City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (22 page)

The princess whipped the tired and mostly drunk crowd into a whoop, while Wiedemann looked like he wanted to crawl under a Panzer. Miranda’s mouth pulled into a tight smile. The princess was maneuvering Wiedemann out of bounds and trying to humiliate them both in the bargain.

“How marvelous!
Merci,
Madame Princess. Surely you recognize that in San Francisco, even
entartete Kunst
may have its charms. I thank you for what will be a memorable evening.”

She glanced up at Wiedemann. He avoided her eyes, barked at Hübner.

“Call for my Mercedes.”

The tired, out-of-key orchestra fell mercifully mute as the leftover Teutonic knights and eighteenth-century royalty scrambled for the new destination. Rick headed toward the door, reporter’s notebook flipped open, maintaining his cover by asking for names and occupations for the Atascadero
Beacon Light Herald.
The Civil War soldier she’d noticed earlier was leaning against the wall, eyes on the crowd.

Miranda approached Jasper. “I am sorry I disturbed you, Doctor. I hope you forgive me—and that you will join us at Finocchio’s.”

He nodded and drained the wineglass, setting it down on a low table.

“Yes, Mademoiselle. I will see you there. But tell me—are you from France? Your accent puzzles me.”

“Quebec originally, raised in Chicago. Do you know Chicago, Doctor?”

“Rather well. I visit often. Excellent art galleries.”

“You are a man of diverse interests. Tell me, please—who is the real Dr. Jasper? Brilliant research scientist, art aficionado, world traveler?” She gestured toward the alchemical robe. “Perhaps you have learned to convert iron to gold, yes?”

He folded his arms, eyes burning down into hers. “We all wear masks, Mademoiselle Gouchard. Tonight I am Faust. I wonder—I very much wonder—who you are.”

She caught her breath and smiled. “Perhaps you will find out at Finocchio’s. But I’m afraid I will bore you.”

Miranda slipped through the crowd, feeling Jasper’s eyes on her back. Guts and instinct, only things she had, and the doctor was too fucking curious. Tried to remember the backstory she’d made for Marion, tried to get the goddamn details straight.

She gave a small, nearly imperceptible nod to Rick. They walked into the foyer separately but waited together at the elevator, riding down with the shipping magnate and his wife, discussing weather in San Francisco and the next German ship due in at the port.

Outside, the wife huddled in mink trotted out by the waiting chauffeur, wind whipping fog through the downtown canyons. The older couple scurried away under cover of night and cloud, Nazi menace in San Francisco dispersing like so many brown rats.

Miranda shivered at the sudden cold, glanced at Rick.

“Not the right weather for a convertible. The car’s around the corner.”

“I know. I figured I’d ride with you.”

She unlocked the door, stretching for her black velvet cape in the back. Shrugged herself into it, Rick helping wrap it around her shoulders. She bent forward, pressing the button that was supposed to lift the top. It didn’t move. Miranda sighed.

“At least we’ll stay awake. I’ll drive.”

“Thought you would.”

She shoved the car into gear and gunned the motor down Stockton toward O’Farrell. “I could drop you off.”

“And miss Nazis at Finocchio’s? Besides, you never know when you might need a green shoulder to lean on.”

Miranda made a left and hurtled past the consulate, brakes screeching in the mist. Another left on Grant and one more on Geary, passing Union Square, Alma Spreckles’s statue shining dimly, lights from the department stores and hotels blinking blue and pink and gold.

Puffs of wet smoke blowing up the street, San Francisco’s summertime trick, muffled sound, too apathetic to rain. It caressed her face, leaving droplets against her skin, swaddling cloth for city light posts and call boxes, gathering around fire escapes and cornices, steady
drip-drip-drip,
while dim yellow lights glowed behind apartment windows. The horn by the orange bridge cried out once more, mourning a lost lover, lament answered by a seagull caught high on the wind stream and the bellow of an oil freighter heading through the Golden Gate.

Right on Leavenworth. “I still can’t tell you anything.”

He shrugged. “I know the rules. Can’t keep me from guessing, though.”

“You get anything you can use?”

Rick pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes from a green jacket pocket. “Got a match?”

“Lighter’s in my bag.”

He opened her purse and fished around for the Ronson, while Miranda made a quick left on California and an immediate right on Hyde, heading for Broadway. He bent forward, lighting the stick below the fog line.

“Want a smoke?”

She shook her head, checking the rearview mirror.

“I’m out of Chesterfields. Hand me the Pep-O-Mints.”

He placed the roll of Life Savers in her hand, and she plucked out two, driving one-handed past Jackson.

“We’re almost there. Ever been to Finocchio’s?”

He exhaled, blowing smoke through his nose. “Yeah. Not with Nazis, though. And to answer your earlier question: nothing I can use now, but maybe a few things I can build on. We’re getting a new war news editor at the
News
—Marty’s being promoted. Maybe it’s time to grow some balls and run a few exposés about San Francisco money and Hitler.”

Miranda smoothly pulled into a parking lot on the side of the semirustic two-story wooden building,
FINOCCHIO’S
lit in yellow neon, a red
COCKTAILS
sign glowing below.

“You can’t write articles in the army.” She turned off the ignition.

He looked at her, scratched his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to talk me out of something, Miranda.”

“Just making an observation.” She chewed the Life Savers and swallowed, picking up her bag. “Hurry up.”

Rick grabbed her hand before she could leave the car, holding it between rough fingers.

“I’ll make up my mind soon enough, and when I do, it’s done. No regrets. You can’t change it. You can’t change anything. But in the meantime … go knock some Nazis dead, sister.”

She looked up into his eyes, blue with the reflected beat of yellow neon. Slowly pulled her hand out of his.

Twenty

Joe Finocchio’s club had been around, in one form or another, for eleven years. The idea was born at Joe’s father’s place, when a drunk customer performed a Sophie Tucker number and brought down the house. Originally a speakeasy on the 400 block of Stockton, Joe moved to Broadway after a particularly vicious raid in ’36.

Joe reopened, bigger, better, his wife Marjorie introducing acts. More numbers, more “girls,” productions more expensive, the City’s version of Ziegfeld.

“Finocchio’s—America’s most unusual nightclub” trumpeted the tourist brochures, and audiences packed the tables every night, watery whiskey and mediocre food, but one hell of an illusion. Chief Quinn was told to stand down, money was flowing to the International Settlement, and besides, everything goes and anything goes, that’s the Barbary Coast, even men who looked like women, and besides, some had wives and kids to support.

The other ones—boys who liked boys, the middle-aged impresario who played a mean Hedy Lamarr, the red-hot mama who belted like Tucker, the Chinese dancer, smooth skinned, lithe, and graceful—relished the freedom and hid in plain sight. No running from the law, no code names, no codes. Just the performance.

Rumor was that Joe signed a deal with Quinn: The performers wouldn’t “mingle” with the customers, though traded cocktail napkins and matchbook messages were as common as red fingernail polish. Dullea, Quinn’s new replacement, showed no interest in killing a cash cow. San Francisco milked its inside-out attraction, destination for the curious and the sophisticated, haven for men and women who lived on the edge, outcast and unwanted … except on stage.

Like Chinatown, Finocchio’s was a ghetto. And like Chinatown, the outsiders paid to get in.

*   *   *

The man in the tuxedo hadn’t had time to scrub the rouge off his cheeks. He looked from Miranda to Rick nervously.

“You’re with the—the German consulate party, right? Costume party and all that. Well, that’s OK at Finocchio’s … anything goes, as long as you stay off the stage. We’re trying to find tables for all of you…”

Miranda shoved a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. “We’d like to sit with the man in the purple robe. Tall, thin, about fifty, chemical symbols all over. Is he here yet?”

The host raised plucked eyebrows, licked his lips. “I—I don’t believe so, Miss. I’ll do what I can.” He snapped his fingers for a waiter, handed them two programs. “Clive, show these two to number five.”

A young man with blond hair and a curl to his lip led them through the red-carpeted room. Freddie Renault, the tall, elegant emcee, was on stage and dressed in a sparkling ball gown, telling jokes and getting ready to introduce the next number. The waiter found a table on the left, about three rows back from the front. Miranda chose the chair facing the audience. She felt someone staring at her and looked up to find Stephanie and Wiedemann in the fourth row center, the princess wearing a nasty smile. The blond waiter bowed.

“Your drinks?”

“Scotch and soda for me. How about you, Mir—Marion?”

“Bourbon, neat.”

The waiter bowed once again and walked quickly toward the bar at the back. Miranda motioned with her head to the seat across from her.

“Sit as far away from me as possible.”

“You want me to go?”

“No—someone else would move in. Just leave the closest chair empty.”

She craned her neck past a large palm frond. About ten of the party had already arrived, seated in scattered locations. Behind and to Stephanie’s right was the masked and bearded man dressed as a Union soldier, head facing front and eyes focused on the stage. Wiedemann looked red faced and bored. He caught her eye and smiled, leaned over to whisper something to Stephanie, and stood up.

“Shit. Wiedemann’s coming over. Do me a favor, Rick? Wait in the lobby for Jasper. When he comes in, make sure the twenty I gave to the maître d’ pays off.”

Rick yawned and nodded, pressed his mask back in place, and sauntered toward the entrance, passing the consul and nodding to him. Wiedemann pulled out the chair next to Miranda, breath still stinking of Scotch.

“You like this place,
liebchen
?”

“It’s OK.”

“When can I see you again?”

She needed a Chesterfield. Miranda waved her hand in the air, attracting Stephanie’s attention and that of the cigarette girl.

“Just telephone the consulate,
chéri.
I am sure we can arrange something.”

The cigarette girl wandered over, dressed in short pants and a striped blue-and-yellow halter, while the orchestra launched into a spirited rendition of “South of the Border,” the big finale number. Freddie gracefully exited stage right, carefully carrying the train of the sparkling gown. The stage was suddenly filled with señoritas in red and orange low-cut costumes, a giant papier-mâché cactus, and male dancers in sombreros.

Wiedemann knitted his heavy brows. “Who is this man in green? I do not know him.”

She handed a dollar to the cigarette girl and took two packets of Chesterfields.

“A reporter for an Atascadero paper—one that approves of you and your Reich. Don’t worry, Fritz, he’s harmless. You’ll get good press out of it. Now I’ve got a question for you—who is the man dressed in the American Civil War uniform? He seems a brute.”

Wiedemann laughed, caught her hand in his and held it tight, keeping her from lighting the cigarette.

“An associate of Stephanie’s, she says. I am not so sure.”

Wiedemann relaxed his grip, grinned, and pulled out his precious inscribed lighter. Lit the cigarette, eyes drifting down to her breasts. She looked over his shoulder at Stephanie.

The princess was glum and gimlet-eyed, fury pouring off of her like sweat. A few tables behind her and to the right, a clean-shaven, handsome man in his sixties was waving his arms in animated discussion, his companion retreating to the dark side of the table.

Miranda squinted against the stage lighting, still staring at the two men. One of them seemed familiar …

Sharp intake of breath, Weidemann too drunk to notice.

The man in the dark corner was Edmund Whittaker, looking fearful and anxious, shrinking back from the costumes of the Nazis surrounding him.

She glanced away quickly, shifting the domino mask firmly in place.

“I think you’d better return to your Stephanie, Fritz. She is already quite angry with me.”

He bent over her hand, lips bruising her skin and leaving a wet stain. “I will see you again soon,
liebchen.
We will work together. Stephanie does not own me.”

He stood up, clicked his heels together on the second try, and lurched toward the center table and the princess.

The blond waiter returned with the drinks, looking quizzically at Rick’s empty chair. Miranda swirled the bourbon in the highball glass, listening to the singer warble on about mañana.

Mañana might be too fucking late. No guarantees from the French consulate on how long they’d maintain her cover—James warned her. But the hints were tantalizing, Jasper’s “advice” to Wiedemann on art, his violent reaction to an “expert” label, his dangerous interest in her background. And she wondered just who the hell this “associate” of Stephanie’s was … Miranda twisted her neck to look over the audience again. The Union soldier was standing up, heading for the bar.

Marion Gouchard needed to last long enough to find out more, find something definite … then disappear.

She breathed in the Chesterfield, ice cubes in the highball glass refracting the light, garish pinks and oranges from the stage.

“Good evening, Miss Gouchard. Your friend Mr. Payne tells me you wished me to sit with you.”

Jasper stood in evening clothes and a white glove on his left hand, shorn of his role as Faust. Rick stifled a yawn and took the far seat, deftly removing the Scotch and soda from Jasper’s place setting.