Miranda waited two minutes before locking the office door. She walked to the window and opened it, breathing in Market Street, breathing out cops. No green Olds parked in front, just a throng headed up Kearny for the Rice Bowl Party.
Crowds poured around Lotta’s Fountain, brushing fingers on the ornate metal work, one or two giving the bronze an affectionate pat. In a rare gush of sentiment, Miranda’s father once told her she’d taken her first drink of water from it. Then he proceeded to quote Shakespeare and take another shot of brandy. Not his first.
She shut the window hard, displacing a morgue of dead flies. Sank into the chair behind the desk and pulled the bloody bandage out of her bra. The marijuana cigarettes were still intact, and she poked at them with a pencil, smelling them, then sealed them in an envelope. The bandage she set aside, along with the package from Mike Chen.
She was reaching for the phone when the receiver jangled, and she jumped, letting it ring three or four times. Grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear in a single motion of decision.
“Answer your damn phone, Miranda. What’re you doing, playing hide-and-seek?”
Rick and his goddamn lilt. Battered felt hat pushed off his forehead, blue eyes apparently guileless while hunting for the next front-page exposé. She liked Rick, liked him a lot, and tried not to blame him because he wasn’t Johnny. It was just that goddamn lilt she hated.
She held the phone with her shoulder and fished out another Chesterfield.
“I was playing hopscotch with a couple of cops. What do you want, Rick?”
Low whistle on the other end, while she reached for the desk lighter and snapped a spark.
“Hopscotch, huh? Sure it wasn’t hangman? Or should I say hanglady?”
The sympathetic approach usually worked for him. Sympathy honed writing Lonely Hearts columns for some rag in New York City. She repeated, after taking a puff on the Chesterfield: “What do you want, Rick?”
“You know what I want. The News is the only newspaper with balls in this city, the only one that hasn’t ground up and fed its liver to Old Man Hearst. This Takahashi story is dynamite—and I want to light it off.”
“So?” Miranda blew a smoke ring.
“Don’t bullshit me. I know you. You don’t like getting the shove-off. The cops and their bosses, and the bosses of those bosses, have all told you to mind your own business and keep your legs crossed like a lady. Well, I’m betting you’re not taking no for an answer. You got something and I want it.”
She stubbed the cigarette, half-finished, on the tarnished Tower of the Sun ashtray. “Tell me again why I give a damn whether you need something.”
His voice got deeper. “Look, Miranda, those Fair cases we worked on—not to mention what I did for you over Burnett’s murder—when did I ever—”
“You got paid, Sanders. And you got a raise, if I remember correctly. Spare me the Irish singsong, and answer my question.”
Through the phone she could hear the chaos and bustle of the newsroom, men shouting, the rat-tat-tat-tat of typewriter keys like machine guns.
“I hope you’d do it out of friendship. We’ve—shared some moments, Miranda. Maybe I figured wrong. Maybe I forgot that no one ever gets close enough to really know Miranda Corbie.”
Somewhere a church bell rang the hour. Dong. Another bell. Rick was still on the line. Still waiting.
“All right. But—come through, Sanders. I’ll need your help, too.”
“Glad to give it. Listen, why don’t we just start over? Let’s go out tonight. I’ve got reservations at the Twin Dragon—we’d be on the spot for the Rice Bowl Party.”
Dong. Three o’clock already. She didn’t want to go out with Rick, didn’t want to watch his eyes light up when she walked to the table, or pretend that her ankle was sore so she wouldn’t have to dance, didn’t want to talk about Spain or New York or Johnny or life beyond a fucking church bell.
She took a breath, fingernails tracing the indentations and scars of her desk top.
“I’ll go, Sanders, but just for a drink and to tell you what I know. And what I need. Fair enough?”
“Of course. What else would I suggest? This is business, Miss Corbie, strictly business. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty. You still at the Drake Hopkins?”
“Yeah. 640 Mason.”
“See you tonight.”
“’Bye.”
The cradle clanged when she dropped the phone. She waited until the line was clear, spent it looking through the Kardex on her desk. Picked out a card, dialed a number. The bandage and the small brown package of herbs were staring at her.
“Medico-Dental Building, please. Healy Labs … H-e-a-l-y. Uh-huh. Thank you.”
She reached for another cigarette and caught herself, opened a side drawer.
“Healy Laboratory? This is Joan MacIntosh. I’m looking for Edith Placer. P-l-a-c-e-r. That’s right. She’s—let me see—she works there on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday evenings. Oh, I’m a friend of her mother’s … down from Portland—that’s right. She told me to look her up, but I don’t have her current home address, just this one. Would you? Thank you so much—no, not yet. I saw the Fair last year, though … quite spectacular, I thought. I don’t see how New York’s could be any better—oh, thank you! That would be lovely. Yes, I have a pencil.”
Her fingers found an ancient package of Wrigley’s gum in the back of the drawer. She frowned at it, tossed it into the wastebasket under the desk, and wrote on the bent, gray card.
“Edith Placer, Garfield 9645, Braeburn Apartments, 861 Sutter—oh, I think I can find it. Yes, yes, I will. Thank you so much! ’Bye.”
She was surprised not to have the address. Edith was a friend—as much as anyone. Miranda hesitated with her hand over the receiver, then picked it up and dialed the number. No answer, Madame. Please hang up the phone, Madame. She lowered it back into the cradle. Sat, unblinking, unfocused. The phone rang again.
She waited until the noise became insistent.
“Is this the Miranda Corbie Detective Agency? Miss Miranda Corbie?”
It was a voice usually smoother, more modulated. The harshness that crackled beyond the edges was a recent development.
“This is she. How can I help you?”
The woman paused. Miranda could hear thoughts being gathered and a story being put together on the other end.
“My—my husband. He was murdered.”
Miranda sat back. “Madame, that’s for the police depart—”
“They’re doing nothing. Nothing! They said it was a heart attack, that he’d been in the hotel with—with a woman. Lester would never—”
“Ma’am, the police know—”
“They know nothing, they do nothing!” The woman wanted someone to hear her, to listen to her. There were a lot of women like that, not all of them with dead husbands.
“All right, start from the beginning. Your husband was in a hotel—”
“The Pickwick. In San Francisco. We live in Alameda. He works as an engineer for a shipping company. He didn’t come home Thursday night, and I called the police. Then—then Friday morning they called me and said the maid at the Pickwick had—had found …”
“They said it was a heart attack?”
“Yes.”
Miranda was silent until she heard the woman’s breathing come back under control.
“Why are you so sure it was murder?”
“I—I just am. Lester would never—”
“You’d be surprised how frequently ‘never’ happens. I’m sorry for your loss, but I can’t help you.”
“I’m not without funds, Miss Corbie.”
Miranda reached for the cigarettes again and this time gave in.
“It’s not that.” Deep drag, savored the Chesterfield. “Though it helps. I need to know why you’re so certain. I need you to be honest with me, even if you’re not with the cops. There’s no point, otherwise.”
The woman wrestled with herself some more while Miranda blew a smoke ring.
“It’s a family matter, Miss Corbie. Not something I want to discuss without meeting you in person. I’ll be in San Francisco tomorrow to see our attorney—settle Lester’s … Lester’s affairs. Can you meet me around one, at the Owl Drug Store lunch counter on Powell and Market? I’ll pay your fee or whatever it is for the day. Is that all right?”
Miranda leaned back against the heft of the chair. She didn’t have much room left over for anything other than Eddie Takahashi. But the lady was a paying customer. Her favorite kind.
“That’s fine. What’s your name?”
“Helen Winters. I know what you look like—I’ve seen your picture in the paper. I’ll find you.”
“Mrs. Winters—there are a number of private investigators in San Francisco. Why did you choose me?”
The woman paused again, choosing her words with deliberation. “For reasons which I will discuss tomorrow. Twenty dollars a day is your rate, is it not?”
“Normally, yes.”
“Until tomorrow at one, then.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Winters.”
She didn’t realize the phone was off the hook until it made an irritated buzzing sound, and the whiny voice of a switchboard operator came on to scold her. She hung up, staring again at the bloodied bandage and poisonous powder from the herbalist. Then she reached for the trash can under her desk, looking for the morning paper. Saturday morning, before Eddie Takahashi died.
She found a Chronicle neatly folded, pulled it out and turned to the shipping news. On the bottom was a brief notice: “Believed to have died of a heart attack, marine engineer Lester Winters was found dead in his bed in the Pickwick Hotel on Fifth and Mission, San Francisco, on Friday. He is survived by his wife Helen Winters, of Alameda, and daughter Phyllis. Police suspect no foul play.”
The church bell tolled the half-hour. Miranda locked up the poison and marijuana cigarettes in her safe. Grimacing, she retucked the bandage inside her bra, shoved on her hat, and headed for home.
“How’s the Sling?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘How’s the drink?’ ”
The swirling gleam of the Twin Dragon’s famous circular bar was dull with excited clamor, peanuts, spilled booze, and the bad breath of the salesman on Miranda’s left, most of him and his Rob Roy spilling on Miranda. She shrugged her left shoulder hard, but he was beyond feeling anything. It was Sunday night, the last night to tie one on for China.
She leaned into Rick. He was standing in between her and the blonde determined to jiggle what she had before the market dried up.
“What happened to that goddamned reservation?”
Rick smiled, shook his head, and gestured to his ear. Spilled his own scotch-and-water when the blonde fell on him, guffawing over a thigh-slapper from the gent two stools down. Rick helped prop up the dime-store Mae West, while Miranda wiped her shoulder in disgust. So much for her Persian lamb coat.
She downed the rest of the Singapore Sling, leaving a washed-out cherry at the bottom of the martini glass, pushed it across the bar, and slid herself off the stool. He nodded, and they squeezed through the bar crowd. They emerged in a Waverly Place nearly as thick and almost as drunk.
Miranda and Rick turned right and followed a deer trail against the side of walls and doors, past the Rice Bowl benefit auction for a new electric Frigidaire, past the Chinese band, past the firecrackers, finally reaching the corner of Waverly and Clay, home to the street carnival.
A fat lady was drawing betting money on a guess-your-weight machine, the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, peanuts, and cotton candy masking the more aromatic odors of Chinatown. Miranda leaned against a slab of old brick wall, watching the wheel of fortune go around two booths down.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
Rick shook out a Lucky Strike, offered her one; she shook her head, he lit it and finally answered.
“We’ll find a place to talk. That’s not the problem—”
“It isn’t?”
“The problem is you need to relax. You had a shock yesterday, the cops are riding you, and you need to lighten up and relax. For God’s sake, Miranda—”
“You think I’m the problem? Listen, bright eyes, I agreed to meet you so we can discuss this case you want to blow wide open—remember? And if I need to relax so goddamn much, then why the hell did you bring me back to Chinatown? You said it was business—remember?”
“Shhh. Shut up.” He pulled her back toward the wall, and she angrily threw his hands off.
“You cocky Irish bast—”
His mouth was on hers, suddenly, his body pressing her against the brick. On reflex, she opened her mouth, let herself be handled, let herself be used, before jolting back to the present. Rick wasn’t using his tongue, the kiss not motivated by lust. Her hands unclenched and she held them gingerly against his back.
He whispered: “Good girl. Doyle and other cops, walking.”
He tilted his head to the left, his hat obscuring any view of her face. His mouth was on her right ear.
“Gone yet?”
“Talking at a booth.” She could feel his lips brush her hair. “What’s the perfume?”
“Vol de Nuit.”
“Not your old stuff. In New York.”
His body was warm, and she squirmed. She stopped wearing Je Reviens the same year she stopped remembering.
“Too old-fashioned. They gone?”
“Wait. Turn your head.”
She faced Clay, watching the roving bands of partygoers laughing under the neon signs.
“S’OK now.”
Miranda took a deep breath, fixed her hat, met Rick’s eyes. They crinkled at the edges, which irritated her.
“Thanks. I think. So what do you suggest now, Sir Galahad?”
He took her elbow. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
“In this mess?”
He shrugged. “We’ll find a couple of seats. Universal Café, Shanghai Low, we’ll find something.”
They threaded through the games of chance with no chance at all, pop the balloon mister, throw a dart, do it for China. Men with sweaty necks tried to arm-wrestle the Chinese acrobat and win a dollar.
End of the alley, Sacramento Street. Drunks wavered by, unhindered by cars, all traffic except human closed off until tomorrow. Rick pulled Miranda toward a tawdry black tent, propped against an association wall. The sign outside read MADAME PENGO—PAST—PRESENT—FUTURE.”
“Where the hell are you going?”
He pushed his hat up, eyed the long line of Madame Pengo’s customers, mostly women, mostly older, mouths gnawed by petty tyrannies and dimly felt loss. A petite, pretty brunette in silver sable waited too, drinking it in, electric despair, excitement of struggle. Escaping the ennui of plenty.
“Madame Pengo—I remember that name …”
“Sanders, goddamn it, we either talk or I go home.”
He shrugged, and led her to the corner. Miranda hesitated, not wanting to pass the herbalist, not wanting to see where Eddie fell. Not with the crowd, the girls in strapless dresses, hair perfumed, boyfriend tight.
Something hard brushed against her, and a little girl darted by them, ragtag blur, maybe seven, maybe eight. Blindly running. She tripped and Rick caught her. Bloody, scraped knee. Dirty dress, dirty face. Deep circles under eyes too old for childhood.
Noise from the fortune teller’s tent. A woman dressed in gaudy rags parted the waiting line of customers.
“Is she all right?”
The child backed against Rick’s legs. Miranda put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re not her mother.”
She didn’t know why she said it and knew it to be true.
The woman’s face faded against the cheap shiny jewelry.
“Come inside. Bring Anna.”
They followed, Rick lifting the little girl into his arms. Her customers stood silent, curious, watching, a fat woman in gingham reaching out to touch Madame Pengo.
They stooped into the darkness. A table took up most of the space, covered in a stained white cloth and a cloudy crystal ball. The fortune-teller gestured to a couple of chairs. Walked to a crate behind the table, pulling out a ragged scarf and a bottle of rye. Wetted the fabric, and knelt in front of the little girl, dabbing the torn knee.
“Anna’s not a relation, exactly. I’m watching her for her mother.”
“Maybe you’re spending a little too much time in the past and the future.”
Not a flicker. “Lady, I’d be a rich woman if I had a nickel every time a child goes missing at a carnival. I’m not from Chinatown, and she knows it—figures she can run out on me. But she knows where she lives, she knows me, and I would’ve found her eventually, though I appreciate you getting her out of the street.”
Her face was strong, hardened like only the once vulnerable can be. Elegance clung to her, faded and almost invisible, lingering behind the gauzy gypsy rags and imitation jewels. A woman who’d lived well when times were good, and times hadn’t been good for a while.
Rick stared at her. The little girl remained expressionless, almost somnambulant, the energy that sent her running all gone away.
“Didn’t you make a big ruckus in New York, about fifteen years ago? It was before the Crash … you played the hotel circuit, didn’t you? Made quite a name—the Eurasian medium sensation, or something. No one could prove anything against you, but you disappeared. I guess fashions come and go, even in the crystal-ball circuit.”
Eurasian. Explained the child’s haunting beauty, explained her worn dress. Explained, most likely, where and what her mother was. One of the whores in one of the Chinatown bordellos, charging by exclusivity of service. Whites only, Chinese only, Orientals only. No such restrictions for the poorest, the most desperate.
Miranda said: “I know all the acts in this city. When did you get here?”
Madame Pengo smiled at Anna, ignoring the question. The little girl twisted out of Rick’s grip, running to hug the fortune-teller.
“You see? Anna knows me. Her mother’s a friend of mine.”
Miranda fished in her purse, pulled out a Chesterfield. “You mind if I smoke?”
The gypsy shook her head. Rick lit the cigarette with a lighter. Miranda took a long drag on the Chesterfield, looking at the older woman.
“I think I know where her mother works. Does she get enough to eat? Does she go to school?”
Madame Pengo whispered something to Anna Miranda couldn’t hear. Together they walked behind the table, the little girl standing, leaning against the woman while she sat.
“She’s taken care of, lady. Her mother puts something by, when she can. I do, too. She gets fed, more than some people. You think it’s easy? We’re Eurasian. Chinese don’t want us, whites don’t want us. We’re treated like mongrel dogs. But I’ve got enough money put by, in case—I’ve got enough money put by.”
The fortune-teller stroked the girl’s hair, and Anna pressed against her, eyes closed. Miranda thought of the other children she’d seen seven years ago in the Central Valley. The land of plenty, the land of hope, the land of racial purity. Aryans and Daughters of the American Revolution, all the rest cotton-pickers, hayseeds, stoop labor. No poor, no Okies, no coloreds, no mongrels allowed, not in agricultural towns. Not much of a new deal for them. No fucking deal at all.
Rick nudged Miranda. She squeezed the cigarette out, put the rest of it back in her purse. Madame Pengo looked up at them. Her voice was quiet.
“Thanks for helping Anna. If you sit down, I’ll give you a free reading. I think maybe you could use some advice.”
Miranda stared at her and the little girl, sat down in one of the wobbling chairs.
“What makes you say so?”
The fortune-teller studied her for a few seconds. “I know who you are. You’re in a dangerous business. Word travels fast in Chinatown.”
She was still stroking Anna’s hair. The little girl watched Rick and Miranda, eyes unfocused, clutching the older woman’s side.
Miranda said slowly: “General advice … or do you have something specific in mind?”
Madame Pengo shrugged. “Both. If you’ve got a good man, hold him.” She nodded at Rick, who took the other seat.
“He’s not my—”
“The Chinese say whoever learns without thought is lost. But whoever thinks without learning is in great danger.”
“Am I in danger?”
Madame Pengo paused, looked at the floor for a minute. “And read your Bible. It’s been a great comfort to me, lady, I can tell you. Let me see. I think Acts … Acts 27, 10 or 11, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
No one spoke. The band music was still blaring from Stockton, the shouting and laughing outside getting louder. Madame Pengo’s head sunk further on her chest, her hands resting on the table. Anna leaned against her. Her eyes were closed.
Motionless, the woman and the little girl, statue-still, carnival Pietà. Miranda stood up. She opened her purse and took out three dollars, most of the cash she had. She left it on the table, looked over at Rick.
He nodded, dug in his pockets, contributed a five. They walked toward the tent flap.
“She will be all right.” The voice was deep, sonorous.
Miranda pivoted. No one else in the tent. The voice came from Madame Pengo. Flickering light, shadows on the thin high ceiling of the tent playing tricks, the woman’s rags gleaming like silk and velvet, cheap trinkets like Spanish gold. Little girl suddenly old, unnaturally still, face like a Madonna.
Madame Pengo opened her mouth, still motionless, and Miranda saw the words come out, foreign voice, clear and rich over the band, the shouts from the alley.
“She will be all right. There is much evil when child turns against father, but also salvation. She will be all right.”
Miranda looked up and around the tent, unnerved, trying to spot a wire. Voice was too loud. Rick stared at the fortune-teller, mouth open, as if reading to himself.
“He loves you. Unlock the box. She will be all right.”
Too loud, the voice, like cannon fire, like bombs in Madrid, church bells tolling the dead, sound pulsing through her body. Sweat trickled down Miranda’s neck, her breath short, shallow, staccato.
“Paths cross. Find the way. He is lost. Find your way. Unlock. Open. Live. She. Will. Be. All. Right.”
Miranda stumbled backward, hands pressed to her ears, face wrenched, agony. Rick was standing dumbly, staring at her. Before the gypsy could say anything else, Miranda turned and ran out of the tent.