City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (36 page)

The supply of whores was never ending, too, Divorce Capital of the World attracting women with lost hopes and last chances, six-week cure-all taking a wrong turn toward the river, hotel bill overdue, no money from home, no home at all, with the would-be divorcée pressed into service at the Stockade or one of the other, smaller operations. Short bald man with a gold tooth and a gleam in his eye, I’ll get the paperwork put through for you on credit, girlie, can’t run back to no old man, now, gotta support yerself somehow, just a couple weeks an’ you’ll get that bus ticket back to Omaha …

Miranda pushed her way to the bar between a fat man in a felt fedora and one of the prostitutes. She needed some goddamn time to think.

The whore—a henna-haired woman who still retained some freshness in her face—scooted closer.

“Got a light?”

She thrust out a Lucky Strike under Miranda’s nose. Miranda turned her head away, spoke gruffly.

“Go chase another one, sister. I’m here on business.”

The redhead withdrew her arm, sniffed, got up off the barstool. Said, “So am I—brother. Boys ain’t legal in Reno, even for the SP.”

She flounced off toward the keno table, and the stool was immediately filled by a sharply dressed, blue-eyed man with a gun holster and hard muscle under his suit. Miranda instinctively inched away from him. He smelled like blood.

The bartender smiled, fear at the corners, spoke to her new neighbor. “Usual, Elmer?”

The young man nodded. “Just cleaned the fish out of the alley. Goddamn whores. Jim and Bill want the Bank Club nice and legal, only whores in here got a license to fuck.”

The bartender laughed, wattle of flesh under his chin quivering. He poured a straight-up shot of rye and a glass of beer, set them in front of Elmer.

“Nobody wants to end up on your bad side, Elmer.”

Elmer flared. “Whaddya mean, bad side? I ain’t got a bad side, Joe. You get that from my old lady or something? Fucking bitch and her alimony payments … don’t let me hear you talk about no bad side, all right?”

Joe backed away. “Sure, Elmer, sure … didn’t mean nothing by it, nothing at all.” He suddenly seemed to realize Miranda had been standing for five minutes with no order and turned to her with a frozen smile. “What’ll it be, mister?”

“Bourbon, straight up.”

Joe poured from a bottle of Old Crow, shoved it toward Miranda. The liquor felt good, warmed her arms and legs. She suddenly realized she was hungry.

“Hey—the
San Francisco
was late this week. What the hell happened?”

Elmer was facing her from the barstool. She didn’t turn around. “Accident.”

He made a derisive noise. “Yeah—like last year. You people never caught them sab-o-tours, did you?”

She tossed the rest of the bourbon down her throat, dug out fifty cents from the wallet in her pocket. Slowly pivoted the bar stool toward Elmer, keeping her head down.

“No.”

She got up to go and he suddenly thrust out an arm, holding her down. “You know what I think? I think it was SP’s fault and your goddamn conductor. That’s what I think. Whaddya say to that?”

Miranda shrugged off his arm. Her fist closed around the folded straight-edge razor in her left pocket. Made her voice as deep as she could.

“I say you’re drunk—but maybe you’re right.”

He looked surprised for a second, then threw his head back and laughed. “All right, go throw before the next one comes through. You ain’t so bad for a railroad bum.”

Miranda nodded, picked up the laundry bag, and blended into the crowd around the roulette wheel.

Time to change clothes. The uniform was drawing too much attention, too many questions. The
City of San Francisco
would be gone by now, and she needed to plan her next move.

Maybe it was safer to be a man in Reno, Nevada … but not, apparently, if you worked for Southern Pacific.

*   *   *

Miranda hurried across the street toward the Elite Café. Red booths lined the long, narrow space, some filled with women, some with men, some with couples. She lugged the laundry bag, arms aching, nodding to one of the waitresses and heading toward the back and what she hoped was a bathroom with a stall.

She pushed through the door. A portly man was standing at the urinal, baring his teeth in the mirror and trying to clean out a piece of spinach with his tongue. A small slot machine stood next to the sink. She bent down to look under the jade green partition, which hung crookedly. Nobody home.

She sidled into the stall and stood in front of the toilet, waiting for the fat man—still sucking his teeth and wringing out an occasional drop—to leave.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi …

Heavy footsteps and the outside door squealed shut.

Her head still hurt, couldn’t move fast. Untie the laundry bag first.

Marie’s dress and Miranda’s underclothes were at the top, handbag at the bottom. She plucked out the clothes, laying them on the toilet, and threw off the hat and the jacket.

Still no takers for the men’s toilet at the Elite Café … goddamn it, she needed her luck to hold.

Unknot the tie, unfasten the suspenders, pull the shirt off, don’t bother to unbutton. Pants stay on in case someone comes in and checks under the door …

She started to unwrap the cloth bandage from around her breasts when the outside door flung open, and another man approached the urinal. This one was all business, didn’t bother to check under the stall or wash his hands when he finished. She exhaled when she heard the door bang shut.

Fastened the bra, pulled the camisole over her head. Breasts felt bruised from the wrap. Marie’s dress would be too short, but that didn’t matter in Reno. What mattered was not getting caught dressed as a man, a crime in San Francisco and probably a crime in Reno, too.

You can fuck until the cows come home, just don’t do it in drag, anything goes, mister, but not that, not here, why we got community standards an’ all …

Another lump was still visible in the laundry bag, and she pulled out her coat, thoughtfully sandwiched in by Tom and Marie. She smiled to herself, slipped the dress on first and then the coat. Undid the pigtails, shaking her hair until she got dizzy again.

Goddamn concussion.

Still no men with too much beer or coffee in their bellies crowding her out of the bathroom in the café Elite.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi …

She shoved the uniform pieces back in the bag, first removing her wallet, cigarette case, lighter, and SP schedule from the jacket pocket, then lifted her boots up on the toilet seat and had them both unlaced when the door opened again.

Two men this time, in conversation. She held the pants up with one hand. Left the boots on.

“D’ja see the face on that whore in the alley? Elmer knows how to make ’em pay, all right … they say he’s takin’ it out on ’em on account of his old lady’s makin’ him pay alimony.”

The other one bent down to look under the stall. “Yeah. Jim an’ Bill’re gonna have trouble on their hands, one of these days … once Elmer kills one of them broads. Mark my words.”

Sound of the water faucet. “Eh, they’ll buy off the jury, just like they did during Prohibition. Nobody gives a shit, Lou … got too many goddamn whores here as it is.”

A loud thump on the rickety door of the toilet room made Miranda jump, hold her breath.

“Hey—you in there? I need the can.”

She lowered her voice. “Few minutes.”

The other one laughed. “Guess you do give a shit, Lou. Leave the poor sonofabitch alone with his hangover … sounds like he’s been crying.”

“I’m gonna cry if I don’t get to a fucking can…”

“C’mon, we’ll go back to the Bank and see if they got a doctor for the broad…”

Lou left grumbling, the other man still chuckling. Miranda exhaled, sank down on the toilet seat.

Too fucking close …

She bent down to the bag again, pulled out her own shoes. The plain Jane lace-ups looked like Cinderella slippers compared to the boots. She hurriedly stepped out of the boots and dropped the trousers, dress falling to a few inches below her knee. Squeezed into the lace-ups, lifting first one foot, then the other, on top of the toilet to tie them.

Bent down and shoved the trousers in the bag, retied it. Picked it up with her left hand, handbag in her right.

Now she had to leave.

She closed her eyes, counted three Mississippis.

Still no sign of a customer.

Cracked open the door. Took a breath.

Ran for it.

The din of conversation and clinking dishes enveloped her in the hallway, and she quickly pushed open the ladies’ room door on the left. Lee Wiley’s slow, plaintive voice filtered from the restaurant juke.

Fools rush in, so here I am …

Miranda twisted the sink faucet, filled her hands with water, splashing it on her face. Washed her hands and dried them on the broken machine, cloth filthy from previous visitors to the Elite Café.

Opened the cigarette case, hands cleaner but shaking. Her stomach growled, and she plucked out a Chesterfield, lighting it on the first try.

She raised her eyes to her own reflection.

*   *   *

Miranda slid into an empty booth at the back of the restaurant, laundry bag positioned across from her in case anybody felt like sitting down.

A man in a dark gray slouch fedora with a yellow shirt and blue jacket dropped a nickel in the jukebox to hear “In the Mood.” He ambled past Miranda and leered, as if the song were an advertisement, intercepted in time by the worn-looking waitress with the dirty blond hair.

“Your bill’s due, Leroy.”

The leer transformed into a whine. “C’mon, Mary—Hal knows I’m good for it.”

She looked at him, hand on her hip, voice flat. “Hal’s the one who told me to make sure you paid in cash, Leroy. You don’t like it, take it up with him.” She tossed a menu in front of Miranda. “Here you go, Miss. Special of the day is bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich or a cheese omelet. We’re out of the ham steak dinner.”

From the looks of the Elite Café, Miranda suspected the lettuce would be wilted and the cheese would be stale. She shut the menu and glanced up at the large, grease-yellowed clock on the wall above the cash register, opposite end of the diner. Leroy was leaning on the counter, grumbling to the cashier. Mary the waitress was still waiting by the booth for her order, watching Leroy.

Twenty minutes to midnight, seats full and discussion animated. Apparently the Stockade wasn’t the only business to never close its doors.

“Hamburger and fries with the works, please.”

“Tomato, lettuce, pickles, and olives, no onions. That OK?”

“Yeah. And a cherry Coke and apple pie à la mode, if you’ve got it.”

The waitress nodded as she wrote down the order. “Just made yesterday. I ain’t seen you in here before, have I?”

Miranda gave her a big smile. “Just got in. I’m here for ‘the cure.’”

Mary nodded again, dark blond straggle of hair falling toward her face. “Thought so. Took it myself back in ’31, soon as they changed the residency requirement back to six weeks. Been here ever since. Somethin’ about the air agrees with my lungs. Hamburger’ll be up in a minute.”

She stuck the pad back in her apron-uniform and abruptly marched down to the cashier, where Leroy was still trying to wheedle the younger girl at the register. Mary was probably no more than Miranda’s age, but she looked ten years older, the dry, desert air agreeing with her lungs but not her skin.

Miranda lit another Chesterfield, ruefully examining her fingernails. Looked like miner’s hands, needed a goddamn manicure from the train and the crime scene and the pale brown dust that blew through the cracks in Reno.

She gulped down the cigarette in a long inhale. Nails were the least of her fucking worries.

The
City of San Francisco
was on the way to Ogden, Utah. The killer would think he had her trapped, even after the surprise of finding her gone. Planted physical evidence in the room, history with Jasper, disappearance from the train … all pointed to her guilt.

The bulls would lock her up and conveniently forget the inconsistencies, given how much Brady liked O’Meara to whisper in his ear. Oh, so much easier to figure she’d shown her true colors, the “notorious” private eye who’d been tempted by priceless jade and cut a bloody swathe through her client list.

She passed a trembling hand across her forehead. No protection. The sonofabitch hadn’t lied about that. Her deal with the government had died with Jasper.

A well-built young man in a cowboy hat and alligator boots dropped another nickel in the juke, walking back to an older woman in a chinchilla wrap wearing a self-satisfied smile. Shep Fields and his Rippling Rhythm …

South of the border, down Mexico way …

Mexico. Goddamn it, Jasper and Cheney and Wardon and Mexico, Miguel and Count Lestang. Gonzales asking if tomorrow were soon enough for information on Wardon and the gallery, but she hadn’t known tomorrow would mean a murder and a frame, gilt-edged and rococo scallops, the whore-cum-detective boxed in and wrapped up tight. Gonzales had probably left her a message already, if she could just get to a phone and if the cops weren’t squatting at her answering service.

She frowned, eyes fixed and staring, red embers burning through the white paper.

No, her only chance was to go home. Go back to where they least expected to find her, and find Jasper’s murderer herself, trace his contacts in San Francisco and Berkeley and figure out where he was headed with the paintings he’d stolen from the professor.

Find out what was going on in Mexico.

Mary suddenly appeared at the table with a cherry Coke and a large platter, and Miranda jumped.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Miss. You thinking about it? Maybe reconsidering?”

Miranda smiled, crushed out the cigarette. The gold letters in the chipped glass ashtray were faded and flaked, “The Bank Club” still legible.

“Yeah. You ever have regrets?”

The waitress shook her head vehemently. “No, ma’am. I was married to a varmint when I was fifteen years old. And even if I’m one of the only women livin’ in Reno who ain’t for sale, I’m glad to be where I am—without him.”