City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (35 page)

Miranda looked down at the worn assortment of dark blue clothes, fingering the raised “SP” on one of the silver buttons.

“I hope he won’t lose his job.”

“George’ll be all right. But your train compartment looks like a tornado’s been through it. I had a hell of time finding your handbag, and I had to toss everything in your cases without paying much attention.”

Miranda nodded grimly. “Thanks. I appreciate you taking it down to the station. I didn’t want to lose it all—some of those dresses are expensive.”

He straightened up tall, grinning. “That’s the spirit. You’ll be wearing them again in no time—to the christening of our first baby.”

She grinned back. “I’ll go ahead and put everything else on while Marie’s finishing up.”

He handed her the rest of the clothes. “No need to get back in the outhouse again … I’ll keep my back turned.”

“Thanks.”

The train was slowing down as it approached Reno, more lights flooding the compartment, more noise in the hall. Miranda hurriedly threw off the robe, buttoning the man’s shirt all the way up. The collar was too large and sagged enough to show her neck.

“Finished.” Marie slammed the needle and thread on the small table next to the bed. “Here’re the trousers. Tom, stay where you are.”

He raised his eyebrows, grinning impishly. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not going anywhere.”

Miranda clambered into the pants. The legs hung unevenly, but they wouldn’t trip her. Marie stepped closer to help with the suspenders.

“Tom’s right, you’re a good seamstress.”

The young woman waved a hand in the air. “Don’t listen to him.”

Her husband started to crane his neck around. “Hey!”

“Face the wall, Mr. O’Day.” Marie winked at Miranda.

She bit her lip as Marie helped tighten the suspender straps.

“Thanks. Works much better than a belt. Got a hair band?”

“Just a minute.” Marie opened the vanity mirror while Tom started to whistle “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone.”

“All right, Tom, enough, you can turn around. Miranda’s decent.”

Miranda finished tying the worn, scuffed work boots and straightened up. Her thick auburn hair hit the shoulders of the man’s suit, a navy necktie hanging loosely from the too-big white shirt collar. She arched an eyebrow.

“Me?”

The young man laughed and shook his head. “It’ll work. At least well enough for you to get off the train and to somewhere else.”

She hoped to hell he was right. Marie handed her two hair bands and a brush. Miranda hurriedly made pigtails and folded them up into the Southern Pacific cap. Then she knotted the tie quickly, pulled the cap over her eyes, and hitched up the pants. They all stared at her image in the narrow mirror.

“Marie, put your brown dress and her dress and things in the laundry bag. Better shove the handbag in there, too. Miranda, you’ve got about five minutes to get to the observation car.”

She slouched into the heavy jacket and turned to face them. The SP work boots were about a size too big, but not so large that she couldn’t walk—and walk fast.

“Thanks. Remember to send me an address when you land in Virginia. Now, until you hear otherwise—forget me. Don’t watch me leave. Clear out my trunks as soon as I go, before everyone else is off the train for a leg stretch and the Reno passengers are coming on board. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about my room being cased—the killer already went through it. If anything, he may try to hop early and place a phone call. I hope to beat him to it.”

Marie reached out to grab Miranda’s arm. “You will be careful.” Statement, not a question.

Tom shook his head, small grin. “There’s no arguing with her.”

Miranda’s eyes darted from the tall, almost gangly young man with the big hat and infectious grin to the small but fiery curly-haired woman beside him. They stood together, not an inch apart.

She smiled and said it gently. “Thanks. See you at the christening.”

She heaved the laundry bag up from the bed and onto her shoulder, head still aching, the extra weight making her even more wobbly. Took a deep breath, pulled the hat brim low and shadowed her face. Tom waited until a group of voices passed, heading toward the club car, and then held the door half open while Miranda slipped out into the corridor, blue and green lights from the track and neon lights from the city starting to stream through the windows.

She was alone again.

But Miranda was used to that.

*   *   *

Four compartments between her and the observation car, one open section then double bedrooms and roomettes, most with passengers continuing on through Chicago, blasé and blotto, a few lining the windows to see what the Reno fuss was all about.

No one spoke to her, though a few of the women looked at her oddly. She did her best to stride and not sashay, to keep her back bent and her chest flat, and smiled ironically to herself at what Dianne Laroche would say to her now.

George gave her a quick glance, avoided a double-take, avoided making eye contact. Made a quick motion with his head for her to follow him back through the car—now filling up with matrons who wanted to dump a penny in the bathroom slot machine at the station—and stood waiting, hands in his pockets, in the small passageway between the observation car and Telegraph Hill, the roomette sleeper in front of it. The diesel engines were no longer roaring; the train, she noticed with surprise, was nearly at a standstill.

George raised his arm and trained his eyes on his pocket watch, voice low and hesitant. Gestured to the gangway door on Miranda’s right.

“This here will be open in less than two minutes. Before the passengers step off.”

Miranda nodded. A traveling salesman in a flashy green fedora pried himself off up from one of the comfortable seats in the observation car, leaving behind an empty highball glass on the table next to him. He was weaving toward the passageway, Miranda an awkward beacon in the SP uniform.

George’s eyes flickered. “Bathroom.”

She hesitated for a split second, then entered the small room.

Mirrors on the wall, a stainless steel ashtray in front of two red armchairs. Blue floor, off-white porcelain sink. No one at the urinal, no one on the toilet. She leaned against the mirrored wall in relief. Outside, the drunk was arguing with George.

“… fella below me is snorin’ to beat the band, and I didn’t pay good money to sleep in the goddamn observation car! Where’s that SP fella? He was here a minute ago … maybe he can kick this rube back to Modesto where he drove in from…”

She heard George make vague, soothing noises. Glanced at her watch.

Time.

Deep breath and she exited the bathroom, pulling up her pants. George was unlocking the door. The salesman stared at her, blinked a few times, and she shoved past him. The porter leaned in close to her ear.

“Real SP man coming in about one minute.”

She nodded, stepped down the stairway.

“Hey—hey you—”

George intercepted the salesman and her too-large boots touched the station platform, while the porter stood with his back to the open doorway.

She risked a quick look behind, but George was still engaged with the salesman.

Miranda lengthened her stride, the crisp, dry air cold and clean. She headed for the station double doors.

She’d made it to Reno.

*   *   *

The depot building was about fifteen years old and surprisingly small for the Biggest Little City in the World.

Mostly middle-aged women in various stages of elation or depression lined the high-backed, shining wood seats, waiting for the divorcée special, while men in sweat-stained hatbands eyed them with appraisal, wondering if there were odds to be made and money to be had.

Young woman in black, red around the eyes and nose, face to the window, hungry for the next rattler to nowhere … No missus, not anymore, just freedom, lady, freedom, ringing down from a Nevada gavel.

The woman in black blew her nose, held on to the back of the bank of seats to support herself as she walked unsteadily back to a chair.

Freedom could be expensive.

And then there were the young matrons from places like Des Moines and Elgin, the ones who saw
The Women
fifteen times at Loew’s and wept for Norma Shearer, comforted by the idea that she’d wait for him, that she’d get him back, that all she had to do was paint her nails jungle red. Blame it all on Joan Crawford, men will be men, that is to say boys, and women … well, Hollywood says we endure.

Never mind about your black eye and the torn, soiled panties in his overcoat pocket, the late-night grunt and brief slap of flesh on flesh, his breath smelling of stale beer. Never mind the empty nights and cold bed, the excuses to the children, daughter with eyes too old for her face, son with the bruises from fighting too much, never mind the realization that the wrapped bottle of perfume and his new, pressed suit weren’t for you.

Never mind and nevermore, don’t stop to think, don’t let yourself feel, don’t try to remember. Above all, don’t ask yourself if you want him back.

Or you’ll wind up in Reno.

Miranda walked as quickly as she could, trying to avoid people’s eyes, SP uniform a beacon for passengers with questions or complaints. She deftly lifted and pocketed a timetable before heading out the double doors on Center Street, bright green and pink and gold neon from Commercial Row glittering against the cold night, high desert stars dull and dim, candles at a fireworks show.

Her breath blew smoke and she huddled in the too-large coat. Couldn’t light a goddamn Chesterfield, not till she was safely away from the station.

She trudged down Commercial toward Virginia Street, home of the famous sign. Gambling dives big and small clustered around the arch like an altar, paying respects on bended knee to the Biggest Little City in the World, town motto and sacred oath.

Outside of New York, Reno was a good place to disappear, to vanish, nobody asking questions, nobody noticing anything but the slots and the dames and the odds at Santa Anita.

A beat cop was lounging against the door to the Inferno, a smaller casino dwarfed by the giant lighted signs of the Frontier and Harold’s Club, and Miranda strode a little faster, past the Ship and Bottle, headed for the Bank Club.

Her head still ached but she felt surprisingly clear minded … as if pieces were starting to fall into place.

The killer had ransacked her room. He’d been looking for something, either information or an incriminating piece of evidence he could plant, or probably both. Her luggage would only tell him the brand of night cream she wore. The evidence—a pair of silk stockings, some underwear—he’d take back to Jasper’s room during the Reno stop, expecting to find her still out cold. He’d shrug and style the scene anyway, story of a former whore and private eye who hooked the john for money and then lammed it out of town—after shooting him dead.

Then he’d run straight to a Reno dive where he could place a call or send a telegraph, and cops would stop the train at Ogden. Meanwhile, the killer would hide in Reno and prepare for his next move.

Just like her.

The Bank Club loomed in front of Miranda, smoke pouring from within, din and clatter of metal and cards, sharp-eyed men in visors and vests dealing poker, blackjack, and chuck-a-luck. Girls in too-tight dresses stood with hands on hips, fingernails dirty, waiting under the Golden Annex Hotel sign, while prospective customers ignored them for the casino next door. Other women, less discreet or more desperate, rendezvoused in the deep alley between the Bank Club and the Palace. From inside the casino, someone was playing an old record of Paul Whiteman and Ramona Davies, Cole Porter musical, gangsters and debutantes, Depression-era attempt to make sense out of the insensible.

But now, God knows …

And Miranda Corbie was in drag in Reno.

She shrugged the bag off her shoulders and strode into the Bank Club.

“
Anything Goes
” …

Thirty-one

Cigarette and cigar smoke poured through the door as Miranda squeezed her way past the crowd of men in straw hats and suspenders, floppy caps and fedoras, murmurs of hope and sudden cacophony of disappointment rippling through the thick crowd. Perspiration perfumed the air, twirls of the ceiling fans too apathetic to dispel the damp odor of sweat.

Small, compactly built men in white shirts and suspenders and green-shaded hats stood behind long tables, offering twenty-one and poker, craps, hazard, keno and the wheel, eyes on the crowd and the chips, hands fast and sure and practiced.

Women lined the bar, mixed with a few society dames taking the six-week cure and looking for a quick high in low places.

Jim McKay and Bill Graham, owners of the Bank Club, made sure the company whores weren’t quite as worn out as their sisters who worked the eight-hour, rotating-door shifts at the Stockade, commonly known as the fuck factory, located near the Truckee River. Open twenty-four hours a day, the Stockade was a fortress not only in name. Miranda remembered meeting an escort at Dianne’s who’d escaped after a week. She’d described a giant, horseshoe-shaped building as large as an entire city block, one where the girls worked in a prison room, one bed, one window, one never-closed door.

The girl—Claire, she suddenly remembered—looked thirty-five at twenty-two, and the bitterness in her voice when she spoke of the place lingered in Miranda’s memory long after the girl had passed through Dianne’s and moved on.

Licensed to sell, with the Biggest Little City and the state of Nevada taking a sizable cut on the three-dollar, thirty-minute fee, the Stockade whores lasted maybe a year before they got too sick, too pregnant, or too carved up to be legal. Only option left was Douglas Alley, next door to the Bank Club, where they took a chance on getting picked up for selling without a license, and the johns ran the risk of syphilis.

Fuck factory. Grinding out sex for a never-ending supply of customers, men from California and Oregon and Arizona, men who traveled by train and bus and car to put money down and pull the slots, men who’d come to Reno, Nevada, to satisfy whatever itch they wanted scratched.