City of Dragons (20 page)

He shook his head slowly. “
Non mi ricordo
. But I don’t think so.”

“Do you remember what kind of clothes they were wearing?”

“
Grandiosa
—he look like he try to be somebody, but nobody,
capito
? Tan suit, hat, light cloth, no good San Francisco clothes. From out of town, I’m thinking. Los Angeles, maybe. She was wearing nice dress, but
troppo seno
, you know?” He gestured to his chest. “Like a
puttana
.
Sí
,
sono come una puttana e il suo protettore
.”

Like a whore and a pimp. Miranda was silent for a moment, then nodded, placing a twenty on the table. Vicenzo started to protest.

“
Non è necessario
—”

“
Lo so
. It’s a present.
Voglio fare un dono
,
prego
.”

He smiled at her imperfect, Spanish-accented Italian, bowed slightly. “
Sempre piacere
,
signorina
.
Cos’ è altro
?”

“Did they mention where they were going, where they lived?”

He shook his head. “No, Signorina Corbie. But I think they go to many other places that night before they go here. He say something about more money, and she laugh and say, ‘Don’t worry, Sammy.’ Then she get tired, sleepy like a baby, and complain, and he slap her, and then they go away,
grazie a Dio
.
Non mi piacevano
.”

“Not my type, either.
Grazie
, Vicenzo. For helping me.”

He bowed again. “
Piacere
,
signorina
.
Lei parla bene
.”

“Italian by way of Barcelona, I’m afraid. Take it.” He didn’t try to protest again, but smiled with embarrassment, picking up the twenty with deft, long fingers, used to handling someone else’s money.

“
Grazie
, Signorina Corbie.”

He left the same way he came, winding his way around the giant palm, hugging the outskirts of the floor, until he faded into a cloud of cigarette smoke, and disappeared through the barely visible entrance of the back room. She caught a glimpse when the light stabbed the darkness behind the stage, heard a drunken laugh, the friction of fabric and money, and an exhortation to “place your bets.” Then Vicenzo shut the door, and his world went with him.

Miranda picked up her cocktail glass regretfully, drained the last bit of gin from her last Blue Fog. Jorge sidled from an alcove with the check, and she lit a Chesterfield while she waited for the change.

Her world was suddenly full of Italians. Phyllis Winters and her gaudy bully of a boyfriend … an Italian in a wide-brimmed fedora on his way to see Phyllis’s father. And one or two more in a green sedan, gloved hands on Miranda’s apartment doorknob, smelling of cheap aftershave and sweat and back-alley hand jobs.

She picked up the change, leaving Jorge a good tip. And wondered again why an Italian at Gillio’s gave a damn about the offing of a Japanese numbers runner.

Miranda walked out of the Moderne, waving good-bye to Marie, and reassured by her luck. Phyllis Winters was alive, at least last Tuesday.

Her wristwatch read nine-twenty. Still plenty of time to case a few nightclubs and floor shows, throw a few boxcars in the right rooms and lose gracefully, hoping to win something more important than money. But there was Betty to find, too, and that meant Chinatown, where most of the gambling was reserved for nonwhites, and the men at the tables weren’t wearing tuxedos.

The Moderne made sense; Joe’s place was one of the few where you could win once in a while and make it home with the money. Even if the hood of a boyfriend had blown in on a Santa Ana and the Southern Pacific, somebody local would steer him toward the Moderne. But finding where else they’d drifted would be more than one night’s work—and she was dressed for the top joints, not the bottom dives.

“Sammy,” Phyllis’d called him. And Vicenzo mentioned the clothes were wrong, more like Los Angeles. Miranda frowned. The only Sammy she knew of in L.A. was Sammy Martini … but his business was between Santa Monica and Mexico, smuggling women and drugs. Too big for a blackmail job. Too big for Phyllis Winters.

She crossed the street and walked to the corner of Powell and Sutter, dodging diners and the night shift, the streets busier than usual for a Monday. San Francisco never liked to see the end of a party.

A cable car pulled up in time for her to step on, while she threw a dime at the conductor and told him to keep the change. It lurched as it gripped the cable beneath the street, then recovered, tenaciously climbing the hill toward California. Miranda stood, holding on to the handle above her, watching the sidewalks full of restaurants and hotels and bars, full of couples and families, dockworkers and machinists, stenographers and produce men and shopkeepers. Monday night in San Francisco.

Chinatown was calling.

She began at the Twin Dragon, half-expecting to see the same fat blonde spreading out over the bar stool, and Rick with his cocky half-grin.

Waverly was empty, except for a rummy folded up between two doors, whispering to his paper bag of promises. An old Chinese woman hurried against the wind, her small feet scuffling against the alley. Discarded popcorn gathered in the street corners, blown there with the dust and the candy wrappers and the newspapers. The wind always blew through Waverly, the refuse left behind.

Shrill laughter drifted from out of windows above her, and music played from the open doors of a few bars. Soft murmurs, staccato, sharp sounds of anger, the cooing sound of seduction and its aftermath in whatever language it was conducted.

The Chinese looked at her, looked at her again, while they blended into the night, wondering, for a moment, why a white woman in a fancy dress was walking an alley after the Rice Bowl Party.

No Madame Pengo, no little girl. Only a torn and dirty poster advertising her services, still attached to the brick edifice of the church.

No corners to catch them from the wind.

She nursed a Singapore Sling at the Twin Dragon. She knew there was a gambling room back there, and everyone was terribly polite, but she was by herself and white, and that was two strikes too many.

No one had seen Betty there, and if they had, Miranda wasn’t sure they’d tell her. She was an interloper tonight. Chinatown was trying to get its heart back, after spilling it open for everyone else.

Ten-thirty. Just down the street, on Grant and Sacramento, was the Chinese Village, where the special drink was called the “Mandarin,” and the wind didn’t blow quite as hard and so the trash clinged to the bar.

A beefy truck driver from the Central Valley was taking a load off, and at first she thought he recognized Betty, but then he put his hand on her thigh and his eyes got flat and shiny. She left her egg roll unfinished and the rest of the Mandarin down his neck.

Eleven-five. She walked north on Grant, toward Washington, to the Jade Palace, where the cool green stone and cherry-wood statues adorned the foyer and bar, and helped keep the clientele under better control. The specialty here was the “Lotus Blossom,” and she hit pay dirt with the girl who served it. Betty sometimes worked the place, not often. The girl was nervous, a condition Miranda tried to help by the application of cash. It only helped a little. No, Betty hadn’t been in. She thought she saw her during the Party, but there were too many people to know. She didn’t know where Betty was staying or sleeping these days, whether she was alone or with someone.

Miranda drained her Blossom, leaving the tiny flower in the glass, feeling the hostile stare of the bartender, who’d kept quiet except for his eyes.

Quarter after twelve. She walked Grant for four long blocks, up the hill toward California and Old St. Mary’s. The shadow of the church quieted her; the furtive steps of night workers, the invisible men and women who cleaned the restaurants and clubs, hurried by, clutching frayed brocade around their necks, their faces lined and tired, while the Bay fog, so threatening earlier, finally filled the streets, wrapping the neon chop suey signs in soiled cotton.

She passed Old St. Mary’s, looking up at the clock tower, barely making out the familiar words: SON, OBSERVE THE TIME AND FLY FROM EVIL.

There were still a few couples nuzzling over drinks when she reached the Chinese Sky Room on Pine. A classier place than most, with a view of Lillie Hitchcock Coit’s tribute to firemen and their apparatus.

The bartender smiled at Miranda, and she settled gratefully on a stool, the only single woman in the place, the drunks at the end of the bar too tired and too far gone to make a move. The barman with the kind eyes said he’d seen Betty, that very evening. She’d been crying, he said, that’s why he remembered her. Crying and scared, tried to make a phone call, but the phone was out of order.

Miranda took out the last Chesterfield in a deck, and said: “Do you know where she went?”

He shook his head. “No. I think she turned toward Market, though. She was in a hurry.”

She put some money on the counter, asked him if he’s seen Phyllis. He wouldn’t know, he said, he didn’t work the room; it was at the other end of the building, down a flight of steep wooden stairs, in one of the Chinese basements law enforcement conveniently forgot.

He said, hope in his voice: “They’re still open, Miss—if you want to try. All the games. Better than the Moderne!”

She told him not tonight.

One-forty-five. The night was colder, more empty, except for the street-lights that still glowed in the fog like their gas ancestors, the cars parked on the curb, squatting and silhouetted in the darkness. Far-off sirens pierced the wind, echoing the lonesome, mournful howl that seemed to always blow off Alcatraz.

Forbidden City was open until three. One more place to try.

She pushed her tired legs down the hill, back to Sutter, cursing her timing, her lack of a phone at the apartment. Betty liked Forbidden City, did a number for them once in a while, or filled in for one of the chorus girls.

Miranda squeezed in the double doorway, past a doorman who surreptitiously checked her breath and surveyed her clothes.

The floor shows were over, and a few out-of-towners, seeking the “thrilling Oriental experience,” still clung to their tables, ready to be poured into the taxi cabs waiting outside on Sutter.

She headed for the bar, plopped inelegantly on the dark brown leather stool. The bartender hadn’t seen Betty, hadn’t heard of Betty. The stage manager was gone for the night, last show at one. Go home, lady. You can try again tomorrow.

At least she didn’t have to buy a drink.

The door was heavy to push open, especially against the wind. She managed, the cold biting into her skin as she stood on Sutter. About three blocks to Mason. Then up the steep, steep hill to home.

She fastened the top button of the Persian lamb coat and flipped the collar up. Too tired to think, not tired enough not to worry. Maybe Betty would call her tomorrow. She’d go to her office in the morning, grab a bite on the way.

The Moderne was still open, a long black car still parked outside. Joe’s room stayed available until four or five, or whenever the money ran out. Raphael had gone off shift, and a new man leaned against the door frame, bored, hoping the cold, foggy air would keep him awake.

Miranda reached the corner of Mason, staring up the angled street. Some princess she was, her and her hill of chrome and glass.

The wind was shrieking, and so were her legs. Tired, numb, her black and white dress clammy and old against her skin and her slip, she trudged toward 640 Mason Street, thinking about Betty, thinking about Phyllis, and finally thinking about Eddie Takahashi.

A squeal and roar.

She didn’t remember them. But the lights blinded her, lights inhuman, cold, piercing the darkness like a knife through flesh.

She was back in Spain, and Johnny was explaining the flash before the shell hit, telling her to move if she heard a whine, move if she saw a bright light, don’t be a goddamn bunny rabbit, Miranda, move your ass …

The force of the car flung her on the cement steps. She loved cement, loved the scrapes on her legs, the bruises on her hands and face. She embraced it, rolling her legs tight, half of her body reaching for an apartment house door, the other half compact, draped on the three steps to shelter.

The light bore down and cut across her like a razor blade, inexorable, turning off the sidewalk and heading down hill. No gun shot. The squeal screamed through the canyon.

Blind, deaf, dumb, she managed to stand, tottering on a broken high heel and an ankle that was swelling like a baseball, her lamb coat shorn of a patch of wool.

A dark green sedan.

Thirteen

S
he sat, or fell, back on the steps. No one opened a window; no one heard the engine, the scream of the tires. No one heard her heart beating.

Everything hurt. Her hands explored her face. It was tender on the left side, there would be a bruise. A little blood. A scrape, maybe, hope to hell no scars.