“No, with Kyle. She was his sister-in-law.” Miranda frowned. “Seems like too much of a stretch. Miller and Linkletter are crooked, all right, but they don’t seem crooked in that way. They’re bullies—they like power more than money. Blankenship is just the type who’d take a payoff, but he’s not working on the Rock anymore. Was there something else, something besides graft and bribes and corruption? Something personal on Miller or Linkletter or both?”
Smith was staring into the empty coffee cup, face red and skin stretched tight.
He mumbled “Excuse me” and walked over to the bar, pouring more rye. He came back to the couch, still avoiding her eyes, and drank half the cup in a go. Miranda waited patiently, never taking her eyes off of him.
He finally looked up. “All right—there is something else. And it’s how I heard the name ‘Link’—I assume that’s your ‘Linkletter.’”
Miranda leaned forward in the chair. “What, Smith? What did you hear?”
He drained the coffee cup again, veins stark in his nose and cheeks, and set it down on the glass table with a clank. “It’s not pretty.”
“I was in Spain three years ago. There’s not much I haven’t seen.”
The writer stared at her, surprise and admiration flickering across his features.
“All right. You asked me, and I’m telling you.” Smith swallowed. “You know it’s—it’s hard on men in prison…”
“If you’re talking about sex, Smith, a lot of them have problems outside of prison, too.”
“Well, when a man’s there for years and he doesn’t have female company…”
“Yeah, I know all about that, too. What’s it got to do with Linkletter?”
Smith kept his eyes on the carpet stain, small, brown, and unfocused.
“There are men in every prison who—who provide services to the others. In return, they’re protected. Most of the time, in most places, who does what to whom happens—happens naturally, if you know what I mean.”
Miranda spoke slowly, skin prickling on the back of her neck. “I do.”
His head was rigid, eyes still on the dried vomit. He spoke in a low voice.
“Not on Alcatraz.”
Miranda bent forward, body tense and tight.
“Smith—what do you mean?”
“There are some guards on the Rock—Link was mentioned as one of them—who select which prisoners are gonna—gonna provide services. Then they break ’em in. And they do it to men in solitary, too, sometimes, especially the colored ones.”
Color drained from her face as she stared at the thin-haired man, sitting hunched on the expensive couch in the Hollywood-set apartment, speaking in a near whisper.
Talking about rape on Alcatraz.
* * *
“Smith—Jesus Christ—”
The writer scratched his nose. “Yeah. I felt pretty bad when I heard about it. Niles and I went around and around—he was the only one who knew about the bribery and the—the other thing. And he wanted to milk it for all it was worth but didn’t want to get sued, so I spent fucking forever rewriting the goddamn thing.”
She stared at him, the red-veined nose, the thick, hairy fingers, the soiled robe that cost a month’s worth of wages to a man at the Del Monte plant.
“Why the hell didn’t you report it, Smith? Do something about it?”
“I was doing something about it—I wrote the goddamn book, didn’t I?”
Miranda shook her head. “Not enough. Not nearly enough.”
Smith rose from the couch in a swift move, as if trying to run away.
“Listen, lady, you don’t know me. So yeah, I come from money—born to it. But I was also born with a goddamn conscience and some talent, too, and I’m trying to use it as best I can to help the proletariat.”
Proletariat. Prole-fucking-tariat.
“You a Communist, Smith?”
“Yeah, I’m a Communist. That’s why I’m—Jesus, if Hoover finds out I’m a member of the Party, my father’ll cut me off in a heartbeat.”
Miranda stood up slowly, watching the hunched-over writer trapped like a fly against the window pane.
Her voice was wry. “There are worse things than being poor.”
By now, he couldn’t hear her. His voice rose and fell, alternately whining and pleading and arguing for clemency, while his body seemed to shrink, thick hands clinging to the gold brocade drapes.
“‘Smith,’ what a laugh. All I wanted was an—an identity, something beyond my father and the family and that dry, dead house, something my brothers and sister couldn’t do, couldn’t have, some way to get—to get noticed, for God’s sake—my talent’s not in Wall Street or washing machines, my talent’s in words and syllables, in commas and exclamation points—in what we say and how we say it and silences that are louder than all the words we write … that’s what I wanted, my dream, and—and the Party needs me, appreciates me. Which is more than I can say for my father.”
Miranda looked around. “He’s got enough appreciation to pay for this.”
“Because he couldn’t face having a failure as a son. It takes years to become a successful writer, years and luck and a publisher who’s willing to back you. I was on the verge—with Niles—and then the manuscript was stolen. At least—at least I’ve got my novel, and it’s good, damn good. Christ, if I can just keep Hoover off my back—maybe I should skip Party meetings for a while…”
“That might be a good idea. In the meantime, I’ll ask a friend of mine to keep her ear to the ground.”
He looked surprised again. “She a member?”
“Yes. And Smith, if I were you, I’d stay sober. Might even help with the writing.”
He pulled the robe together and shivered.
“No, you’re wrong. All good writing comes from here”—he tapped his stomach—“and sometimes a drink’s the only way you can get to it. It’s not easy, you know, sitting around, pouring out your guts and your soul on a blank piece of paper, wondering if you’re crazy or if the people who read it are—wondering if anyone will read it. Wondering if you’ll be attacked or condemned by the Legion of Decency or if you’ll be hailed as a visionary hero, if you’ll never see true success because you’re decades too early and won’t be appreciated until you’re too fucking dead to care.”
Smith shook his head. “I’d better get dressed. If I’m not mistaken, Niles’ memorial is tomorrow tonight. I’ve got things to do and I’d like to show up at least a little sober.”
Miranda started toward the door. “I’ll see you there, Smith. Like I said, I’ll do what I can to protect you. From Hoover, from the press, from the killer. But for God’s sake—protect yourself.”
“From what? Life? Forget about it, Miss Corbie. But thanks for keeping my many secrets.”
Miranda turned and locked eyes with Smith for a moment. Then the door shut firmly, swiftly, quietly in place.
Twenty-Nine
Alcatraz.
The Rock.
The hell she hoped to never see again.
Men trapped, criminals yes, maybe they robbed banks like Gardner, the gentleman bandit, maybe stole a car or maybe even killed someone. And they were shut behind steel bars, locked on an island for the safety of society and the American Way and most of them probably deserved it, some even pain and death, a snapped neck, body flailing in the wind or a jolt of electricity shuddering through their legs or a gas canister, seeping in, nowhere to run.
Whatever it took to stamp out the malignancy of their lives, lives that had taken so many others. Innocent lives, lives like Betty or Edward, lives like the Chinese women packed like rats in the hold of a ship, lives like the Jews in Germany, tortured, burned alive, Night of the Broken Glass now one long night across Europe, lives like the last black man lynched from a swamp oak in Tallahassee, Florida.
Miranda shook her head, inhaling the cigarette.
Hell, she’d hoist the rope, pull the trigger, throw the fucking switch.
Personal vengeance,
personal justice.
But this wasn’t personal. This was torture, humiliation, rape. Not in the name of a victim, not in the name of a survivor’s family, not in the name of any humanity.
No, these were men in prison guard uniforms who represented the whole fucking country.
Quis custodies ipsos custodiet? she’d asked. Hell, no one. They all wanted to forget, forget the men locked on an island, no reporters allowed. Forget the Roy Gardners. Forget the William Martins.
Forget rape.
They had it coming, the men in the boardrooms would say. They had it coming. Like the women in bars and apartment houses, offices and schools, cars or warehouses or the woods in back of the fucking barn …
Rape and rape victims always forgotten, always to blame, your fault, Susie, your fault, what did you do to provoke him? What did you do wrong?
Weapon of war directed at women, mothers, daughters, sisters, grandmothers, front-line casualties from Nanking to Poland, unseen detritus of the battlefield, never calculated by the generals, never patched by Red Cross medics, never blessed by chaplains.
Blood and pain and brutal fear, so much worse than death. So many looking for death afterward, better dead than face the shame, the shame that somehow they weren’t fast enough, weren’t strong enough, weren’t good enough, no, not good enough to be protected by whatever god they worshipped, whatever name they’d called to for help.
Their fault, always their fault. What did you do wrong?
Some lived but couldn’t bear the stirring of life from the ultimate violation of it. Others, more numb or lonely or determined to survive, carried the memory with them, carried and fed and bore it, nursed and nurtured, child of rape but loved nonetheless.
And when there wasn’t a war, no legitimate reason for killing, no sanction for murder, there was still the target on women’s backs, still the dimly lit alleys and cheap hotel rooms and backseats of cars, still the country club dances and college fraternity parties and swimming pool parties in Beverly Hills.
Still the suicides, the botched abortions.
Still the ditches where the bodies were found.
Miranda clutched the gold cigarette case in her coat pocket, clutched it tightly, thinking of the small gun inside and the first time she’d used it to kill a man.
Outside the phone booth, noises from Twin Dragons filtered through, someone ordering chop suey, a fat lady from Des Moines speaking too loudly to the Chinese waitress.
She’d call James again. See if the State Department was worthy of its title; see how far Smith was willing to go. See if they’d stop what was going on at Alcatraz.
In the meantime, there was Louise.
She took a deep breath, and dialed the number for Sally Stanford.
* * *
The crowds at the International Settlement weren’t as thick as usual—only one navy ship at port—but the House of Pisco was still packed with locals, tourists, cons and grifters, with a smattering of Pickles’ girls sipping colored water through long, red straws, looking up with big mascared eyes at butter-and-egg men from Boise.
Not bad for three o’clock in the afternoon.
“In the Mood” played for the hundredth time on the juke while Miranda threaded her way past the brunette at the bar downing a second Pisco Punch, and gave a nod to Pickles, who barely moved her red-sashed mouth in acquiescence.
Pickles didn’t name Mike “Spider” Abati as the bastard behind the sudden youth she was pushing. She didn’t have to—Sally did, and Sally was too connected to give a damn and didn’t like the competition anyway. But the redhead folded when Miranda brought it up, folded and gave her the key to Jerry’s room, freshly rented for the afternoon. Pickles felt better about it when Miranda told her Jerry’s medical condition.
Pickles didn’t like Miranda knowing her business and she liked Sally Stanford knowing it even less, but she was an old hand, and she knew when it was time to fold the tent—or cull a regular.
The stairs climbing above the right side bar were too worn to creak. Miranda clutched the skeleton key in her right hand, palms still sweaty from the showdown with Pickles. She turned to the right. Fourth door down.
The key turned noiselessly and she pushed open the door.
Jerry Alexander lay naked on a worn, rumpled bed, face turned to the window, deeply asleep. A young girl, elfin face, maybe fifteen or sixteen, bones outlined on her back, was sitting upright, stroking the hair on his chest.
She looked up and saw Miranda and screamed.
Miranda slammed the door shut and Jerry woke with a start, voice slurry, eyes bloodshot.
“Wha—wha—Keezie—where are you? Keezie?”
The girl grabbed a sheet thin enough to be tissue paper and jumped out of bed, backing into a corner like a frightened kitten.
Miranda looked at her. “Get some clothes on. You’re finished.”
Jerry finally realized there was a stranger in the room and scrambled for something to cover up with, finally clutching at a pillow.
The girl said, defiantly: “He paid me to stay the whole day. I want to stay.”
Miranda looked at her again and this time the girl threw the sheet back to Jerry and scrambled into a torn pair of underpants and a skirt.
Jerry Alexander was awake now. He sat up against the scratched, dull headboard, clinging to the sheet and the pillow, staring at Miranda, still in shock.
“Keezie—that’s your name, isn’t it? Find Pickles after you leave here. She’s got more money for you. You’re gonna have to see a doctor.”
The girl had fastened on a small brassiere and cotton sweater and her defiance returned.
“Why? I ain’t pregnant. I don’t see why I gotta listen to you—who are you, anyway? Who the hell are you, lady?”
“I’m the one who’s making sure you don’t get syphilis, kid. Get the hell out of here and do as I fucking well say.”
Keezie’s large blue eyes grew larger and darted toward Jerry, who wouldn’t look at her. She took a few breaths, looking back and forth at him and Miranda, and finally ran through the door, banging it behind her.
Miranda nodded her head. “All right, Jerry. Let’s talk.”
* * *
The light inside the Pink Rat was bright enough to reveal the stubble lining Jerry’s chin, the purple-brown circles under his eyes. He could still move well—athleticism not wholly lost, not yet—but between the syphilis and the treatments and the never-ending merry-go-round of sex and booze, drugs and highlife, he’d reach sixty before thirty.
He clutched the large coffee cup, staring down into the black liquid as though it were a crystal ball.
“How did you find me again? I—I wasn’t much awake when you told me the first time.”
“I called Sally Stanford. She said I’d find you at Pickles’. I didn’t bother to try you at your apartment.”
He slurped the coffee. “You know Sally?”
“An old friend. I used to work for a former associate of hers.”
Jerry Alexander brushed some sandwich crumbs off his fifty-dollar suit, wrinkled and stained and still smelling like gin.
“Oh yeah—that’s right. I’d heard you were—I’d heard about you.” His bleary eyes flickered over Miranda. “I remember you from that party my father threw for Smith. Sky Room, wasn’t it?”
Miranda blew a stream of smoke over his left shoulder. “Do you remember that Sally threw you out six weeks ago? Do you remember Dr. Arthur H. White, or that if you don’t keep your appointments with him you’ll die, brain and body rotted out?” She leaned forward, pointing with the stick. “Do you even remember that syphilis is contagious, Jerry? Or are you such a cold, selfish little bastard that you just don’t give a shit?”
Red flared over his face and his hands clenched into fists on the table.
“Listen, lady, it’s not like I don’t pay them—I pay them well, and sometimes I don’t even use them the whole day, sometimes I just—just mostly talk and sleep—”
“
And fuck, Jerry. And as long as you’re fucking them, you’re spreading the disease. And the girls you’re fucking, whether you pay them or not, don’t own a trust fund to pay for their goddamn medical bills.”
Watery eyes held on to hers for a few seconds, then wilted, face caving into itself. He mumbled: “Always doing something wrong, always, never ‘Good job, Jerry’ unless it’s on the goddamn football field. My—my body’s the only thing I’ve got, only thing I really own. Running to the goal post, only time my father ever paid attention and my mother … shit, she’s talked about killing herself so often I almost wish she’d just do it.”
His face constricted and he looked up again quickly. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Of course I didn’t mean it. It’s just—I don’t like Roscoe.”
“How long have they been so close?”
“I dunno. A year, maybe. Look, I didn’t mean it. I—I love my mother. But she’s been talking about driving off the Golden Gate Bridge and jumping out of planes and inhaling cyanide since I was a kid. Just seems to have gotten worse lately. And now, of course, with my dad—my dad gone…”
He turned toward the wall and swallowed hard. Miranda tapped some ash from the Chesterfield into the small aluminum tray while someone dropped a nickel in the small juke in the corner and Bing Crosby started warbling “I’m Too Romantic.”
“You know she’s marrying Roscoe on Monday.”
The coffee cup hit the Formica with a clank. “What? I can’t believe—no one’s told me—marry? Roscoe’s nothing but a lounge lizard, a, a gigolo for God’s sake … Dad’s barely cold and the bastard’s already figuring on how to steal everything out from under me…”
Tremors built from hands to arms to legs, a rumbling, roiling boil.
“And, and, my mother—goddamn it, how—how dare she? How fucking dare she? Serves her right if he knocks her off, Niles—Dad—was just murdered for God’s sake—”
Miranda’s voice was sharp, designed to derail the freight train of rage.
“So was Louise. Your father’s secretary—and your former date.”
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