City of Dragons (26 page)

“That is my conclusion, Miss Corbie.”

“And how exactly do I know that you’re not the one who wants to kill her? That you didn’t just walk in here with a song and dance guaranteed to get my help, and that if I find Emily Takahashi, we won’t both be murdered?”

He looked at her steadily. “That is a fair and reasoned argument. I would remind you, however, that you are the only one with a pistol showing. Perhaps it will convince you further if I tell you that Bennie and I are taking considerable risk in coming to see you at all. And not from your gun, Miss Corbie.”

She took a last drag on the Chesterfield, then rubbed it viciously into the ashtray. “That’s another thing. How do I know you’re not using me to get rid of unwanted competition? Say two groups want this money, they’re competing for it, and you want to cut the other one out. I produce Emily, produce your money, and we’re both at the—mercy—of your rivals. No, Mr. Wong, I’ll need something from you, something to convince me that you’re sincere. I can’t risk Emily … or myself.”

The old man leaned forward slightly. “So you have found her? You know where she is?”

Miranda kept her voice noncommittal. “Maybe. But like I said … first I need to understand the situation. Be convinced. For example, tell me why a Chinese ‘businessman’ with an Italian gun is so anxious about a Japanese girl … other than money.”

Sweat was starting to break out on the old man’s upper lip. He wiped his forehead with a yellow display handkerchief, and Miranda noticed his hands were shaking.

“Miss Corbie, I have probably told you too much already. Suffice it to say that I am not a prejudiced man. Neither is Bennie—his wife is a Filipina. Eddie Takahashi was a business associate of a … partner. And that must be enough for you. I’ve been here too long as it is.”

He stood up. So did Bennie, watching him like a dog about to be taken for a walk.

“Find Emily, Miss Corbie. When you do, leave a message here.” He flicked a card on her desk.

Miranda stood, too, her right hand still hovering above the black pistol.

“Who killed Betty, Mr. Wong?”

Again, Bennie’s face convulsed, and Wong shook his head.

“I can say no more.”

He turned to leave, snapping his fingers for Bennie to follow.

Miranda blurted, “Wait—tell me—tell me where to find Phyllis Winters. As a sign of faith. And I’ll get Emily for you.”

It was dangerous to mislead a dangerous man, and Miranda knew it. And it was another shot in the dark, a blind craps throw wagered on a matchbook. Wong turned back around slowly. Said, without facing him, “Bennie—go in the hallway and wait for me there.”

Bennie looked from Miranda to Wong, then backed out of the room, his hand under his jacket, clutching at the gun in the holster.

Wong walked toward her, put his hands flat on her desk.

“Very well, Miss Corbie. Do not disappoint me. I do not like to be disappointed in my business associates.”

She leaned forward, matching his gesture, eyes on his. “And I don’t like to be used, Mr. Wong. Especially with dead friends.”

They stayed in position like chess pieces, Wong searching her face. Finally, he grunted.

“Try Guerrero Street.”

He turned, drawing his jacket together and buttoning it, as if he were cold, and walked out the door, letting it shut softly and automatically behind him.

Guerrero Street sang a tune, over and over again, cascading down the scale in Miranda’s head. Something about Guerrero Street …

She gave herself a few minutes to play catch up, to realize what happened. The Chesterfield shook in her hand, and it took four strikes to light it and the Old Taylor tasted like ginger ale when it slid down her throat.

Eddie Takahashi owed money to a gangster or a syndicate of gangsters—most likely Filipino Charlie, or whoever was behind him—some of whom had—in Wong’s words—moved in for an “overthrow.” The same group killed Betty, maybe because they figured she knew something about the money … that, at least, was the implication. And somehow, Winters and his daughter were involved.

Miranda swallowed another shot, eyes falling on the card Wong had flicked on the table. It was a simple black-and-white business card: HERBERT-ROBERT CLEANERS, 775 JACKSON STREET. She sank into the chair and stared at it.

The same cleaner’s receipt in Lester Winters’s left trouser pocket. So much for fucking coincidence. And now it was one-thirty. Move, Miranda.

She grabbed at Helen Winters’s notebook, flipped it open, hurriedly dialed a number, her foot tapping impatiently. When the butler answered, she brightened her vocal pitch, making her voice sound younger. “Good afternoon … may I speak to Ruth, please? Oh, just a friend of Phyllis Winters … yes, I’ll hold.”

A bored young voice sulked over the wire. “Who is it, please?”

“Ruth Landis?”

“Yes … who is this?” The voice held curiosity and a faint hope that something was about to dispel her ennui.

“My name is Miranda Corbie. I’m a private investigator, working for Phyllis Winters’s mother.”

The squeal of air breathed through teeth made Miranda hold the phone receiver away from her ear. “I know who you are! You’re the lady detective that solved that baby case at the Fair last year, and your boss’s murder, and—”

“Ruth, I need your help. I think Phyllis does, too. Can you meet me this afternoon?”

“Can I? You bet I will! Is Phyllis in trouble? I haven’t seen her in months … We had a fight over Bobby Henders—”

“I’ll want to hear all about it this afternoon. What you tell me is very important, Ruth, and if you have any photographs of Phyllis with friends and boyfriends, please bring them. And don’t phone her mother … she’s too upset to talk right now.”

The girl giggled in delight. “Oh, sure. I’ll bring photos. Where do you want to meet?”

Miranda glanced at the Chief tablet. “Let’s see … you’re at 1523 Park Street in Alameda, right?”

Awe filled Ruth’s voice. “You know everything, Miss Corbie.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. Getting her to talk wouldn’t be a problem. “Listen, I’ve got an appointment downtown at four-thirty … how about meeting me at the Pig n’ Whistle on Market and Powell, say an hour before?”

“Sure, Miss Corbie. I’ll take the ferry. And thanks!”

Miranda smiled in spite of herself. “Thank you, Ruth. See you then.”

The pain in her legs was gone and the ice pack forgotten on the window-sill. She stood up and opened the safe, shoving in the newspapers from the Pickwick, and crossed to the wardrobe, removing a bulky-looking coat that was lighter than it looked.

The notes on the case she locked up in her desk drawer, along with the .22. Her finger traced the length of the Spanish pistol. Then she picked it up and snapped it into the holster, and strapped the long gun under her left arm. She’d look a little stiff and unnatural on that side, but she needed the extra firepower.

At least that’s what she told herself.

A gray rush of traffic fled by her on Market Street. She crossed over to Lotta’s Fountain, holding her hat with one hand, pushing her legs to go faster, forgetting they’d already saved her once.

Miranda didn’t own a hat with a veil. She preferred the bite of wind on her face, not hidden, not cloistered.

Hers was the generation of Gertrude Ederle, who’d swum the English Channel faster than any man. And Miranda missed those heady days, when her skirts were as short as her hair, when anything went and the world went with it, around and around and around to the sound of a jazz calliope, until it Black Bottomed-out in October ’29. Then the New Morality crept in, as it always does, fingers to its lips to hush the young, herd the women back where they belonged. Skirts longer, booze banned, the Depression to end all Depressions, sequel to the War to End all Wars. The fault of women’s suffrage and decadent Europe. Stay out of European Wars, the New Morality intoned. God Bless America.

Miranda leaned against the burnished gold of the fountain, comforted by its permanence, its exuberant generosity of function and form. She lit a Chesterfield, peering down Market to the Ferry Building, and spotted a Yellow Cab. She waved her gloved hand, and it responded quickly, passing a blue Pontiac sedan and a White Front street car to pull up in front of her.

The cab driver, a newsboy cap on his head and a three-day beard on his chin, looked at her quizzically, his eyes lingering on her cheek.

“Where to, lady?” His voice was softer than she expected.

“Sutter Street, between Webster and Buchanan. Matsumara Shoe Repair.”

The cab driver wasn’t the talkative type, and Miranda gratefully tipped him, pocketing fifty cents out of her dollar. With her face out of commission, what she had would have to last her.

The tang of eucalyptus leaves greeted her when she stepped on the curb, followed by charbroiled chicken and soy sauce. A couple of pigeons were stalking a brown and white female along the sidewalk, trying to outpuff one another for her affections. The female flew across the street to the YWCA.

Matsumara’s bell tinkled at Miranda when she walked in, and the shoemaker emerged from his workroom, wearing his customary smile. It changed to surprise mixed with a little anxiety, when he noticed Miranda’s face.

“Well, good afternoon, young lady! I didn’t expect to see you so soon … your shoes won’t be ready for a few more days.”

She smiled, touched her cheek with her fingertips. “Just a nasty fall yesterday. I know they’re not ready yet, but … I was hoping to talk to you, Mr. Matsumara.”

He arched his eyebrows, his wide mouth turned upside down in a comical grimace. “Me? I promised you a Prince Charming, not a frog, as I remember. Why on earth do you want to talk to me?”

Miranda leaned on the counter, lowering her voice. “I’ll be frank. I’m a private investigator.”

“Ah.” Matsumara’s smile disappeared, replaced by a grave expression. He moved out from behind the counter through the little wooden gate on Miranda’s right, and walked toward her, taking her by the elbow, leading her to the other end of the shop.

“Just in case my apprentice comes in through the back,” he whispered. “Are you investigating the Takahashis?”

She nodded. “Eddie’s murder. It’s not official, you understand—I know you don’t want any more trouble for your neighbor.”

The little shoemaker sighed, a long, drawn-out breath. He looked older than Miranda remembered, a tired, aging man with a small business, the humor a facade and a way to fight back. He stared at the floor.

“They’ve already suffered more trouble than most, Miss. Maybe the truth will give them some peace. Fear is worse than anything else.”

“Do you think they know where Eddie got his money?”

Matsumara shrugged. “Hiro doesn’t know anything, these days. He’s lost, even to himself. His wife, maybe.”

Miranda reached out and put her hand on the shoemaker’s arm. “Mr. Matsumara—I need to find Emily. She’s in trouble with the wrong people, something about money Eddie owed someone. I think the Takahashis are hiding her.”

He stared at her, his hand rubbing his chin. “I haven’t seen Emily since a couple of days before Eddie was killed. And you heard what Rose—the girl who was here when you were—said. Those two are great friends—always together. Emi would find a way to talk to Rose … if she could.”

Miranda opened her purse and found a business card, pressing it into Matsumara’s hands.

“Listen—I don’t have much time. There are people who want Emily found, and they may be the same people who just—who just murdered another young woman. If Rose comes in here, can you ask her to call me? Tell her what you think it’s safe for her to know, enough so that she’ll understand how important it is to be discreet.”

He looked at her card, holding it with two hands, then met her eyes. “I’ll help you, Miss Corbie, though what you think a broken-down shoemaker can do, I’m not sure.”

She smiled. “You can tell me what Emily is like. The places she liked to visit, the things she liked to do. That might help.”

“Rose will know more, of course … I’m an old man, she didn’t talk to me the same way. But I know she loved fish … and not just to eat, you understand. They’d wander in here, picking up shoes for their mothers, dreaming of boys and houses and castles in the air. And Emi always said she wanted a place with a big garden, to grow lots of flowers, with streams and ponds for goldfish, so she could watch them swim. She was born here, of course, but I think she has a romantic notion of Old Japan in her young head … you know, samurai in shining armor.”

His grin was a sad one. “I hope she isn’t in need of one now.”

Miranda squeezed his arm. “Thank you. That’s a start. And Mr. Matsumara—the tailor shop next door. Is there a back entrance?”

He leaned forward, closer to her ear. “Are you planning to—what’s the term—break into the joint?”

Miranda whispered back: “Yes.”

He turned back toward the counter as the door bell rang, and a stout woman in blue walked in with a small boy. He waved at Miranda to follow, murmuring “Follow me,” then hailed the matron with his familiar cheer, saying “Be right with you, Mrs. Ibaraki.”

Miranda followed him behind the counter while he held the gate open for her. Then they both disappeared behind the curtain into the workroom, after the shoemaker gave a big smile to Mrs. Ibaraki, who was staring at them both in haughty disapproval.

He led her to the far end of the shop, where a few boxes were stored. Matsumara shoved them aside with his feet, and Miranda found herself looking at a homemade door to Takahashi Tailors.

The shoemaker whispered. “Shotsu isn’t back yet, but you should hurry. I don’t know what tools you use—feel free to use mine, if they help. And I don’t know if it’s locked on the other side. Hasn’t been opened in years, so maybe we’re in luck. But it will be easier than the rear entrance. If Shotsu ever comes back from lunch, I’ll send him away again so you can leave through the store. Just go out my back door if I’m busy with a customer … it’s not locked when I’m here.”

Miranda turned to thank the shoemaker. “Mr. Matsumara … you’re a sweetheart.”

He blushed a brick red, looked at the wooden floor. “I’d better get back to Mrs. Ibaraki before she calls the Legion of Decency. Here’s a little Japanese for you, Miss Corbie, and maybe it’ll bring you luck:
nanakorobi yaoki.
It means you fall down seven times, but you pick yourself back up eight.”