City of Secrets (16 page)

A waiter she didn't know brought her a Singapore sling and a crisp hundred-dollar bill in a tray. She sipped the gin, thinking of phones and postcards and Cordoba tan Fords. The redhead warbled on.

When love forgets to smile, my darling, once in a while, remember April and lilacs in the rain …

*   *   *

She devoured the appetizer plate of mozzarella, olives, and peppers, the green salad with capers and Italian dressing. Jorge brought the steak and mushrooms over with a smile and wriggle of his eyebrows. Miranda blew a smoke ring before she stubbed out her cigarette, earning a scandalized look from a fat woman stuffed in a four-year-old evening gown.

Someone was playing games, trying to scare her. Wouldn't work, never did.

Not the bulls, they'd come out in the open. The Lima-Lanza mob would be more obvious, too, just like the cops. Maybe Gillio was back in town, through with hiding. Wanting to get even for February.

Not that the cops would care if he came back or not. The Takahashi case slammed shut once a Japanese shipping line got involved.

Miranda sipped the drink. Not in the mood for a blue fog tonight. Too close to working in one.

She looked around the half-filled club, lights artfully designed to make even the ugliest woman attractive. A few debutantes here and there, Junior League and Town & Country Club, with dates who couldn't get them into the Mark Hopkins or who didn't like the fact that Goodman played with Negroes.

Rice Bowl in February, Red Cross in May—can't get back to the Alps this year, darling, have to wait until the war's over. What's it all about, really—what's it all about?

Lives lived in rotogravure, reflected in crystal chandeliers. Right hair, right dress, polo in the summer, skiing in the winter, virginity lost over and over. Bruises from the one that drank, but darling, there are so few in our class …

Miranda pushed back the remnants of the meat and ravioli, downed the last of her Singapore sling.

Belgium was gone, France on her knees. Spain was lost a long time ago.

But there were two dead girls in the morgue in San Francisco.

She stood up from the table, gathered her purse, the red-haired chanteuse attempting another chorus of “I'm Nobody's Baby.”

Time to place a bet.

 

Fourteen

Vicenzo was calling out the numbers for the latest spin on the wheel of fortune when Miranda sidled through the doorway, half-hidden by another potted palm. Dim light glinted off the golden wall lamps in the shape of seashells, smell of Shalimar and Chanel No. 5 mixing with perspiration and fear.

Crowded, hot. Tinkled laughter. Ceiling fan spun slower than the magic wheel, evenly distributing perfume and panic through the long, rectangular room.

Typical night at Joe's gambling den. Knock three times and know the password, lady, and you, too, can lose your money in a ritzy atmosphere.

Diehard gamblers looked for a hustle, upper lips moist, eyes darting between dice and cards and wheel before landing on their poison of choice. No cure, no antidote, except the occasional win.

On that they could fly higher than coke, pulses racing, throats hoarse, bodies trembling in an orgasm, faith redeemed, and confidence justified. Their win, their timing, their love affair with luck. Revival, children, come to the revival, lift up your shaking arms to Lady Luck and speak in her tongues, let her Holy Rollin' spirit possess you, because hallelujah, brothers, I beat the house.

Men or women, Luck eventually fucked them all. Left them dry and withered, lines of thirst around their eyes and mouth, photos of wives, children, and mothers smiling and forgotten in empty leather wallets.

Lose in style, lose with class. Lose at Joe Merello's Club Moderne casino.

Tourists were rubbing elbows with the top and bottom of the social register, shipping line heirs and bankrupt bankers, radio stars and phony European royalty. A couple of society girls sat in the green leather chairs, watching their dates burn through their allowance. It's your birthday, Midge, bet on twenty-three.…

The strawberry blonde held her head in her chin, nose still pink, fingers tapping on the table, eyes searching for something to focus on. She saw Miranda and fluffed her hair and called for a fresh martini. Her date saw Miranda and missed the next bet.

And the wheel kept spinning, the house hand at the blackjack table reached legal age, the fat man with the rented tux and the cheap toupee rolling snake eyes yet again.

Miranda pushed her way past the sequined gowns to the roulette table, dull light and piped-in warbles from the redhead onstage making it hard to see or hear.

Vicenzo's eyebrow raised about a quarter of an inch. She hadn't lost money at the Moderne in a long time, but she needed information. Dropping a C-note would guarantee the paternal treatment.

Miranda opened her evening bag, eyes around her envious, curious, and openly interested. She took a Chesterfield out of the gold case, the balding scion of a cane sugar refinery flicking his silver-plated lighter before the cigarette was in her mouth.

She glanced up at him, lit the stick, and inhaled. Blew the smoke out the side of her mouth.

“Thanks, sugar.”

He showed a lot of teeth under a Melvyn Douglas mustache. Close to a million-dollar bank account and breath like rotten eggs.

“What's your money on, Miss?”

The strawberry blonde shot bullets at Miranda while she sloshed her martini and tried to hold on to her high.

Miranda glanced up at Vicenzo, tucked her bag under her arm, and dropped the hundred-dollar bill on the table.

“Two fifties, please.”

The tall, skinny Italian pushed two blue chips toward her wordlessly. He looked around the table, expertly spinning the wheel.

“Your bets,
signore e signori
.”

Miranda placed both chips on number thirty-six. The sugar heir added five red chips to the same box, still grinning like an idiot and trying to brush Miranda's arm. She ignored him, concentrating on the Chesterfield.

A produce dealer from Burlingame bet on red and even, a banker on odd and black, and one of the gamblers, a small man with a Vandyke and glasses and ash on his lapels, played the system and bet on zero, figuring Miranda was there to make a payoff.

“No more bets,
signore e signori,
no more bets,
prego
.”

Vicenzo kept his eyes on the wheel. It spun down slowly, the little silver ball dancing delicately in between the ridges, while the table held its breath and the strawberry blonde muttered imprecations on number thirty-six.

“Number thirty-six is the winner.…
La signorina
bet one hundred dollars on thirty-six straight up. Her winnings are three thousand, five hundred dollars.”

Vicenzo plucked three gold thousand-dollar chips and one green five hundred from the rack at his side and pushed them toward Miranda with the rake.

“The winnings are with your bet down,
signorina
.”

The croupier turned to pay the sugar heir, who was gaping openmouthed at Miranda. His date stood up, eyes narrow, mouth pinched, hand trembling and tugging on his arm.

“Come on, Edgar—let's go to the Mark. Goodman's there tonight.”

His attention bounced between his pile of chips and the lines of Miranda's dress. He shook his head. “It's the first time I've ever won anything—I can't leave now.”

The blonde stood rigid. She could flounce out by herself, dateless but dignified. Her eyes drifted to the door, table growing quiet. Then her shoulders slumped and she sank in a puddle of silver lamé, drowning her sorrows in another martini, more powder for her nose.

Not Elizabeth Arden.

Vicenzo checked the table. Miranda took a drag on the stick, glanced at the bald playboy and the hopped-up blonde.

Said: “Let it ride.”

Edgar ogled her, pressing closer to her side. Figured he'd collect the winnings whatever money he won or lost. He signaled to Vicenzo to keep his money on thirty-six.

The Italian tugged at his collar, giving the pile of cash a nervous look. “
Mi dispiace, signore e signori,
I need to ask my boss.
Momento, prego
.”

He spoke to a runner dressed in an ill-fitted tux, young man with a pockmarked face and easy grin. Italian was too rapid too follow. The young man nodded, sprinted off. Chatter from the other tables, desperate to see winners, pushed the wheel crowd forward, jammed up tight.

Band outside was swinging “Embraceable You” with a tenor clarinet lead, redhead numbing her vocal cords at the bar.

The sugar heir leaned toward Miranda with a toothy whisper. “We're a pair, aren't we? You've brought me luck once tonight—think you can do it again?”

Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you …

She exhaled a stream of smoke into the air, ground the Chesterfield in the gold ashtray. Looked at him, his date, drifting into her martini and away from the white lines of powder.

“I think I'm going to cost you, sugar.”

Loud noise from another hidden door at the back of the room. Joe Merello. Short, stout, in a white derby and vest, and with next week's band singer on his arm, this one a peroxide blonde.

The seas parted, and Joe shot a look at Vicenzo, saw Miranda and Mr. Sugar Plantation. No sign of recognition except a quick wink of his left eye while he grinned through his cigar, gestured toward the game.

“
Andiamo,
Vicenzo. The bet is OK, with me.”

He waddled back toward the blackjack players, his stubby fingers glittering with rings, his laughter drowning out the restaurant band.

Vicenzo cleared his throat, aristocratic cheekbones a burnished red. Flicked the wheel. “Place your bets,
prego,
place your bets.
Prego, signore e signori—subito, subito.
”

The playboy stepped on Miranda's foot, his breath making her wince.

“Whatever happens—you've been grand. Might I see you tomorrow night?”

The wheel slowed, spin no longer fresh and exciting, drama of decision hanging over the little silver ball and the red and black numbers.
Click-clack-click-clack,
crawling to a finish
,
bells tolling for the grocer with the mortgage, the lady with the old face and young body and the silver fox in the pawnshop.

Clack … click. Clack.

Collective inhale. Collective sigh of disappointment.

“Number fifteen is the winner,
signore e signori,
number fifteen.”

Vicenzo discreetly raked the pile of chips from thirty-six while the grocer wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and boasted to his table companions how his system never failed.

Joe appeared at the table, genie from a bottle. He bowed to Miranda.

“I am sorry for your loss, Signorina Corbie. But you are
bellissima stasera
. You are like
Venere, la dea d'amore
. I will buy you a drink.” He extended an arm to Miranda.

The sugar heir grabbed at the glove on her other arm. She turned to face him.

“Sorry, Edgar. I warned you. Better luck next time.” She gestured with her head toward the strawberry blonde, who was staring vacantly at the wheel. “You arrived with a date—remember?”

Panic, confusion. Red on his flabby cheeks. “But your name—I don't even know your name.”

Miranda ignored him and slid through the crowd with Joe. The playboy stood looking after her. A man about fifty-five, wrinkled face, wrinkled blue suit, squinted up from his small stack of white chips.

“Don't you know who that was, son?”

The sugar heir shook his head. Older man nodded, face lost in a dream.

“That was Lady Luck.”

*   *   *

Joe led her to the back and his soundproofed office. Shut the heavy doors behind him, smiling like a benevolent Roman emperor, then took his seat behind the giant mahogany desk. Miranda sat on the wine-colored leather chair in front, crossing her legs. Fought the impulse to light another cigarette.

He made an expansive gesture, arms apart. “What can I do for my friend, eh? You bring me luck tonight.”

She grinned. “Vicenzo brought you luck. He knows I always bet on thirty-six.”

Joe nodded, satisfied look on his round, chubby face. “
Sì, Vicenzo è molto intelligente.
He know that young man. Know he will bet with you,
bella
.”

He opened the top desk drawer. Drew out a hundred-dollar bill and tossed it toward Miranda. “You keep your money.”

She waved it away. “No dice, Joe. I came here to lose it. Taking it back would mean I worked for you.” She held her eyes on his until the Italian grunted and put the money away.

He pressed his manicured fingers on the desk, pretending to grumble.

“So working for me, Joe Merello, not so bad, not so bad. You know you got a place here,
cara mia
.”

She needed a cigarette. Italian rituals took too fucking long. She lit a Chesterfield with Joe's marble cherub desk lighter.

“
Grazie.
You are a good friend, Joe. I appreciate you letting me work out of the Moderne. Consider it rent.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “I don't charge my friends. You bring me business.” He smiled like a little boy. Shrugged. His voice was soft.

“I trust you,
bella
.”

Trusted her not to find out where the strawberry blond snowbird got her coke, trusted her to play. Miranda knew Joe was clean, one reason why she worked through the Moderne as her club of choice. But sometimes the customers came in dirty.

A matching white marble cherub on his desktop held up a small tray stained gray with ash. She tapped the Chesterfield. Her voice was careful.

“I appreciate that, Joe. And I trust you, too. Tonight, I need your help.”

The subdued light in the milk-glass lamp caught a glimmer from one of the gold rings on his fingers. Brown eyes stared across at her, warm but shrewd.