minutes.

New girl at the front desk. Not much on looks, but money to help what was there. They were always breaking in new ones, since the old ones were either getting married or getting experience. Too much experience at Pinkertons got you fired.

Disapproval from every pore. “Can I help you, Miss?”

Miranda lit up another Chesterfield, staring levelly at the woman. “I’m Miranda Corbie. My office is down the hall.”

The receptionist’s lip was itching to sneer. Miranda blew some smoke over the girl’s right shoulder and watched one of her curls unhinge.

“I’m a detective, honey. Not competition, not for Pinkterton—or Pinkertons. Allen Jennings has the office closest to me. I’m wondering if he’s in.”

Some starch went out of her pinafore. She pushed a couple of buttons and checked, while Miranda walked back to the doorway, smoking.

“Miss—you can go in now.”

She took a last inhale. Then stubbed it out in the invisible-until-you-needed-it ashtray, walking through the small gate to the inner hall and along it until she found Allen’s office. His cell sported a second door that fronted the main hallway outside, offering him the bonus of seeing anyone on the way to see Miranda.

Allen was a portly man, with muscle that had run to fat but was still hard enough to matter. His head was bald and shiny, his eyes twinkled, and he was over forty. Not a casting agent’s idea of a detective. Neither was she.

“What’s your trouble, Miranda?” He knew it wouldn’t be a social call.

“I’m not sure. Someone may be tailing me. Could be the cops.”

He shook his head, leaned back in the chair until it squeaked, un-Pinkertonlike, and looked at her shrewdly.

“I thought you could always spot a tail, especially from the bulls.”

“This is just a feeling. Anybody come through here and not come back? Or has that goddamn door been closed all goddamn day?”

He laughed for a while, and popped a hard candy into his mouth. “I’ve only been here for ten minutes myself, and it’s been closed. So you’ll have to go into the lion’s den unprepared. Sorry, kid. That’s the breaks.”

Miranda reached over and took one of the lemon drops out of a cut crystal dish on his desk corner.

“My breaks, anyway. Be seein’ you.”

“Yeah. Safe travels, kid.”

She crossed in front of him to the outer door, and stood in the frame. Footsteps on the polished floor echoed around and around the square center, impossible to trace. Voices rumbled through the ventilated air, vacationers and business travelers and those who sought advice from private investigators. There was no way to know and only one way in.

She walked into the hallway, her own pumps adding a pleasant tapping to the swirl of sound. Paused in front of her office, reading her name on the door—MIRANDA CORBIE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR—the black-and-gold lettering strong and purposeful. Then she took a deep breath and opened it.

No carpet in the office, no mahogany desk with a pretty girl, no art, modern or otherwise. It held an old-fashioned oak desk from Weinstein’s, two file cabinets, a cathedral radio, three miscellaneous chairs, two of which were comfortable, a calendar, a portable closet, a chair for herself she’d spent a commission on, and a used safe she picked up from Wells Fargo. Also the Latin Lover from downstairs and a surly-looking Irish cop with pits for pores and teeth to match.

Miranda strode toward the desk like she didn’t see them. Cesar Romero stood up. The other one ground his toothpick and sneered.

“Miss Corbie?”

She waited until she was behind the heft of the desk and nestled into the padded leather of the chair. She snuck a glance at the desk drawers. They’d been opened, and pushed back with enough carelessness to advertise the fact.

“Can I help you?” Best-bred Lady Esther voice, the one that smelled like violets and spoke of yacht clubs and opening night at the opera.

The one standing was a looker. Tall, about six one, pencil mustache, well-cut, dark clothes. Almost too well cut to belong to an honest cop. He didn’t show his teeth when he smiled. Eyes large, brown, and sympathetic.

“Inspector Gonzales. This is Assistant Inspector Duggan. We’d like to talk to you.”

He made himself comfortable in the chair, graceful motion. Duggan was staring at Miranda, and suddenly spat a wad of chewed toothpick on the floor.

She didn’t give him the pleasure of flinching. “Mind if I smoke?”

Not waiting for an answer, she opened the top drawer of her desk and took out the nearly empty pack inside. She lit a cigarette with the heavy desk lighter, offered one to Gonzales, who shook his head politely.

“Go ahead. Talk.”

Gonzales cleared his throat, and took out a pad of paper from his inner coat pocket. His shoulder-holstered .38 flashed at Miranda.

“I believe you were in Chinatown this morning, asking questions about the death of Eddie Takahashi.”

She leaned back, ignoring the sudden weight of the bloodstained bandage in her bra. Blew some smoke in Duggan’s direction. He was ticking, and she wanted him to go when she was ready for it. Miranda studied Gonzales’s smoothly handsome face.

“Mind if I see your identification, boys?”

Gonzales smiled good-naturedly again, reached for his billfold. Duggan jumped up suddenly, and leaned on her desk, both hands hairy and flat on the surface, his veined nose about a foot away from hers.

“ ‘Mind if I see your identification’ she says.” Singsong, vicious falsetto. “Can the class act. We know who you are and what you are. You fuck with this case, we haul you in for obstruction. And anything else we can find. We won’t have to look far.”

Gonzales’s face was red, and he was still half-holding out his buzzer. Miranda gave him a brief nod. Then she stood up, slowly, and stared at Duggan, his face still jutting forward, his small eyes mean and as yellow as his teeth.

“Why don’t you sit down, Inspector? I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cuspidor, but you’re welcome to spit on your partner there. You seem to be good at it.”

His back got tense and long and arched itself, and he lifted one of his hands, letting it freeze in the air. Gonzales’s voice came out quiet.

“Sit down, Gerry. Let’s try to talk to Miss Corbie like we’re professionals, and not some he-man cartoon cops out of
Argosy
.”

Duggan’s eyes turned from her and raked over Gonzales, who was now standing. He said nothing, but threw his shoulder into his partner’s as he walked back to his chair. Gonzales took it stolidly, just as he did the stage-whispered “Fuckin’ Mex” under Duggan’s breath.

“So why are you here, Inspector? Last I checked, I was free, white, and twenty-one. That usually buys you the freedom to go to Chinatown and talk without being questioned by the police.”

“This is more of a courtesy call, Miss Corbie.”

She raised her eyebrow and glanced at Duggan, who was staring out the window.

“Oh. Forgive me if I couldn’t tell.” She extinguished the cigarette in the Treasure Island ashtray and added, “Let’s get on with it. I’ve been warned away, and I didn’t take the warning. So what are you going to do? Arrest me, as Sir Lancelot suggested?”

Duggan turned his neck slowly like the mechanical clown at Playland.

“Gloves are off, baby, and don’t count on Phil. Seems like you fucked him one time too many, and the last one didn’t take. A little spell for solicitation’ll wipe that smile off your face. Send you right back to the whorehouse.”

“Duggan—”

“This greasy bastard wants a piece of your action, honey. I’d charge him double if I was you.”

Gonzales was pale. He walked calmly over to stand in front of Duggan, who sat, his legs wide apart, smirking up at him, another toothpick dangling between his lips. Gonzales reached into his coat pocket, brown eyes empty, and took out a pair of pigskin gloves. With a quick, sudden motion, he lashed Duggan across the face with them. Twice.

“Outside. I won’t dirty my hands with you.”

Duggan was staring open-mouthed at Gonzales, the toothpick stuck to his lower lip. His rolling, apelike shoulders and arms seemed to shrink and hang loose, like a puppet without a puppeteer. He stood up, not looking at either of them. Then he braced himself against the wall with uncertainty while he put his hat back on, his heavy footsteps scuffing the wood floor as he walked out of the office. The door swung softly and automatically closed behind him.

Gonzales turned to Miranda. “I’m sorry, Miss Corbie.”

She shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m sorry you’ve got such a son of a bitch for a partner.”

“Like you said, Miss Corbie. Free, white, and twenty-one. I fit two of those categories.”

She dug out another Chesterfield. “Call me Miranda. I appreciate you being square with me, and I appreciate the way you conduct yourself. How can I help you?”

He took a couple of minutes to calm down, drifting over to her windowsill and staring at the Market Street traffic.

“I’ll be brief. The new police chief would very much appreciate a low profile for the Takahashi case. So would District Attorney Brady. So would the mayors of San Francisco, Oakland, and Berkeley. And a lot of other people, almost as important.”

“Check. I’m not with the
Chronicle.
”

He smiled, a charming one. “Yes, I know. But you know newspaper men, you’ve worked with them, and—forgive me—you tend to generate a certain amount of publicity yourself.”

She shrugged again. “I had some high-profile cases last year, yeah. But it’s not like I’m in the society column every Sunday.”