Made for each other.
Like bacon and eggs, like Lum and Abner, like Lunt and Fontaine.
Like the stone chimneys and blue-gray London smoke, the sidewalk cafes and gargoyles on Notre Dame, like the El and the Stork and Katz’ Deli, Lower East Side.
Like the sad songs on the alboka and the olive oil and Tempranillo, like the streets of Madrid and the red, red earth, red like the blood on ancient stone and old women’s faces, like the blood in the riverbeds, pooling where water once flowed.
Red like the blood the hospital couldn’t find, no blood, no ether, no morphine.
No Johnny …
“Miranda?” The columnist was staring at her.
She blinked, eyes fixed on the gold letters proclaiming ALEXANDER PUBLISHING.
“I’ve gotta talk to Bunny. She in?”
“Sure, she was figuring you’d show up when Louise didn’t—especially after she saw the papers.”
“Thanks. Be seein’ you, Herb.”
“S’long, Miranda. I’ll resume my duties when Sanders is back on KP” Caen bowed again, grin wide and mischievous.
Miranda nodded.
She needed answers and she needed them fast, wanted time for her good-byes and her farewells, time to pack up her life and start again.
Louise, George, and Smith were the links, links to Alcatraz.
And Bunny Berrigan was the link to Smith.
Miranda took a breath and opened the door.
Eighteen
Thick dust still covered Louise’s desk, heavy boots leaving powdery imprints on the burgundy carpet. Voices, raised in argument, filtered from one of the side offices, and Bunny Berrigan was nowhere to be seen.
One of the voices was shrill and sounded familiar … probably Emily Kingston, the eccentric copywriter and would-be editor, the seeming spinster with an appetite for crime. A lower voice mixed in, baritone, not bass, loud but not ferocious.
Footsteps.
Miranda scooted backward toward the waiting area.
The door flew open, banging into the wall bumper. Bunny strode out, hair askew and eyes wild.
“Just meet the goddamn deadlines, people! Is that too much to ask?”
The redhead, hand on the door to Alexander’s office, glimpsed Miranda and paused.
“So. Corbie. Herb Caen said you’d be up here this morning and I told him I figured as much. Looks like Louise is related to some bad gees. Doesn’t make her one. I haven’t fired her, so I expect her in. That clear? We’ve got books to publish.”
“Louise said to tell you that she won’t let you down. She’ll be in later, soon as she gets a little sleep and shakes off the reporters.”
Bunny shrugged her shoulders and sighed, gesturing with her head toward the main office.
“In here.”
Blood still caked purple on the expensive carpet, red-orange now red-purple in lurid patches close by the mahogany desk. Bunny walked toward the opposite end of the room near the windows and lit a Lucky Strike with unsteady fingers.
“Cops don’t want us to work in here yet, but screw it. It’s the only place to talk where we won’t be bothered. So what the hell’s all this about Kyle and Cretzer and Louise and Alcatraz?”
“I don’t know. Louise lied to me like everyone else.”
“Poor kid. Must be scared stiff, her sister married to a bird like that. You think these hoods ordered Niles’ murder? And tried to kill Louise?
Miranda frowned, shaking her head.
“Kyle and Cretzer are locked up, facing a murder charge. I don’t know if they have confederates down here or what they’d stand to gain by killing Alexander or Louise or stealing Smith’s book. And why not take the money? Why leave it in the safe? Doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Louise promised to come clean when I talk to her today and I’ve got a whole lot of questions. Said she’ll see you first, though—she’s still worried about the publishing schedule.”
“Well, get her in here. She’s got a job, and God knows I can use the help. I just don’t want any redhots around here, gumming up the works. She safe enough, you think? I mean, what if they’ve been trying to off her all this time because she knows too much? What if—”
Miranda held up a hand. “Back up, Bunny. Whether or not this is all related to Cretzer and Kyle, whoever was in that safe the night before last got what they wanted: the Alcatraz manuscript. The person we need to hear from—maybe the only person, other than Louise, who can give us an idea about what is going on—is Smith. Has there been any word from him? I mean, Jesus Christ, I know writers like their garrets, but his book was just stolen and his publisher was murdered and he’s the logical one to be in the most danger.”
Bunny made a face.
“Writers. Every cuckoo thing you’ve ever heard … they’re all nuts. I called Smith in Monterey yesterday. Told him Niles was dead, his book had been stolen, and he’d better get up here because the police want to question him. He said he’d drive up right away. Then he doesn’t show, and your friend the inspector leaves me a few messages last night: ‘Why isn’t he here yet? Is he trying to skip?’”
Miranda murmured: “The bulls aren’t known for their patience.”
“Well, it’s not like I have control over what Smith does or doesn’t do. But when the cops landed on Louise I figured we had a little more time before they put out some kind of bulletin on Howard, so last night I called his agent, Charlie Segal, and gave him the score. Charlie didn’t know anything about why Smith wasn’t here yet—I mean, we’re talking about a five- or six-hour drive, tops—and he had a fit over the missing Alcatraz book. He hasn’t read it, but Howard’s been feeding him bits and pieces, and he’s been looking forward to his ten percent.”
“Niles was spending a lot of money and time positioning Smith, wasn’t he?”
“He was. The whole marketing budget went to Smith, by Niles’ orders. He was positioning him as the next Dashiell Hammett and John L. Spivak combined. I had a full-scale plan for attacking the New York Times, getting his books out to civic clubs, in The Saturday Evening Post, Time, Life, Coronet, probably serial rights or an essay in the Atlantic, you name it. I even got a couple of Hollywood studio heads interested in a picture version of the Alcatraz book—and that was just through reputation and rumor alone, with no idea of what Smith’s really got.”
“So this would’ve been a bestseller.”
Bunny shrugged. “It should have been, I can tell you that. You know what makes bestsellers? Not the author or the book or how good it is—that’s what everyone wants to believe, but that’s the last thing from the truth. What makes a book big and an author rich and famous is marketing and publicity and timing—all of which is controlled by the publisher. People like what they’re told to like, and they want to think that what they like has merit. Niles knew that, and he was investing a lot in Smith, as a muckraker and novelist and personality. Luck plays a role, sure, but if you’re smart you can fix the game.”
“So why isn’t Smith here?”
“Because he’s a pompous little rich boy who likes to masquerade as a man of the people and drinks too fucking much, if you’ll pardon my language.”
“You mean he’s on a bender in Monterey?”
The tall woman ground her stick out in a floor tray, lines forming on either side of her mouth.
“Looks like it. I called him again this morning. He stays at a boardinghouse when he’s down there fishing—goes a few times a year, usually in between books or major drafts. According to the old lady who runs it, Smith hasn’t left town yet but hasn’t been in all night, either. Probably out drinking with Steinbeck—and nuts to them both. I’m sending Howard a telegram this morning: he either gets here pronto or not only will the Monterey police be paying him a visit and holding him for our own boys in blue but I won’t publish his goddamn books. That’ll be enough to get him to face the music.”
“I hope so.” Miranda looked up at Bunny. “You gonna send that right away?”
“I was
on my way out when I saw you.”
“All right, keep me posted. I’ll let Fisher know about Smith and run interference for you.”
Bunny’s lips cracked into a tired smile. “Thanks. The Gump’s memorial for Niles is day after tomorrow. You’re invited—eight o’clock at the store, 250 Post. I hope Sylvia can manage it—Roger is seeing her today. He’s supposed to let me know.” Her lip trembled slightly. “Richard Gump, the press, the mayor, even Forester is coming. Niles would’ve loved it.”
“I’ll be in touch. Expect Louise later this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Miranda.”
Hand on the doorknob, she turned back to face Bunny. “By the way—did the deep voice you were yelling at belong to your other editor—Hank something or other?”
“Hank Ward. He’s the only editor, really, other than—than Niles. Freelancers sometimes approach us, agents too, of course.”
“Mind if I talk to him?”
“Be my guest. Emily’s probably gone by now—she hates working in the same office. But make it quick—he’s on a deadline.”
“Thanks. Good luck with Smith.”
“Good luck to Smith, you mean. If he doesn’t get down here today, Katie, bar the door.”
The two women walked out of Alexander’s office together, Bunny peering around the main suite door before striding quickly down the hall.
The connecting door to the other rooms was still open. Miranda raised a gloved fist to knock on the office door shared by Hank Ward and Emily Kingston.
Audible clicks and the clatter of typewriter keys, slow but steady rate. She knocked again and the typing stopped. A deep voice grunted: “Come in.”
She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it.
The small office was more cluttered since yesterday. Three or four large manuscripts covered in red pencil marks lay in disarray on Emily Kingston’s desk, along with a half-empty cup of tea in English china.
No Emily.
Sitting at the old, tired desk nearest her with a five- or six-year-old typewriter and a marked-up copy of today’s Daily Racing Form was a soft, burly man about forty-three, black and gray stubble on his cleft chin, eyes nearly black. His generous mouth was shaping into a grin.
“Well … hello. Come on in, sister. Don’t be shy.”
Miranda noticed the sticky brown residue at the bottom of a small shot glass to his right, the multiple Racing Forms and the threadbare jacket barely clinging to the back of his chair.
“My name is Miranda Corbie. I’m a private investigator. I’m here to ask you a few questions, Mr. Ward.”
The smile vanished. Ward coughed while he lit a Camel, hands trembling intermittently, and he swore under his breath when the Bimbo’s 365 matches took three strikes to light. Then he sat back in the squeaky chair and looked her over, chin out and eyes anxious at the corners.
“So you’re a private dick. They’re not makin’ ’em the way they used to, that’s for damn sure. Probably get by on the divorce cases, huh? Lady Eve and the apple in the garden, tempting married men to stray. Well, I’m not married, so what do you want with me?”
“What I want, Mr. Ward, is to know what you were doing the night Mr. Alexander was killed, and whether or not you are in possession of the second office key that Louise Crowley kept hanging in the meeting room filing cabinet. She sometimes found it in the supply room after you used it.” She gestured with her head to the closet-like room in the rear of the office.
Ward raised thick, unkempt eyebrows, insolently blowing a stream of smoke toward Miranda’s face.
“Look, lady, I know my boss was murdered and I’m broken up about it. But the cops haven’t seen fit to call me in, so why the hell should I talk to you?”
Miranda pried herself from the door in one long, sinuous move, sauntering up to the edge of his desk, lips stretched in a dangerous smile. She bent close to him, face only inches away from his, eyes flickering over his map-veined nose and the day-old stubble on his chin.
“You talk to me, Mr. Ward, for a few reasons. Number one, because I asked you to. Number two, because if you don’t, the cops I’m working with will want to know why. Number three, because those same cops will be down here to question you soon enough, and I’m your best chance at not winding up in a jail cell. And number four, you talk because you’re a cowardly hack who bluffs and bullies his way out of as much responsibility as possible, burying any dreams of being a real writer under a haze of bullshit, whiskey, women, and ponies that couldn’t finish the fucking fair circuit.”
She straightened up, looking down at the editor with a mixture of pity and contempt.
“So can the goddamn Hemingway act and answer the questions.”
Ward’s nose and cheeks flashed bright purple against red. He shut his mouth with a snap, ran his hands over unruly, white-specked hair, ground out the cigarette in his ashtray.
Didn’t meet Miranda’s eyes.
He rummaged in some papers on his desk. Mumbled, “Night of the 18th, right? Night before last? I was at a—at a club.”
“Bookie or whorehouse?”
“B-bookie.”
“Got anybody who can verify?”
His head snapped up to glare at her and his voice rose in anger.
“It’s a goddamn bookie joint, you think anybody’ll admit to bein’ there? Jesus Christ, I didn’t kill Niles, he’s the only guy who gave me a break—”
“Look, Ward. I’m not saying you killed anybody. But this case is wide open, and anybody who’s got a record of gambling—and possible connections to any criminal activity—well, the bulls’ll be looking at it. Closely. This is murder and the gas chamber we’re talking about. What about the key—the extra key to the office? It was missing yesterday.”
Hank Ward rubbed his chin with a shaking hand. “Christ, I need a drink. Here.” He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a key. “I had it, forgot to put it back. I’m always forgetting things—ask Louise—that’s why she had the key made, tryin’ to help me. She’s a good kid.”
“So you had it the night of the murder.”
His voice exploded again, eyes small and red, face taut and fleshy in all the wrong places. The baritone climbed to the tenor range.
“That doesn’t make me the goddamn killer!”
Miranda studied him, the sweat on his forehead, the dirt under his chipped nails.
She picked up the key.
“Here’s the score. Bunny’s in a bind and she still thinks you’re a decent editor. I’m not here to cut you down or report you to the cops. But do yourself a favor and line up somebody at the bookie’s that might vouch for you. If you picked up a girl, find her again. Get yourself an alibi … just in case.”
She turned to go.
“Hey, Corbie…”
Miranda pivoted from the doorway. “Yeah?”
The voice was small and low, meanness scared out of it.
“Thanks.”
She nodded, eyes glinting over the editor’s ragged face and rumpled clothes, watching him slump in his desk with his head in his hands.
She slipped out the office door.
Nineteen
The answering service offered no news from Fisher or Blankenship, but the bored operator recited an unexpected message from Rick. He was at loose ends, an appointment fell through, so he’d be early and meet her at the office around 3:30.
Goddamn it. She wanted to see him—how much she wanted to see him she didn’t think about, the surprise anticipation knotting her stomach—but three-thirty wouldn’t work. By then she’d be in a long discussion with Louise Crowley.
Miranda tore out a piece of paper from the Big Chief tablet, and hastily scrawled a note. She could tape it to the door, ask him to meet her at the Moderne that night.
She explained what she could, hoped he’d wait for her. The old Rick, pre-army Rick, blue eyes disappointed, lines at the corners of his mouth, crestfallen and glum, would still understand, knew better than anyone w
hat a case was like, what her job—her life—meant to her.
The cigarette tasted bitter on her tongue and in her chest, and she coughed, rubbing it out in the Tower of the Sun ashtray.
Crumpled the note and threw it in the wastepaper basket.
Everything tasted bitter, what with this fucking case making no fucking sense, and saying good-bye to Rick, to Bente, to Gladys, a forever farewell to the Fair and the Gayway, to Pacifica and White Star Tuna, the Singer Midgets and Sally’s girls, the gravel-voiced barkers and the kids on the roller coaster. No more sad-faced clowns, no more Threlkeld scones and Maxwell House, no more coffee, no more San Francisco.
It would be another foggy city, gray with the smoke of bombs and fires, ringed by a circle of water, ocean moat for an island castle. Like Alcatraz, an island, but an island of hope, the only bit left, a little crevice of civilization to build upon, to fight for, to preserve. It would be cold nights and wool mittens and hard, driving rain, speeches from Churchill and the wail of all-night sirens and the prayer for an all-clear, Vera Lynn and the King and Queen and the fire brigades, East Enders making do with even less. It would be long nights in the Underground, watching the tunnels tremble, strong tea when she could get it, eating piccalilli and sausage, leeks and cabbage and whatever fish were left in the goddamn English Channel.
Miranda closed her eyes.
If only this fucking case made sense …
Why steal a book about Alcatraz? There’d been other exposés of sorts, most notably Hellcatraz, the tell-all by Roy Gardner, the “Smiling Bandit” who killed himself back in January at the Hotel Governor.
She remembered reading about it, about how he posted a suicide note on his hotel room door, warning people not to come in and try to save him because there was poison gas inside. The criminal who cared about innocent lives …
Released from stir in ’38, he took a job on the Gayway the following year, promoting his book, and she met him once, a tough, garrulous, nervous man, stitched together by an irresistible urge to gamble, running through every cent he made and every cent he stole, until finally, alone, he paid his last debt.
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