She tried to smile. Her breath was still a little ragged. She was standing against the shadowy side of a tailor’s shop on Clay, trying to light one of the remaining Chesterfields with shaking hands. The souvenir Fair lighter kicked a spark and nothing else. She threw it back in her bag, rummaging for a pack of matches.
She found an unused pack from the Moderne, lit up and smoked under the red awning. Blew a puff out the corner of her mouth. Watched the smoke drift, disintegrate, toward one of the association doors that lined Waverly, past the barbershop and Twin Dragon nightclub with its bright chromium exterior, past the carnival booths that reminded her of the Gayway on Treasure Island.
Chinatown. Grant and Washington, Chinese Sky Room, teashops and gin joints and St. Mary’s after dark. A kind of a home, one for the homeless, one for the outcasts. Nowhere else to go.
White men locked the gate, then bought the opium, bought the girls, bought the silks and the food and the jade, white men kept coming back for more. The Chinese shrugged. And made exclusion pay. You want exotic, Mister, you can have it, but you mind your city and we’ll mind ours. It’s where you locked us up, remember?
Smoke from her cigarette drifted back down Clay, toward the people already lining up three bodies thick on Grant. She watched it swirl, wondering if it would form a tiger or a lion. Chinatown was a city of outcasts. They’d made the most of it.
So had she.
The fog was creeping down from the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont and the exclusive set on Nob Hill. It flowed sinuously over Stockton and Clay, past the GOLDEN STAR RADIO SIGN, drowning out the yellow neon in a sea of thick white haze, heading for the piers. A foghorn belched, the low hum filling one of the few silences in the heart of Chinatown. Real fog was an event, not just a shapeless cloud of moisture. As alive as the dragons of Chinatown and the ghosts of gold rush San Francisco.
One o’clock. Parade would start in an hour. No time for a stroll through Ross Alley or down to Manila Restaurant or over to Japantown. Miranda was out of smokable cigarettes, the day old enough already. And the bloody bandage in her bra was making her itch.
Chen’s left a sour taste in her mouth. She was getting too old. Use what you have, Miranda, use it up. Charlie Burnett on detective work. Her cases were her own, now, not Burnett’s setups or Dianne’s Shriners, wanting a decoration on their arms and a piece of something else after the show.
The drugstore next to the Republic Hotel was out of Chesterfields. She turned down the druggist’s suggestion of Lucky Strikes, and picked up copies of the Examiner and the Call-Bulletin. The pharmacy didn’t carry the News, and Miranda knew better than to think the Chronicle would run anything.
Eddie was a-second-to-the-last-page item in the Examiner, placed a couple of pages up from that in the Call-Bulletin. There was a quote from Phil about Eddie’s record, and assurances by a mouthpiece for the Bay Region Committee in charge of the Chinese Civilian Benefit Campaign, and still more from someone on the Chamber of Commerce. The conclusion was obvious: Eddie was a criminal, and no one really gave a fuck about who murdered him, as long as it wouldn’t spill over into Rice Bowl festivities and freeze out-of-town pocketbooks. Scratch it over, boys. Chalk it up to Nanking.
Back to the Monadnock Building, a few paces ahead of the fog. Miranda enjoyed the strain on her calves, the pain immediate, simple. Market Street was already loading up, ready to get loaded, Sunday night party in Chinatown. Gaiety that much more desperate since Monday morning was at the other end.
She walked into the lobby, the girl at the newsstand counter holding her carefully curled, not-so-carefully bleached head in her hand, bored and eyeballing a Latin-lover type with wide shoulders waiting for the elevator.
“Got any Chesterfields, Gladdy?”
The crate operator whisked up Cesar Romero, and Gladys handed Miranda three packs, with a sigh.
“Been savin’ ’em for you. I don’t know why everyone wants a Chesterfield, suddenly.”
“Haven’t you heard? They satisfy.”
Gladys snorted. “Who’re they kiddin’? Now, him”—she jutted a thumb out to where a thin bald man with an umbrella had replaced the Latin lover in line—“he was what I call satisfaction.”
Miranda quickly lit up a stick. “You got the latest News?”
Eddie had moved up in the world. The News ranked him on page two, and had the guts to point out the obvious: he was Japanese and murdered right before the Rice Bowl Party. She folded the paper and tucked it under her arm. The article meant she could expect a call from Rick.
“Say, Miri, that guy—the good-looker—he got off on the fourth floor. Maybe he’s coming to see you.”
She smiled at the girl’s hopeful face. “If he is, sugar, I’ll send him back down to you.”
She left Gladys a tip, took a spot in the queue. The Monadnock, survivor of the Fire, always busy. “The Railroad Building,” a good place to get a quick ticket to one of the invisible one-block Main Streets between here and Des Moines, Union Pacific or East Coast lines. A good building to get lost in.
Miranda squeezed into the middle car next to a fat lady with a feathered hat and a dead animal around her neck. She was the only person to get off at four. Started walking the big square to the small corner where her office was tucked, when the tingle came back. The green Olds on Commercial Street. She wondered if she’d noticed it outside but had been too tired to realize it.
Pinkertons was always busy, office as well groomed as a matinee idol. Low-key lighting, not too overdone, modern art not really modern, carpet thick enough to choke on. The only thing missing was a spritz of Chanel No. Five every three minutes.
New girl at the front desk. Not much on looks, but money to help what was there. They were always breaking in new ones, since the old ones were either getting married or getting experience. Too much experience at Pinkertons got you fired.
Disapproval from every pore. “Can I help you, Miss?”
Miranda lit up another Chesterfield, staring levelly at the woman. “I’m Miranda Corbie. My office is down the hall.”
The receptionist’s lip was itching to sneer. Miranda blew some smoke over the girl’s right shoulder and watched one of her curls unhinge.
“I’m a detective, honey. Not competition, not for Pinkterton—or Pinkertons. Allen Jennings has the office closest to me. I’m wondering if he’s in.”
Some starch went out of her pinafore. She pushed a couple of buttons and checked, while Miranda walked back to the doorway, smoking.
“Miss—you can go in now.”
She took a last inhale. Then stubbed it out in the invisible-until-you-needed-it ashtray, walking through the small gate to the inner hall and along it until she found Allen’s office. His cell sported a second door that fronted the main hallway outside, offering him the bonus of seeing anyone on the way to see Miranda.
Allen was a portly man, with muscle that had run to fat but was still hard enough to matter. His head was bald and shiny, his eyes twinkled, and he was over forty. Not a casting agent’s idea of a detective. Neither was she.
“What’s your trouble, Miranda?” He knew it wouldn’t be a social call.
“I’m not sure. Someone may be tailing me. Could be the cops.”
He shook his head, leaned back in the chair until it squeaked, un-Pinkertonlike, and looked at her shrewdly.
“I thought you could always spot a tail, especially from the bulls.”
“This is just a feeling. Anybody come through here and not come back? Or has that goddamn door been closed all goddamn day?”
He laughed for a while, and popped a hard candy into his mouth. “I’ve only been here for ten minutes myself, and it’s been closed. So you’ll have to go into the lion’s den unprepared. Sorry, kid. That’s the breaks.”
Miranda reached over and took one of the lemon drops out of a cut crystal dish on his desk corner.
“My breaks, anyway. Be seein’ you.”
“Yeah. Safe travels, kid.”
She crossed in front of him to the outer door, and stood in the frame. Footsteps on the polished floor echoed around and around the square center, impossible to trace. Voices rumbled through the ventilated air, vacationers and business travelers and those who sought advice from private investigators. There was no way to know and only one way in.
She walked into the hallway, her own pumps adding a pleasant tapping to the swirl of sound. Paused in front of her office, reading her name on the door—MIRANDA CORBIE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR—the black-and-gold lettering strong and purposeful. Then she took a deep breath and opened it.
No carpet in the office, no mahogany desk with a pretty girl, no art, modern or otherwise. It held an old-fashioned oak desk from Weinstein’s, two file cabinets, a cathedral radio, three miscellaneous chairs, two of which were comfortable, a calendar, a portable closet, a chair for herself she’d spent a commission on, and a used safe she picked up from Wells Fargo. Also the Latin Lover from downstairs and a surly-looking Irish cop with pits for pores and teeth to match.
Miranda strode toward the desk like she didn’t see them. Cesar Romero stood up. The other one ground his toothpick and sneered.
“Miss Corbie?”
She waited until she was behind the heft of the desk and nestled into the padded leather of the chair. She snuck a glance at the desk drawers. They’d been opened, and pushed back with enough carelessness to advertise the fact.
“Can I help you?” Best-bred Lady Esther voice, the one that smelled like violets and spoke of yacht clubs and opening night at the opera.
The one standing was a looker. Tall, about six one, pencil mustache, well-cut, dark clothes. Almost too well cut to belong to an honest cop. He didn’t show his teeth when he smiled. Eyes large, brown, and sympathetic.
“Inspector Gonzales. This is Assistant Inspector Duggan. We’d like to talk to you.”
He made himself comfortable in the chair, graceful motion. Duggan was staring at Miranda, and suddenly spat a wad of chewed toothpick on the floor.
She didn’t give him the pleasure of flinching. “Mind if I smoke?”
Not waiting for an answer, she opened the top drawer of her desk and took out the nearly empty pack inside. She lit a cigarette with the heavy desk lighter, offered one to Gonzales, who shook his head politely.
“Go ahead. Talk.”
Gonzales cleared his throat, and took out a pad of paper from his inner coat pocket. His shoulder-holstered .38 flashed at Miranda.
“I believe you were in Chinatown this morning, asking questions about the death of Eddie Takahashi.”
She leaned back, ignoring the sudden weight of the bloodstained bandage in her bra. Blew some smoke in Duggan’s direction. He was ticking, and she wanted him to go when she was ready for it. Miranda studied Gonzales’s smoothly handsome face.
“Mind if I see your identification, boys?”
Gonzales smiled good-naturedly again, reached for his billfold. Duggan jumped up suddenly, and leaned on her desk, both hands hairy and flat on the surface, his veined nose about a foot away from hers.
“ ‘Mind if I see your identification’ she says.” Singsong, vicious falsetto. “Can the class act. We know who you are and what you are. You fuck with this case, we haul you in for obstruction. And anything else we can find. We won’t have to look far.”
Gonzales’s face was red, and he was still half-holding out his buzzer. Miranda gave him a brief nod. Then she stood up, slowly, and stared at Duggan, his face still jutting forward, his small eyes mean and as yellow as his teeth.
“Why don’t you sit down, Inspector? I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cuspidor, but you’re welcome to spit on your partner there. You seem to be good at it.”
His back got tense and long and arched itself, and he lifted one of his hands, letting it freeze in the air. Gonzales’s voice came out quiet.
“Sit down, Gerry. Let’s try to talk to Miss Corbie like we’re professionals, and not some he-man cartoon cops out of Argosy.”
Duggan’s eyes turned from her and raked over Gonzales, who was now standing. He said nothing, but threw his shoulder into his partner’s as he walked back to his chair. Gonzales took it stolidly, just as he did the stage-whispered “Fuckin’ Mex” under Duggan’s breath.
“So why are you here, Inspector? Last I checked, I was free, white, and twenty-one. That usually buys you the freedom to go to Chinatown and talk without being questioned by the police.”
“This is more of a courtesy call, Miss Corbie.”
She raised her eyebrow and glanced at Duggan, who was staring out the window.
“Oh. Forgive me if I couldn’t tell.” She extinguished the cigarette in the Treasure Island ashtray and added, “Let’s get on with it. I’ve been warned away, and I didn’t take the warning. So what are you going to do? Arrest me, as Sir Lancelot suggested?”
Duggan turned his neck slowly like the mechanical clown at Playland.
“Gloves are off, baby, and don’t count on Phil. Seems like you fucked him one time too many, and the last one didn’t take. A little spell for solicitation’ll wipe that smile off your face. Send you right back to the whorehouse.”
“Duggan—”
“This greasy bastard wants a piece of your action, honey. I’d charge him double if I was you.”
Gonzales was pale. He walked calmly over to stand in front of Duggan, who sat, his legs wide apart, smirking up at him, another toothpick dangling between his lips. Gonzales reached into his coat pocket, brown eyes empty, and took out a pair of pigskin gloves. With a quick, sudden motion, he lashed Duggan across the face with them. Twice.
“Outside. I won’t dirty my hands with you.”
Duggan was staring open-mouthed at Gonzales, the toothpick stuck to his lower lip. His rolling, apelike shoulders and arms seemed to shrink and hang loose, like a puppet without a puppeteer. He stood up, not looking at either of them. Then he braced himself against the wall with uncertainty while he put his hat back on, his heavy footsteps scuffing the wood floor as he walked out of the office. The door swung softly and automatically closed behind him.
Gonzales turned to Miranda. “I’m sorry, Miss Corbie.”
She shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m sorry you’ve got such a son of a bitch for a partner.”
“Like you said, Miss Corbie. Free, white, and twenty-one. I fit two of those categories.”
She dug out another Chesterfield. “Call me Miranda. I appreciate you being square with me, and I appreciate the way you conduct yourself. How can I help you?”
He took a couple of minutes to calm down, drifting over to her windowsill and staring at the Market Street traffic.
“I’ll be brief. The new police chief would very much appreciate a low profile for the Takahashi case. So would District Attorney Brady. So would the mayors of San Francisco, Oakland, and Berkeley. And a lot of other people, almost as important.”
“Check. I’m not with the Chronicle.”
He smiled, a charming one. “Yes, I know. But you know newspaper men, you’ve worked with them, and—forgive me—you tend to generate a certain amount of publicity yourself.”
She shrugged again. “I had some high-profile cases last year, yeah. But it’s not like I’m in the society column every Sunday.”
He stared at her earnestly. “Duggan was telling the truth. We’ve been assigned the Takahashi case, and we were told to call in vice if we have to. Brady is prepared to throw everything he can at you—or anyone else who doesn’t let it lie. He can’t afford another Atherton Report.”
Miranda blew a stream of smoke toward the window. “Seems to me cleaning up the police department—such as it is—has given him enough to do in the last three years. My lawyer would have me out in thirty minutes and the case would be dismissed.”
“I know. But it would do you damage. Even if you didn’t lose your license, the publicity—”
She leaned forward. “Listen, Inspector. I used to work for an escort service. Everyone knows that. The Board knows it, the chief knows it, Brady knows it, even your pal Duggan knows it. I was never nailed there, and I won’t be nailed here. And it so happens that I do have a few friends, a couple of them in higher places than the Hall of Justice, and I’m reasonably sure that as long as I keep my nose clean I’ll be hanging on to my license. As for the publicity—why do you think I get the clients I do?”
She learned back in the chair again, shaking her head. “I won’t be scared. I don’t work that way. Just makes me stubborn.”
The appreciation on his face had nothing physical in it. Miranda looked away and smoked and wondered if he drove a green Olds. Gonzales walked back to the chair facing her, sat down and cleared his throat.
“I wouldn’t count on any state or federal contacts in this case. Rice Bowl Parties are being held in Chinatowns all across America. Ours is the largest. Over three hundred thousand people showed up for it last year, and we raised more money than all the other parties combined.”
Miranda stubbed out the cigarette, grinding it slowly into the Tower of the Sun. “I saw your Humanity League badge next to your buzzer, Inspector. I’ve bought a few myself. And I blink the water out of my eyes when I watch the newsreels, or tsk-tsk when I open a Life magazine and see the pictures, and then I get out a hanky and blow my nose and send another fifty cents to the Red Cross. But no matter how many sweet little children are starving to death on the streets of Shanghai—or in the concentration camps of Germany—or even in the central valley, right here in California—no matter how unjust and cruel and evil that makes the world, and I’d say it makes it pretty goddamn bad—Eddie Takahashi was murdered yesterday. Who the fuck mourns for him?”
Her hands were clenched and red, on top of her desk. Goddamn it. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper.
Gonzales reached in his coat and pulled out a billfold. It looked like Moroccan leather, and she wondered again how he got his money.
“Here’s my card. Call me if you turn over something.”
She frowned. “I thought the SFPD wasn’t interested.”
“Maybe not in prosecuting. At least not for murder. But there are other crimes.”
She reached across and took it from his fingers, staring at it. “I assume this offer doesn’t include your partner?”
“It includes no one but me, Miss Corbie.”
She looked at him. “Fair enough. And I have a question for you. The herbalist on Sacramento near where Eddie was shot—the young one—Mike Chen. You talk to him?”
Gonzales fished for his notepad again and flipped a few pages.
“Only briefly. He has a record—served a couple of years for peddling reefers. He’s been clean since.”
“Maybe he just hasn’t been caught.”
Gonzales raised his eyebrows, and she smiled.
“It’s been a long day, Inspector.”
He stood up graciously, holding out his hand. She took it. His palm was warm and dry.
“Thank you, Miss Corbie. I suspect we’ll be seeing you.”
“Thank you, Inspector. And tell Phil he’s lucky to have you.”
Gonzales’s cheeks blushed a light shade of red as he put on his fedora.
“I’d tell him the same thing about you, if that wouldn’t be presumptuous.”
Miranda turned toward the window. A trombone slide squealed from somewhere on Market, but was drowned out by a streetcar clang and the irritated horn of a car before she could figure out the song.
“It would be. Very much so.”
He nodded. “Then forgive me, please.”
She called him back when he turned to go. “Inspector—”
He looked at her with a question on his face, his hand on the doorknob.
“If you need cigs or a paper, buy them from the girl down in the lobby. She thinks you’re a dreamboat.”
He laughed at that, easily, and walked out the door, his coat billowing slightly behind him.