Still chances to take in a night that would never end.
They walked up the steep grade on Mason, his voice as warm and reassuring as his hand on her arm and back, as the words he was speaking, as the promises he made.
Part of her listened and part of her didn’t care. She just liked the cadence, the sound of it, like poetry, the kind that might make you cry after you read it but you couldn’t stop because the words were so beautiful.
Roy was on duty and he stuttered something, Adam’s apple bobbing, eyebrows raised in surprise.
Not used to seeing Miranda gay and smiling and holding a man’s arm.
Not in this apartment, not ever.
They walked the four floors and stopped on the second landing because her shoe slipped. He caught her and they kissed, long, deep, everlasting, his hips pressed into her, his warm hand traveling up her bare back.
They resumed the climb, Miranda leaning against him, until they reached her doorway. He was still saying things, words she couldn’t hear, didn’t understand. She unlocked the door and they walked in and she shut it and he took her, took her hard, folding her body backward and kissing her, tongue in her throat, hands under the dress and cupping her breast.
She gasped, skin responding, every pore hungry, and she was trembling, every touch both pain and pleasure, and she tried, oh, she tried to shut it out, shut out the voice, shut out reason, shut it out, shut it all out …
A sound.
Maybe a car horn outside, maybe the shout that followed it.
A voice.
Maybe in her head, maybe memory, a strong voice, laughing but serious, a voice that had never tried to change her, that had never tried to own her, not really.
A voice that wanted to love her, protect her, watch over her …
A face.
She pried herself out of Gonzales’ grasp panting, holding her dress up against her camisole. He looked surprised, dazed, eyes blinking. His voice was thick.
“You—where is your bedroom, Miranda, we should—”
“We shouldn’t. Not now, not tonight, not ever.”
He blinked again. Straightened his dress shirt. Rebuckled his belt.
“Miranda, I—I don’t understand—”
A plea.
She glanced down at his trousers. Met his eyes, spoke sorrowfully.
“I’m … very, very sorry, Mark. I shouldn’t have let this happen. Truth is, I’m—I’m very attracted to you. And I like you. And, well … that should be enough, I mean, we’re both adults, and this is 1940, not 1840. But my—you know my history. It’s been a long time since I’ve … since I’ve felt this way. And I’m not sure—truly not sure—if I’m ready for it.”
He picked up her hand and held it in his. “I can help you, Miranda. Please. You know I—I asked you to marry me. The offer still stands.”
She looked into his eyes, brown, hurting, warm and deep.
Filled with desire. Filled with wanting her.
Her voice was soft.
“I appreciate that. But you know I don’t love you. And I don’t, truly don’t, believe you love me. I told you before, Mark—you don’t know me. Our bodies like each other, but that’s not enough, not anymore. I—I found it once before, a long time ago, before Spain. I found what it was like, when you loved someone, really loved him, and he loved you. And nothing was ever the same, and for a long time I never expected to ever find that again and so I didn’t care, didn’t feel. But I—I’m not that young anymore. I’m thirty-three years old and I’d like to find out if maybe—maybe it might be possible to find—find it again. I’m sorry. I’m truly, truly sorry.”
Gonzales’ tan skin paled, and he nodded. He brushed his shirt front, rebuttoned his coat. Picked his hat off the floor.
He tried to smile. “At least you did not strike me on the nose. Remember?”
She smiled. “I remember. And I hope—I hope we can stay friends.”
He took a breath. “We will be friends, Miranda. But it may be that we must be friends from a distance.” He opened her door, and started to walk through, turning his head back once. His eyes met hers.
“I hope Mr. Sanders realizes how lucky he is.”
She stared at him as the door swung shut.
* * *
Easy come, easy go …
Lee Wiley, warbling the song of life.
Miranda wiped another layer of makeup off, skin pink and white through the darker pancake foundation.
She shouldn’t have let herself go, like a free woman, like a woman with no past and no future, a woman marking time, no promises, no expectations.
She’d already lived like that, spent her youth in the backseat of cars and the dark dance floors of speakeasies, dancing the Black Bottom, downing gin from a flask.
Small pleasures, maybe, replacing the childhood spent in dresses too short and thin, trying to recapture the only joy and gaiety she’d seen and born witness to, the women with the big bustles at Spider Kelly’s, the honky-tonks and nickelodeons, ragtime piano and Sophie Tucker and the bars up and down Pacific Street.
Then came the Crash and the Depression. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men shook their heads and scratched their chins and retreated to Long Island estates and Washington enclaves, not looking out the window at the apple seller who used to own the corner market.
Misery again and plenty of it, but this time she could help, maybe, help make it better for herself and others, migrants in Salinas and Santa Clara, and she taught English and mended her clothes and saved her pennies and held her breath like everyone else.
FDR rode up on a white horse in ’32 and told everyone we had nothing to fear, and there was the NRA and a whole alphabet soup of hope, the FCIC and FDIC, the SEC and FHA and TVA and WPA and everything else the president could throw at the economy and a people hungry for food and work and clothes.
Hope and fear, fear and hope.
Miranda dabbed more almond oil on a ball of cotton.
She found hope and she found joy and fear followed, followed her to New York. Hope opened her third decade with foolhardy bravery, contagious and intoxicating and liberating. They ignored the fear, shoved it aside, let it hide in a dark corner like a neglected child.
They would liberate Spain together, she and Johnny, and return to New York riding high.
Glorious love, let’s fall in love, I can’t give you anything but love because love is here to stay, baby, here to stay until it all burned up, red and orange like the sun above Madrid, like cannon fire on a moonless night, like the smell of cordite and sweat on skin, like blood staining a Spanish street and the bandage in her hands …
Back to San Francisco, where she’d spent her thirties in one-night hotel rooms, chasing time.
Chasing time.
Then she walked into Burnett’s office and eventually into his job, changed it and made it her own, worked for Burlingame hostesses and Nob Hill strippers, worked for insurance companies and bookies and lawyers, looked for lost kids and missing memory books and the married men who kept a wife in every port.
She shook out a few more drops of almond oil and wiped the skin around her eyes.
Another wrinkle at the corner.
Her days of looking twenty-three or even twenty-five were disappearing fast. Clock’s ticking, Miranda, clock’s ticking, gather ye rosebuds while ye goddamn well may …
Gonzales would go home, take a cold shower. She’d felt pleasure in his touch, body responded faster than she could think. She wanted to have sex.
But part of her was still hoping to make love.
She was thirty-three, she told him. Running out of time, like the whole world. Would she ever, could she ever, create? Ever have a child? Should she?
She stared into the mirror, the Dorothy Gray crème still white around her green-brown eyes.
Why are you waiting, Miranda? Who the fuck are you saving yourself for?
But now that it ends, let’s be friends …
Friends.
Not Johnny enough.
And then he’d come back and he was himself, not trying to be Johnny, not trying to be anyone but Richard Sanders.
She closed her eyes.
Rick. The second man she’d lost.
Thirty-One
Miranda woke abruptly at 4:13. She sat up, glanced at the clock, eyes wide open, sweat trickling down her back.
A noise.
Bad dream? Nightmare about Alcatraz? Jesus Christ, maybe she just heard a goddamn cab horn and thought—
There—another step. Footsteps outside her bedroom, creak of the floorboards.
Fuck.
Someone was in the apartment.
Linkletter? Goddamn Linkletter?
She quickly slid to the edge of the bed, careful not to let it squeak too much. Stood up on bare feet, suppressing a shiver underneath the thin nightgown.
Neon from the Cottage Market up the street on Bush filtered down Mason and through the sides of the window curtains, pale, lurid glow of pink and yellow. A car drove by, gears grinding.
Gotta get to the nightstand, slide the drawer open slowly, slowly …
More footsteps, light but steady, then a rustle and the squeak of the kitchen door.
Miranda held her breath.
He was searching for something … and saving the bedroom for last.
Her fingers found the Astra in the barely open drawer. She’d brought it home to clean it and tucked it away in the nightstand, too busy. Baby Browning was in her purse, still in the living room.
She eased open the drawer, cradling the Spanish pistol delicately. Always too heavy and hard for her to chamber, but it was Johnny’s gun.
Johnny’s gun, Johnny’s gun …
Another squeak from the kitchen door. Footsteps were getting louder.
She lifted the Astra, balancing the weight of it, the comfort of the long barrel and sturdy grip.
Felt like all eight bullets were in there.
She only needed one.
Miranda crouched, moving sideways on the bare wood floor, bottoms of her feet sticky. She positioned herself in front of the closet, behind the swing of the bedroom door.
One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi …
The doorknob was turning. She could see it only dimly, but heard the distinctive churn of metal on metal. She slowly slid the safety lever down, fingers damp and cold against the Astra.
The knob stopped turning. Had he heard the click? Goddamn it …
She held her breath, listening for his.
No shadows moved in the shallow pool of gray light that eked under the door. He was making sure she was still asleep.
The door edge cracked and more light carved in. Not enough to see the empty bed …
Her palms were sweating. She held up the heavy gun.
The crack grew wider.
Her wrists were hurting and she was shaking like a goddamn leaf, fucking flimsy nightgown, she’d sleep in trousers from now on, what the hell was she doing, anyway, thinking she could fucking sleep?
The door was open about two feet. He shimmied through, carrying a flashlight.
Don’t make a noise, Miranda, don’t even fucking breathe …
The round beam of light shone first on the floor, then to the right, where her vanity was, lingering on the perfume bottles and makeup. She could barely make out a tall form, long coat and hat.
He tossed the beam to the window and slowly stepped forward. The flashlight traced the wallpaper, the rug on the other side of the bed, the edge of the mattress, and finally, inch by inch, to where the bedclothes were thrown back …
“Got you, you bastard!”
Miranda raised the gun in both hands. The barrel dipped toward the intruder’s gut.
He stepped back, flashlight on the empty, disheveled mattress, then trained it on Miranda’s face, blinding her.
You’re a good soldier, Randy, a good soldier …
Her finger squeezed in reflex and the Spanish pistol fired, recoil throwing her hard against the closet door.
She blinked, eyes watering, desperately trying to see.
She clambered upright, moved away from the closet door, shoulder and neck aching. The Astra was still in her hands, shaking, still pointed toward Linkletter. The dim shape across the room grunted—he was alive, then, and maybe she nicked him. She could make him out now … the bastard was stooped over, gripping his leg.
Coat was open, hat was off. The man was tall, dark haired, and stocky.
Not Linkletter.
“Fucking bitch…,” he snarled.
The flashlight was still in his hand. Before she could step forward, he flicked up the beam at her eyes again and then threw it at her.
The heavy metal grazed the side of her face. Miranda yelped in pain and stumbled backward against the closet, holding a hand up to her left cheek.
The intruder scrambled through the bedroom door, limping.
She heard the outer door slam shut.
* * *
It took a while to clean up.
He’d made a mess of things, overturning couch cushions, ransacking her purse. Her Baby Browning was still there and everything else seemed to be, too, but her face hurt too much to be sure of anything except anger and fear and a sense of satisfaction at the blood on the bedroom floor.
Her cheek was swollen—not broken, thank God—and she’d have a black eye.
Guess she could count herself lucky.
She called Roy, and he brought her bandages, ice, and some aspirin while she grilled him. Why had he allowed a stranger past the desk in the middle of the goddamn night?
The thin man swallowed hard, said a fortyish man in a dark suit and hat said he was visiting Mrs. Farber on floor three, knew her name and everything.
Miranda nodded, wincing.
She phoned Bente and the redhead came over, dragging Old Man Nielsen in tow. The quack gave her a shot, over protestation. Fisher would wait til morning, after Roy calmed down her neighbors on the fourth floor and told them a story about an exploding coffeepot.
Bente sat up in the chair while Miranda lay on the couch, morning light sliding down from Nob Hill. Images flickered through her head like a peepshow, Gonzales smiling and a blinding light, Johnny’s gun and Rick’s face, Linkletter’s eyes and a blond girl in the hospital …
“But I need to talk to Louise,” she murmured. “Need to talk to Louise.”
Bente sighed. “It’s six o’clock in the morning, Miranda. Sleep for three hours, for God’s sake. You’ll look like shit when you wake up and you don’t want to scare the poor girl.”
Miranda repositioned her cheek against the ice-filled bandage and didn’t dream or feel anything for the next three and a half hours.
* * *
She woke up to pain.
Pain in her cheek, under her eye, pain in her back and shoulders, her hands and arms.
Miranda crawled out from under the blanket and headed to the kitchen.
The smell of Hills Brothers coffee eventually woke Bente, who padded in on bare feet, eyes widening.
“Jesus. Maybe you oughta go to the hospital and get an X-ray.”
Miranda looked at her over the edge of the cup. “No bones broken. I just look terrible. Need more ice. Gotta try to get the swelling down before the Gump’s party tonight.”
The redhead yawned, pouring the rest of the coffee into a chipped mug. “Gump’s? The store for the hoity-toits? Why the hell you going to Gump’s?”
Miranda gave her friend a shorthand version of the last two weeks while the redhead trailed her from the kitchen to the bedroom. She outlined the Alexander murder, skipped over Rick except to say that she saw him, and eliminated the near miss with Gonzales.
She omitted the Cameronia, too … her appointment with Fisher was at eleven and she still had to talk to Louise. Telling Bente she was leaving the country for a blitzkrieged
England would just bring on more pain.
Miranda stared at herself in the vanity mirror, trying to keep from flinching as she ran a finger down the side of her cheek and the purple bruise under her left eye.
“So that’s the skinny. A dead publisher with a hophead wife and a syphilitic son, a missing book about Alcatraz, a secretary the world thinks has been murdered with family connections to the Rock and an ex-guard ex-boyfriend with an inclination for blackmail. Plus the Cretzer-Kyle gang, whoever’s left, and Alcatraz itself, including an associate warden and a captain who should be locked in their own goddamn holes. It’s a goddamn mess.”
“Like everything else you get involved with. So what about this creep last night? Where does he fit in?”
Miranda carefully slid a navy blue cotton dress over her head. “I don’t know. I thought he was the guard from the Rock, Linkletter. But I got a glimpse of him and I’ve never seen him before—and I don’t even think he was the killer. I mean, he didn’t pull a gun, he was searching the apartment, he didn’t move like a hood. He acted more like a … like a cop,” she finished slowly. “Like a professional … like a fucking G-man.”
She turned quickly to her friend, grimacing at the twinge in her shoulder.
“Bente, you still go to Party meetings, right?”
The redhead shrugged. “Yeah. Not as much as I used to. After the Molotov—”
“I know, I know. Listen: do you know Howard Carter Smith? He’s a writer, a drunk and a spoiled little rich boy playing anarchist—sound familiar? It’s his book about Alcatraz that’s missing—”
“Wait a minute—is he pudgy, balding, about so-big, looks like he hasn’t been laid in ten years? Wears new shoes? That him?”
“Yes—to a tee. You know him?”
“I’ve seen him at meetings. Always nervous, sweaty. A real paranoic, I’d say. Always talking about Marx and the proles and his own latest book in the same breath, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. Would you say he’s sincere? Forget the whole Blue Book background for a minute. You think he means what he says, that his politics are real?”
Bente hesitated. “Jesus, it’s hard to say … especially now. They’ve really clamped down on members since the Pact—and a lot of people left the Party because of it. I don’t go to meetings much, not anymore, whole thing just kicked my guts out. Not the same kind of give and take it was back in ’34, you know? Just haven’t gotten around to making it official, really … so yeah, if I think about it, I guess he seems sincere enough. Not a spy or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just a—a schmuck, more than anything else. A rich, dopey, desperate schmuck, craving a connection and attention. Smith the schmuck.”
City of Sharks Page 31