City of Dragons (35 page)

She unbuckled the holster, carefully setting the gun down on her nightstand, the symbol of the International Brigades carved into the leather, the rivulets smooth with time and her fingertips.

Miranda let them run over the crevices again, tracing the outline.

She stripped off the rest of her clothes, and climbed into bed, facing the pistol and the open window.

Her eyes closed, and she slept for three hours.

Twenty-Two

B
y the time she got back to the Hall of Justice, cheek still swollen, dressed carefully in a dark blue two-piece suit, with a wool coat in case of more rain, and a stomach full of jelly doughnut and bitter coffee—they’d decided how to handle her.

Johnson was nowhere to be seen, but Gonzales met her in the hallway, greeted her warmly. The suit was crisp, the hat clean, and he smelled like expensive tobacco and well-worn leather. He didn’t look as if he’d spent the night on Guerrero Street.

“Miss Corbie—we have some news for you.”

Miranda reached for the cigarette case in her coat pocket. He held the lighter out before it was in her hand.

“I would offer you one of mine, but I think you prefer Chesterfield, do you not?” His voice held a certain admiration. She leaned over the flame, briefly looking up into his eyes.

“I like the simple things, Inspector.”

They stood together, awkward, while he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. He checked his watch instead, took her elbow.

“May I?” he asked softy.

Miranda shrugged. He steered her into an empty interrogation room.

She walked in, looked around, and recognized the table. Same scratches, same stains. No Duggan.

This time four chairs huddled around it, one filled by Regan, the narcotics detective, and Parker, the waterfront dick. Both of them stood when she entered, Parker unfolding himself from the chair, all legs and knees and plaid flannel shirt.

Miranda stared at him and said: “I hear you’re investigating Winters. Would’ve been nice to know that a couple of days ago.”

The barely perceptible squint reminded Miranda of William S. Hart or Tom Mix. “Old West” draped off Parker’s lanky brown shoulders like dust on the wooden sidewalks of Deadwood. She expected to hear the squeak of leather and the clatter of rusty spurs.

He turned toward a bucket someone had dug up from somewhere, possibly the morgue, and spat out a wad of tobacco. The white enamel side rang with the force of the ejaculation.

“I
was
investigating Winters, Miss Corbie. Case will be closed, now, thanks to you.”

If he’d been wearing a Stetson, he would’ve tipped it. But the look on his face wasn’t exactly ice-cream social.

Regan leaned forward, hands on the table, twitchy. Acted like he snorted the stuff, but clean, as far as Miranda knew.

“That was some find. The Takahashi place. It was coke, all right—and traces of opium and heroin, too. It all adds up.”

Miranda sat down across from him, crossed her legs. Coffee cups in various states of cleanliness sat in front of each of the men. Parker and Regan took chairs, Parker’s knees jutting up like spikes.

Gonzales asked: “Can I get you some coffee, Miss Corbie?”

She shook her head, and he pulled out the chair next to her, carefully laying his fedora on the table.

“Adds up to what? And why is the case closed? Winters was murdered. Seems like you’d want to—”

Gonzales interrupted, his voice smooth and even. “We’re here to bring you up to speed, Miss Corbie. The San Francisco Police Department is much indebted to you. By the way”—he turned to Miranda, and removed the gold cigarette case from inside his suit jacket—“you were in the morning edition. Officially, you called in a tip that we investigated.”

She blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, and looked up at it, her wide-brim hat hiding her eyes.

“I know how it’s played, Gonzales. I just want information. You can take the collar. Ink doesn’t much matter in my business.”

Another wad of tobacco rang against the pot. “And exactly what business is that, Miss Corbie? I heard you handled divorce cases.” Parker’s eyes crinkled like he was staring at the prairie sun.

“I handle cases, Parker. All kinds of them. What’s your role? Shouldn’t you be on a ship?”

Gonzales interrupted again. One of his French cigarettes dangled between his fingers, still unlit. “I asked Inspector Parker to join us earlier. He’s remained out of courtesy to you, Miss Corbie.”

Miranda stared at Parker’s short brown hair, wetted down on a bony skull with something that looked like bear grease. Maybe he was planning to run for office. Cowboy acts always got a lot of votes.

“Thanks. So what the hell is going on? I get down here and Gonzales tells me there’s news. What about Phyllis Winters? She ID Sammy Martini?”

The detective shook his head. “Phyllis Winters so far will not identify anyone. She also refuses to explain who Sammy is. Her stepmother has admitted her to a sanitarium in Marin, and our hands are tied at the moment. But you’ll be interested to know that the Guerrero Street garage contained a green Dodge coupe … the same one used in the hit-and-run killing of Leroy Jones, in Clarion Alley. And it was registered out of San Bernadino to a known associate of Sammy Martini’s, a Giuseppe Coppa. The house was rented in his name as well.”

“That’s it, then—you put out a dragnet for Coppa and Martini?”

Gonzales inhaled his brown cigarette, and shook his head again. “We’re taking care of it. We’ve notified Los Angeles, and Parker here is working with the FBI on the drug smuggling. We want Martini for questioning, certainly. The evidence isn’t conclusive. All we have is the Coppa link and your testimony that the girl was asking for a ‘Sammy.’ ”

“And the description. And the drugs. And the fact that Phyllis Winters was fed coke and fucked until he got tired of her. At which point he whored her out to whoever knocked on the door.”

Gonzales studied the floor. Parker’s thin lips pulled tighter, and Regan drummed his fingers. Miranda rubbed her cigarette viciously into the table, and then flicked it into Parker’s slop bucket.

“I knew as soon as she said ‘Sammy.’ It’s his M.O. Drugs and whores, whores and drugs. The Mann Act, gentlemen. What
Spicy Detective Weekly
calls “white slavery.” So don’t tell me you’re taking care of it when you don’t have a dragnet out for fucking Sammy Martini.”

Gonzales still said nothing, his face red. Regan leaned back, spoke conversationally.

“You know how these wops operate. Everything’s in the family. We’re getting the goods on the small fry, moving our way up. For fuck’s sake, these are businessmen we’re dealing with. Everything you’ve heard about Sammy Martini is rumor … legally speaking. He owns clubs in Santa Monica, two in San Diego. You can’t walk into Bank of America and demand to see A. P. fucking Giannini, you know?”

Parker’s drawl drifted across the table, a knife-edge to it. “We ain’t convinced, Miss Corbie. This smuggling gang is big—we’re talking crews overseas, crews in Los Angeles, crews in San Francisco. Chinese tong at the head of it—usually is out here. Martini’s men tried to muscle in on new territory, stole Winters’s daughter to bargain with. But I do know one thing—I ain’t never seen a Chinese gang working with one of them Aye-talians. And we got Chinese involved here.”

Miranda opened her cigarette case. She was down to two. Gonzales clicked his lighter for her, but she ignored him, took out a book of matches from the Club Moderne, and struck one on the table. She leaned back and looked at the ceiling again, inhaling until the end of the stick glowed red.

“The NYK was a Japanese line, last I checked. And Takahashi is a Japanese name. To be perfectly clear, Parker, we’ve got Japanese, Chinese, and Italians involved.”

The smoke was drifting toward the door, curling into vague shapes before losing focus. Miranda watched it for a few minutes. No one said anything.

Then she lowered her head and faced them again. “Welcome to the melting pot. Though I guess you figure the Chinese don’t melt.”

A rap on the door broke the tension until Phil walked in behind it. He froze when he saw Miranda. Passed a hand across his forehead, stood against the wall behind Miranda and Gonzales.

His voice was hoarse. “You having a conference?”

The detective uncrossed his legs. “No, sir. Just updating Miss Corbie on the case.”

Phil grunted, studied his fingernails. “Go ahead.”

Parker spit again. Regan cleared his throat. “Thing is, we don’t know if Phyllis Winters will press charges. In fact, with Sutherland as her attorney, we figure she won’t—they don’t want the girl in the papers, and I can’t say as I blame ’em. And without her testimony, we ain’t got much of a case against Coppa or Martini, if it even goes that far. They can claim the car was stolen out of the garage—hire a good lawyer—pay off the jury—and we’re back to square one.”

The tall brown man took out a can of tobacco from his leather jacket, pinched off a wad with two long, bony fingers, and stuck it in his cheek. His voice was slow and deliberate.

“Got a good case on Winters working with this Jap boy, though. The Bureau will keep on it, they’re down at the pier with Johnson, lining up crew. NYK will cooperate, of course. And it’s a matter for the consulates, too, Miss Corbie. Japan don’t want no more stink with the U.S., especially after the
Panay
, and they’ll help us nail the smugglers on their end.”

Gonzales added: “We believe Martini is back in L.A. now. And we are also searching for the two men in the green Oldsmobile—the ones that tried to hit you. We think whoever killed Jones hid the car, and tried to confuse the trail by ordering up another green car—and using it.”

Miranda was staring at her cigarette critically. “And who might the two men be?”

The detective hesitated, his normal smoothness a little unsure. “Possibly Noldano and Capella, two men linked to Martini. Both wanted on hit-and-run charges in Santa Monica. We think they stole the Oldsmobile and drove it up here at Martini’s request. They are also tied to drug interests in the south, mostly marijuana from Mexico. And prostitution rings.”

Regan grinned at her, his eyebrow twitching. “They threw some big boys at you, Miranda.”

“At least a big car. What about Winters?”

Parker shrugged. “My business is the smuggling. Figure Winters was in it up to his eyeballs. Maybe he didn’t like workin’ with the Chinese, brought the Aye-talians in, and it backfired on him.” A wad of chewed tobacco hit the side of the white can, leaving a dark yellow streak as it slid to the bottom.

Gonzales said: “ ‘Needles’ Trakey is out and known to be operating north of Monterey. He’s freelance, and the hit on Winters looks like his work. We’re hoping to pick him up.”

He gave Miranda a small smile. “At least Winters’s daughter is safe. Thanks to you.”

From behind him, Phil grunted. Regan jumped; they’d forgotten about him. He was still slouched against the wall, still wearing his hat.

“Don’t overdo it, Gonzales. You don’t want Miss Corbie walking down to her pet newspaper and demanding a retraction.”

Miranda let go of the cigarette end and watched it fall to the floor. She rubbed it with the toe of her shoe.

Her voice was even. “You know me better than that, Phil.”

Gonzales looked at Parker. “Why don’t you lay the rest out?”

Parker repositioned the tobacco in his cheek. “I been investigating Winters for a while. Crew on different NYK ships he was responsible for got suspicious. Missing paperwork, Winters acting funny, showin’ up at night. There’s been a lot of junk comin’ into L.A. from foreign countries—their war been makin’ it easier to get it out.”

Regan interrupted. “The tailor shop proved he was working with Eddie Takahashi. Makes sense, ’cause Takahashi was a Jap and NYK’s a Jap shipping line. He could speak the language. And we figure whatever gang Takahashi ran with—maybe Filipino Charlie—was behind the operation up here. I mean, the kid was young, too young to be too important, know what I mean?”

Miranda studied her fingernails. “Yeah. I know what you mean. So did you pick up Charlie?”

“Yeah. Late yesterday. But we had to let him go. He’s never been involved in anything real serious. And he’s got alibis for everything. You know how it goes.”

She nodded, still looking at her hands. “What about Wong?”

Regan shrugged. “Gonzales gave us the information, but we ain’t found him yet. You know how many goddamn Wongs there are in San Francisco? Fucking bastards breed like flies. He’s a lot more likely than the wop, I’ll say that—slant-eyes stick together—right, Parker?”

Parker leaned back, laced his hands behind his neck, what passed for a grim smile on his face.

“That’s the way we figure it. Y’see, Winters wanted more money. He tries to deal with the Aye-ties, and they up and kidnap his daughter almost four weeks ago, only she don’t know it’s kidnapping. Willing, you might say.”

Miranda took out her last cigarette. Gonzales held out the lighter, his eyes on hers. This time she used it. She sat back up, took a long drag. Looked over at the cowboy.