City of Dragons (31 page)

She carefully replaced the gun in the holster. Unlocked the drawer with the Old Taylor, and pulled out the bottle and uncorked it. Wiped the top with her sleeve and took a long drink. Wiped it again, and offered it to Rick.

“I’m not it, Sanders. As despicable as Duggan is—and nobody wants the son of a bitch to suffer as much as I do, right now—I don’t want to make waves with the cops. Makes it hard with the prison board when I renew my license. And Dullea’s new in the job. Let’s see how he handles things.”

Rick took a pull on the bottle, put it back on the desk. “Bastard should lose his job.”

“Yeah. He should. And short men with small mustaches shouldn’t invade countries, either. Let’s concentrate on what we can actually do, OK? You want to go to the Moderne with me, see Bente?”

His face twisted in a comical grimace. “Sure, Miranda. May as well. Beats getting a call from you at any hour of the goddamn night, and I may even find something to write about and keep myself from getting fired.”

She pulled the purse toward her, took out a Chesterfield. Said, without looking at Rick: “Thanks, Sanders. For last night and tonight.”

He leaned forward in the chair, then awkwardly picked up the bottle of bourbon.

“Don’t mention it.”

Miranda felt her face melt a little, fleetingly soft, like a cloud across the moon. Then she lit the cigarette with the Sally Rand lighter on the desk.

And said: “I won’t.”

Marie was working coat check at the Moderne again, said she’d deliver the message to Bente personally. They shouldn’t be too late. It would depend on what Bobby Henderson had to say, and what messages were waiting.

Rick leaned on the windowsill, looking out into the San Francisco night. A light drizzle was falling on Market Street, the neon of the nearby bars and restaurants cracking and popping as the electricity surged through the overhead wires into the rooftop signs and blinking pink and yellow advertisements. A streetcar passed, and Lotta’s Fountain flashed like a fan dancer, its burnished gold refracted by the droplets and the White Front’s bright yellow light.

Rick stood, and smoked, and tried not to think about Miranda.

She was on the phone with the answering service, the ice pack on her cheek, filled with cubes from the Sweet Spot Tavern, around the corner toward Mission.

“So that was the only message? From Rose Shiara. No, that’s fine, thanks.” She hung the phone up slowly.

Rick turned toward her. “Who’s Rose Shiara?”

“Emi Takahashi’s best friend.”

“You gonna call her?”

Miranda tried to shake her head, then said, “No. I’ll phone her tomorrow.” She was searching her notebook, the one she carried in her purse.

“When are we leaving for the Moderne?”

“In just a minute. I need to try to reach Bobby Henderson.”

She was starting to slip. To fall. The well was deep, and no light reached the bottom. The girls were probably dead already, as dead as she felt. As dead as Dianne said she was.

Her fingers dialed the operator by rote, by habit, no faith implied.

“Alameda, please. I’m trying to reach a Mr. Henderson, of Henderson’s Hardware. No, not the store. His home. Yes, I thought there might be … but I thought perhaps you’d know which one he was … uh-huh. Oh, I know, all those names, every day! I don’t know how you girls manage so well … do they give you memory tests, or something? I ask because a cousin of mine wants to move to the city and has always wanted to be an operator … uh-huh. Topeka. Well, not as big as San Francisco. Oh, sure, I don’t mind waiting.”

She looked up from the phone, gave Rick a lopsided grin. “I’m sorry, what was that? She did? Oh, thank you ever so much! No, a plumbing problem. Uh-huh. Oh yes … it’s terrible when that happens. Well, have a good evening—and thank Alice ever so, would you? Yes … you, too. ’Bye, now.”

Miranda leaned back in the chair, one hand covering the mouthpiece, while she picked up her cigarette and puffed furiously before setting it down again.

“Mr. Henderson? How do you do. My name is Norma MacIntosh. I’m an admissions officer for Stanford University, and I’d like to speak to your son Bobby. Yes … yes, we have. That’s why I’m calling. Well, we call after the dinner hour to make sure we can reach our prospective students … you know how busy young people can be, and I understand Bobby works in your store … yes … athletic scholarship. Certainly. I’d like to speak to you and your wife later, but I really must speak with him first … yes … thank you for understanding.”

Rick crossed from the window, and sat in the chair opposite from Miranda and watched her. She kept her eyes on the bottle of Old Taylor.

“Bobby? Listen, please don’t let on, but this is Miranda Corbie, the private detective. Yes … did Ruth contact you? No, she wasn’t pulling your leg. And please—I had to tell a little white lie to your parents, so keep pretending I’m from Stanford. Yes … that’s it. Can you get to a private phone? You have another extension? Oh, she does … How about a pay phone nearby? All right. Then I’ll just ask you a couple of questions about Phyllis, and maybe we can talk tomorrow. Is that OK? Good. Hang on for a moment.”

Miranda picked up the cigarette and inhaled until the red end met her fingers, and she dropped it in the ashtray, returning to the phone.

“All right, Bobby. Just answer as best you can, and try to make up something clever about Stanford and their crazy admissions policies, OK? Great … and thanks. What was Phyllis’s favorite movie magazine? Uh-huh, good. Favorite radio shows?
Gangbusters
, uh-huh …
I Love a Mystery
… OK. Did you ever see the man she was with? Just say yes or no. All right. Was he a lot older? Uh-huh. Fancy dresser? No, don’t say too much, I’ll guess. Gangster type, right? Maybe looked Italian? OK … no, that’s good. Keep it easy, I’m sure your parents are listening. And this was when? Uh-huh … that’s perfect. Just a few more questions. Ever see his car? Sedan, huh? Dark color? No … a Dodge coupe, you say? Very good, Bobby, that’s a big help … yeah. What kind of food did she like best, sandwich, that kind of thing … uh-huh. Right. OK, last one: Did she ever mention Guerrero Street? … No, that’s OK. It was a long shot. You’ve been a big help. No, phone me tomorrow … yes. And listen, thank you! And I hope you do get into Stanford … all right. ’Bye.”

She settled the phone into the cradle, and met Rick’s eyes.

“Let’s go see Bente.”

Marie only flinched a little when she saw Miranda’s face, and was too well bred to mention it. “I gave her the message, sugar—she’s only been here for about half an hour.”

A high-pitched buzz of excitement told them how busy the main floor was before they walked in. With a shock, Miranda realized it was the night before Valentine’s Day.

Foil and papier-mâché hearts hung from the ceiling, while the women draped their cleavage in red velvet, powdered and sparkling with diamonds or rhinestones, depending on how far away they sat from the orchestra. Men in double-breasted dinner jackets with crisp white display handkerchiefs leaned forward, eyes glistening, lighter flames lit.

Valentine’s Day held promises kept in small hotel rooms or posh penthouses, beach chalets and riverfront cottages … or the new luxury Pontiac, latest model, wide-open rumble seat.

Promises broken the next morning … when the glass slipper slipped and splintered on the floor.

The orchestra was playing everything from “I Love You Truly” to “Moonlight Serenade,” all at the same time. Nobody gave a damn. I only have eyes for you, dear. You and what’s between your legs.

Bente was tucked in a corner far away from the would-be Romeos, hiding behind a plant. Miranda saw Jorge in the distance, caught his raised eyebrow and the look he gave to Rick. Poor bastard. As if she hadn’t put him through enough already.

Miranda slid into the seat next to Bente, who stared at her.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Car tried to run me over, and a cop slapped me.”

“You look like shit.”

“I know.”

“Go to the doctor?”

Rick interrupted. “She refused.”

Bente turned her large brown eyes on him. “Oh—hello, Sanders. How you doing?”

He shrugged, and Bente came back to Miranda with the relentlessness of a pit bull.

“You better go to the doctor.”

“Quit grandmothering me and talk.”

Bente frowned, hitched her evening-gown strap a little higher. The blue shimmer was tight against her large breasts, and looked like it might fall down at any moment.

“I got your message at the Oceanic.”

“That’s a fucking miracle.”

Bente pointed a finger at her. “Listen—I won’t bitch to you, you don’t bitch to me. Got it?”

Miranda lit a cigarette, waved her hand, grinned with one side of her face. “Yeah, yeah. So what’s the score?”

Her friend leaned in over the table, her breasts resting on the top. Miranda noticed Rick trying not to stare. “That Parker you mentioned. The waterfront cop …”

“Yeah?”

“He’s OK. And out here to investigate Winters, except Winters turned up dead.”

Miranda inhaled, reached over to take a drink of Bente’s sloe gin fizz. “So Parker’s on the up-and-up?”

“From what I could tell. I mean, he’s not a party member … but then, neither are you.”

“You know what I believe in, Bente.”

She snorted, her décolletage quivering. “Not much. But you’re an old pal from Spain, Randy. And your heart’s in the right place.”

Miranda flinched at the nickname, turned her head quickly to signal a waiter. It was Jorge. He danced to the table, sinuous and lithe, hips loose, trousers tight.

“Miss Corbie?”

“Your best bourbon, Jorge. Neat.”

He nodded, turned toward Bente. “Another cocktail, Miss?”

“Make it a double martini. I’m tired of fizzes.”

“And the gentleman?”

A sneer lay behind the polite veneer, as Jorge took in Rick’s rumpled suit. Rick stared at him, hard-eyed. “Scotch on the rocks.”

The waiter nodded, turned back, warmth in his voice and face. “Anything else, Miss Corbie? Dinner, perhaps?”

Miranda recognized the hollow feeling in her stomach as hunger. She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

He smiled, nodded, glanced at Bente’s chest and then at Bente’s eyes, smiled again, more slowly, and walked off, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Bente’s eyes followed him.

“He’s available. Almost always.”

Her friend raised her eyebrows. “Is he worth it?”

Miranda shook her head. “I wouldn’t know.”

Rick had turned a shade of deep crimson, and cleared his throat. Both women looked up at him.

Bente said: “What’s wrong with you, Sanders? Want some fizz?”

He lit a cigarette, said: “I’m just wondering what the hell I’m doing here.”

She grinned at him affectionately. “Helping to take care of Randy. Same as always.”

Another waiter appeared with drinks before the silence became too awkward. Miranda held the bourbon in her mouth, savoring the feel and memory of it. Rick gulped his scotch.

Bente stroked the side of her glass, making a pattern in the moisture. Without looking up, she said: “Who killed Betty?”

“I don’t know. But I will. Any idea what Parker was investigating?”

“Far as I know, he still is. Smuggling, of some sort. Always the problem with shipping lines. Could be legal stuff nobody wants to pay taxes on, could be looted art, could be drugs. With the war, things are worse … more goods to be looted, more smuggling. Looks like Winters was playing that game, and Parker was onto him.”

“Maybe that’s why he was killed—he wanted out. Maybe he was even blackmailed into it somehow, or got in too deep. And maybe his daughter was used against him.”

“What about his old lady?”

“Helen Winters? She called me today, told me to keep the money, quit the case.”

“You think she knows something?”

Miranda swallowed another mouthful of whiskey. “I think she was warned off. And she might guess something. She’s having an affair, didn’t get along with her stepdaughter … has her own reasons to stay quiet.”

“Yeah … six and a half inches of reason.”

Rick choked on his drink.

Bente eyed him quizzically. “What’s wrong, Sanders? Can’t hold your liquor?”

Miranda said, “Can you keep digging on Winters, Bente? See what you find out on the smuggling angle, or any reports on the missing girls?”

“Sure thing, Miranda. Been hearing about something foul on the waterfront … nobody’ll talk, though. So it’s big.”

“Be careful, for God’s sake.”

“Tell it to the Marines. I’m not the one who looks like Schmeling after the Louis fight.”

“Might be able to use you on a job soon.”

“First get your face fixed. But when you need my tits, just let me know.”

Rick swallowed the rest of his scotch. Miranda stood up, said: “My tab tonight. Call me, leave a message with the service.”

“Right-oh.”

She looked at Rick. “You ready?”

“Where are we going?”

“To find Phyllis Winters.”

Twenty

S
ometimes she followed her instincts, winding past the small tables and the stares of men, their fingers tracing the line of her hips through a tight pale yellow gown, moving in time to the music, the rhythm, following the scent, that feral smell of desire, of sweat on skin.