City of Dragons (36 page)

“You might say that. But I guess wherever you’re from they marry ’em off when they’re ten.”

The thin, stoic line of Parker’s mouth grew wide with indignity. “Now, see here, lady—”

Phil interrupted him. “You’re wrong already, Parker.”

Silence slammed into the room. Regan cleared his throat again. “Goddamn airless closet gets to me. Can we finish this up?”

Gonzales’s face was red. “Parker and Regan believe Winters was shopping his services to another combination. Martini, it seems. The gang he worked with up here was Oriental. We’re watching Ming Chen, by the way—we think he may be an outlet for Chinatown drug traffic.”

Miranda nodded her head and took a deep drag on her Chesterfield. “So you think Filipino Charlie or Wong or a mysterious Oriental Chinatown tong murdered Winters because he was bringing in an Italian takeover for more drug-smuggling money. Is that it?”

Regan was the only one to respond, and he looked delighted. “That’s it exactly.”

Parker rang his bell again, squinting his eyes at her. “You see something wrong with that, Miss Corbie?”

Miranda shrugged. “Not if you like reading
Dime Detective
. I’d like to know why you think a Chinese gang murdered Winters when an Italian visited him that night.”

Gonzales leaned forward. “An Italian? How did you—”

“Elevator man told me.”

Regan was draining his cold coffee, and nearly spit it out. “A dinge? You’re takin’ the word of a—”

Phil said: “Never mind, Regan. I’ll tell Miss Corbie.”

Regan wiped his mouth. Gonzales took out another cigarette. Miranda noticed his hand trembling. She watched Phil make his way around to the other side of the small table. Facing her.

She turned toward Gonzales. “Did you get anything on Joe Gillio?”

His mouth was open to respond, when Phil laughed harshly. “What sort of fantasy is this? Joe Gillio is a respected businessman, Corbie. You oughta know better than that.”

She was still looking at Gonzales. “Joe Gillio was a bootlegger, Phil. You’re the one who ought to know better.”

Regan stared up at Phil, puzzlement on his broad face. “What’s this about Gillio?”

Miranda flung around in her chair toward the narcotics man. “He’s an Italian, Regan. You know, they like it all in the family. Just like the Irish.”

Regan’s mouth opened and shut like a fish.

Phil stood with his hands balled into fists, and stuck them into his pockets. “So here’s who murdered Winters, Miranda—”

“—Needles, you just said so.”

“Not by himself.” Phil leaned forward, his eyes too shiny. “He had help. Your old friend. Betty Chow.”

Miranda lost her breath. “What? What the hell are you—”

Gonzales’s voice was low. “The maid at the Pickwick identified her picture as the Chinese woman who saw Winters that night. We believe she was working with whatever Oriental gang Takahashi was moving in.”

Phil was breathless, excited by his triumph. He took his hands out of his pockets, started to walk around the table. “She was part of them, Miranda. She helped kill Winters. And then they killed her. The end, as they say in the movies.”

He circled back until he stood in front of her again, his legs apart, his gray hair curly and slick with sweat. Miranda finally looked up at him, kept looking until he passed a shaking hand over his face and turned away to light a cigarette.

She ignored Parker and Regan, and stared at Gonzales.

“And Eddie Takahashi?”

Gonzales focused on his cigarette. “Same thing, Miss Corbie. Part of the gang, the gang killed him. You say he owed someone money. He didn’t pay.”

Miranda looked around the table. Gonzales wouldn’t meet her eyes. Regan nodded his head energetically. Phil was facing the wall, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Parker hawked up a large wad of phlegm and spit it in the bucket.

It was still ringing when she scraped her chair back and stood up.

“Oh, Eddie paid. And so will his sister. She’s been missing since he was murdered. But she doesn’t fit your neat little summary too well, does she?”

Phil coughed, and waved a hand dismissively without looking at her. “She got the money and she ran away with it. You’ll probably find her in a whorehouse in Japantown. Your job, not ours.”

The other cops looked at him, and looked away again quickly. She pulled her gloves on tighter, paused, and turned to Parker.

“You could use a bigger slop bucket. Try about six feet deep.”

The door banged behind her.

Twenty-Three

T
he air was fresh and clean, with the kind of false heartiness that surrounds college football games. Flower hawkers in Portsmouth Square next to the bail bonds office. Violins shrilling from jukeboxes and gramophones, while tenors and sopranos whined about Soft Lights and Sweet Music because It’s a Big Wide Wonderful World and Love is Just Around the Corner.

Miranda got out the cigarette case and leaned against Lotta’s Fountain. “My Baby Just Cares for Me” tinkled from a piano and a gin-scratched voice somewhere up Kearny. Get drunk enough and you’ll believe it, lady.

Solace was empty. No more sticks. Maybe Gladys stashed a few packs of Chesterfields for her. She watched the traffic go by, men nervously eying the flower stands. Roses and candy time, gents. Buy her a heart-shaped box and show her how much you care. Women don’t ask for much.

Piano keys crashed, and someone put on a scratchy record of Ruth Etting, singing about tenderness and heroes.

Some hero. Etting was just another show business broad who married a gangster. Miranda hurried across Market Street, dodging a yellow cab in the middle of the crosswalk. Back to the office. Another cigarette, a shot of Old Taylor. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

A box of these chocolates will make her forget that shabby dress, gents, right this way, buy the little lady something you can afford—she’ll never know the difference.

Miranda walked into the Monadnock lobby, trying to shut out the voices and music in her head. Coffee and bourbon and a smoke. That’s what she needed. Fuck the chocolate.

The song followed her, relentless, mournful, teary. Women crying over what they don’t have, never will have. Her own needs were simple. She wanted the truth.

Not the fucking fantasy the fucking cops dreamed up. Don’t rock the fucking boat, lady, get out of it—women and children first. We’ve got businessmen to protect. Gotta protect ’em from whores, lady. Whores like Betty Chow.

Whores weren’t supposed to like it soft and gentle, tinkling piano and sad refrain.

Soft and gentle. Soft-and-fucking-gentle, eighteen years old, gang-raped and left to die a couple of years later, anonymous whore in an anonymous bed, drugs or beaten up. Soft and gentle Sammy Martini, who ran the biggest prostitution ring in L.A., importing twelve-year-olds from Mexico. He liked to handpick the girls. If Sammy fucked them, they brought more on the open market. Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

But hell, Phyllis thought she was in love, and that’s all we want, isn’t it, love on Valentine’s Day or any other day. Our only happiness. That’s what the songs tell us.

Miranda rubbed her temples, tune louder, words more insistent. Our whole big, wonderful world of happiness. Phyllis and Betty and Miranda, oh my. Throw in Dianne, too, maybe she loved someone once before she had the tumor removed. And beware, my lord, not of jealousy, but of the green-eyed monster called Love, the one that all the singers sing about, the reason for holidays and sunshine and dancing, the red of the roses and the blood on the sheets and all the nice green money it makes us, because if you ain’t got it, sister, you’re too old or too fat or you use the wrong deodorant, and you’d better change your ways, because there’s more of you than us, and you’ll want to have babies and a family, that’s what you’re made for, you’re love, love, love, love, love, The Glory of Love, Easy to Love, There is No Greater Love, and if your love isn’t here to stay, then sister …

… it’s all so easy, try a little tenderness

You may as well dance with the maggots.

“Miranda? Miss Corbie?”

It took her a second to realize someone was talking to her. Another to realize that it was Gonzales. She looked over at the lobby stand. Gladys was staring at her, worry on her face, handing change to a lady in a turban. Miranda started walking toward her, Gonzales following.

“Miss Corbie, I am very sorry—”

“You say that a lot, Gonzales. First with Duggan, and now with what? Business as usual?”

“It is not business as usual. Lieutenant Holden was out of line.”

She studied him for a moment. “You agreed with the theory. How Phil delivered it shouldn’t make that much goddamn difference.”

Gladys was craning her ear toward them while pretending to powder her nose, and studiously ignoring the old man in the dirty suit who was pawing through various photo magazines. Gonzales plucked at Miranda’s jacket sleeve, but she flung up her arm and leaned against the counter.

“Gladdy—you got any Chesterfields?”

Gladys flipped a blond curl off her cheek, and looked back and forth between Miranda and Gonzales, throwing out a smile with a lot of teeth.

“Sure, honey, let me look, hang on a second.”

She turned to open a storage cabinet, and Miranda felt Gonzales next to her.

“Please … if you’ll hear me out—”

“How the hell did you get here so quickly? Drive?”

He nodded.

Gladys faced them, empty-handed, a little red in front of Cesar Romero.

“Honey, I’m sorry. We’re expecting another shipment this afternoon … I thought I put some away for you, but Sophie musta sold ’em.”

Miranda sighed. “I’ll check back later. Just give me some Raleighs. Thanks, Gladdy.”

“Don’t mention it, sugar.”

The blonde drank in Gonzales, then crooked a finger for Miranda to come closer. She said in a low voice: “You sure you’re OK? That cheek looks bad, and so did the look on your face a minute ago. You want me to call somebody?”

Miranda opened the pack of cigarettes and noticed her hands shaking. “I’m all right, Gladdy. Thanks for asking.”

Gonzales performed his lighter trick, had it lit and ready by the time the stick was in her mouth. She pointedly turned back to Gladys and slapped a dollar on the counter. “A decent lighter, please, Gladdy. Mine are always blowing out.”

The counter girl’s eyes grew bigger, darting back and forth between them like a tennis match. Then she pulled a thin chromium and black enamel lighter off a display card, and handed it to Miranda.

“Here’s a Ronson Majorette. Can’t go wrong with this. And it so happens we’ve got it on sale for one dollar even. Comes full.” She winked at Miranda, snuck a glance at Gonzales. He was still staring at Miranda, his face drawn.

“Thanks, Gladdy. I’ll see you later about the Chesterfields.”

Gladys nodded, while a bald man in a gaudy suit cleared his throat impatiently, waiting to buy a pack of Chiclets. Miranda picked up the lighter, and lit the Raleigh on the way to the elevator. Gonzales followed behind her.

She pushed four. The Monadnock’s newly automated elevators were full of holiday travelers, desperate to reunite for Valentine’s Day. Overnight train to L.A. or Coos Bay, a quick hop to Santa Rosa, or Cloverdale, or Sacramento, or Stockton. Chocolate hearts in hand, beating to the tune of “Moonglow.” Isn’t it romantic?

Gonzales squeezed in next to her. He was persistent, she’d give him that. They rode up in silence, while the women chatted about plans and the men worried about time. “Gotta Get A’goin’ to the Golden Gate, to My Fair One at the Fair,” ran the cheesy song. Oh, wait—that was last year. No Fair ones this February, no fucking fair, in fact. Say it five times fast enough, lady, and you win a ticket to Midget Village.

Miranda took a drag on the Raleigh, and the elevator doors opened as if they meant it. About five people stepped out, and she followed, threading through them when they bunched in the hallway, trying to decide which way to walk. She could hear Gonzales’s footsteps behind her.

Allen’s door was open, and he looked up at her when she walked by, looked up again at Gonzales, leaned back in his chair and grinned. Miranda ignored him. When she stopped to get her keys, Gonzales moved beside her, still silent. She shoved open the door, glad to see her chair, unlocked the desk drawer, took out the bottle of Old Taylor, and sank into the leather. Dropped the smoked cigarette butt into the Tower of the Sun ashtray, left it smoldering.

Miranda unscrewed the bottle, took a long drink. Wiped it with her hand, screwed it back on, and shoved the bottle forward on the desk.

“Don’t stand on ceremony, Inspector. Take a drink, if you want one. You could use some bourbon.”

He looked at her, a little sad, a little embarrassed. Shook his head. “No, thank you, Miss Corbie.”

She shrugged, reached out to pick up the bottle, repeated the ritual. Then she shut the Old Taylor in her desk drawer, leaned back in the chair, and looked at him.

“Battlefield courage. I imagine you don’t know many women who take it that way.”

“Are you fighting a war, Miss Corbie? Is that what you think?”