City of Secrets (9 page)

The smell of straw and urine carried on the cold, moist wind from the Bay.

Miranda chewed the Life Savers in her mouth and swallowed, walking over to the drunk, giving him a smile. He did a double take, made sure he wasn't dreaming. Leered at her, teeth yellow.

“Goddamn monkeys, look at 'em. I wanna see 'em swing or somethin', like the movies. How 'bout you, baby—you wanna swing wit' me?”

Her smile grew wider, and she leaned against the cage, Ozzie's package tucked safely under her left arm. “Me Jane, you Tarzan?”

He licked his lips, made a smacking noise, eyes small, piggish slits made smaller by the wide grin. “Yeah. Tha's what I had in mind.”

She stood up straight. “You don't have a mind, asshole. You're just one big mouth.” She gestured with her head toward the cage. “Leave the brighter boys alone.”

He gaped at her a few times, face reddening. “What are you—some kind of man hater?” he hissed.

Miranda looked him up and down. “Since when are you a man?”

His breath in her face was short, hot, and stank like cheap beer. She stared into the small, stupid eyes until they dropped, and he backed away, muttering, finally turning around and yelling from the other side of the midway, “Fuck you, lady!” before disappearing into the games, weaving through Gayway leftovers.

The chimps retreated to the small wooden doghouse in the corner of the cage. One sat outside it, folding its long arms around its knees. Watching her.

Henry was still ahead.

*   *   *

She walked into the main building, underneath the huge letters proclaiming CAPTAIN TERRELL JACOBS'S AFRICAN JUNGLE CAMP. No one inside, except for a couple of men in work suits, standing over a bucket with a mop and talking in a corner.

The cats were locked up in small cages housed in the rear of exhibits advertising their savage ferocity. Nero or Samson, man-eating tigers and lions, death-defying courage, lady, only twenty-five cents for a thrilling show.…

Miranda could hear the animals pacing behind the plywood.

The men looked up when she entered, and the taller one spoke. About twenty-three, clean-cut, built like a fullback for a college team.

“We close before two, miss, so we can give the animals a rest. You're welcome to look around—Monkey Mountain is still open next door.”

Her voice was dry. “I've seen it. I'm looking for Henry Kaiser, one of the trainers. He around?”

The second attendant nudged the first one with his elbow. The tall kid looked at him, then back at Miranda nervously. “I—I think he might be, Miss…?”

She let the question dangle. “Just give him a description.”

They looked at each other again. The shorter blond grabbed the mop and started in on a corner of the floor. The tall one hesitated, then nodded, sidling through a rear door.

She walked over to the blond. “You a regular, or just a summer job?”

He looked up at her, then down at the floor again quickly. “Summer job. Both of us go to Cal.”

“Why didn't you try for a guide? Cleaner work.”

He grunted with the effort of scrubbing a sticky spot on the floor. “We did. Not enough positions, and the ones who worked last year got priority.”

She nodded, watching him.

“What do you want with Kaiser?”

“To ask some questions.”

He straightened up, leaning on the mop. Wiped his brow with his arm. “What are you, lady? Inspector of some kind? Humane Society?”

She needed a cigarette. Hands were starting to shake again.

“You might say that.”

The door opened, and the tall kid came out first. Slightly shorter but stockier man followed. About forty, wearing jodhpurs and a safari-style jacket. Red stains on his clothing.

His hair was closely shaved in the back, small pencil mustache, thick neck. He raised his eyebrows and smiled broadly when he saw Miranda.

“I understand you wanted to speak to me, Miss? Is this for the radio, perhaps, or a newspaper? It's a little late, but…”

She threw on the power switch. “Actually, it's regarding a—a personal issue, Mr. Kaiser. A mutual friend suggested I come see you. Can we go someplace—private?”

His eyes were careful. Teeth straight and shiny.

“Certainly, Miss…?”

“Corbie. Miranda Corbie.”

“Step this way, please.”

He held the door open for her, making her brush past him to fit through into the narrow hallway. The two young men watched, no pretense of work. Once she was inside, Kaiser pulled the door closed with a loud clack, facing her with an ingratiating smile.

“My office is through here.”

He led her past small doorways that entered the various cages before the cramped, dark hallway opened into a storage area. Left turn, past heavy sacks of grain, potatoes, and carrots and two large freezer units. Harnesses, collars, leashes, and whips hung on the walls.

Near the loading dock was a small Airstream trailer. He skipped up the three metal steps, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door, turning to her with the smile again.

She smiled in return but stopped short of pressing against him to get through the door. Gestured with her hand.

“After you, Mr. Kaiser.”

Small sink, stove top on the left. Table big enough for two in the middle. And to the right, a trailer-sized sofa bed, pulled out. Sheets rumpled, gray wool covers on the floor.

He gave her an apologetic look as phony as the jodhpurs. “I'm sorry it's such a mess—we had an emergency with one of the elephants today. Would you mind sitting at the table?”

Miranda nodded, squeezing behind the yellow Formica ledge and placing Ozzie's package beside her. Held her purse on her lap, underneath the table. Hands were trembling. Not the smartest fucking time in the world to lay off the sticks. She opened the clasp.

“Now then.” He shifted his weight to his left hip, digging out a cigarette case from his pocket. “Do you mind?”

He thrust the shiny gold container at her. She shook her head. They looked like Parliaments.

“No, thank you.”

He lit up with a matchbook on the table, waving the match to put it out, took a puff on the stick, and stared at Miranda through the smoke.

“What can I help you with, Miss Corbie? And who's the friend?”

“A mutual acquaintance. Her name is Pandora Blake.”

Didn't flinch. Eyes narrowed, back stiff. Left hand closed to a fist. “Pandora was killed yesterday.”

“I'm glad you noticed.”

He leaned forward, voice razor edge. “Listen here, lady—what exactly do you want?”

Fuck the Life Savers. She reached into her purse and shook out the last stick in the pack, tamping it on the yellow Formica three times, watching his temple bulge. Lit it with the Vogel Brothers Meat Market matchbook.

“Just a couple of questions, Mr. Kaiser. For instance—you have a problem with Jews, or do you beat up Catholic women, too?”

His hand fell on the table with a thump, sweat dotting the small crevice above his mustache. He crushed out the Parliament in a cheap tin tray.

“You some kind of female cop? A peeper? What's your goddamn game?”

“I don't play games. I just ask questions.”

“I'm not answering your fucking questions. Get out of here before I throw you out.” He squeezed out from behind the table and straightened up in quick, lithe moves, surprising for his thick body. Banged open the trailer door. Fury poured off of him, the force pinning Miranda.

She fought to keep her breath even, tried to shrug, hands still trembling. Rubbed the Chesterfield out in the ashtray, dropped the rest of the stick in her purse. Picked up the package, tucked it under her left arm. Slow, deliberate. Sidled out of the seat and stood up, facing him.

“You're some sick bastard, Kaiser. Get your kicks from torture, is that it? Toothless old lions and naïve young girls, use your whips on whatever and whoever's too weak to fight.”

He stepped forward, mouth a snarl. His feet and face froze when her right hand came up with the .22.

Miranda shook her head. “Uh-uh. I bite back.”

A spasm hit her hand and shook the pistol. Her mouth twisted in a bitter grin.

“Not enough nicotine today. Better be careful. Now get the hell out of my way.”

He backed up two steps into the small kitchen. “I didn't kill Pandora.”

“Maybe. Maybe you didn't try to use a hot iron on one of the peep show girls, either.”

“She asked for—”

“Is that what you tell yourself? They like it? They need it?”

Miranda's hand shook again, and he stared at it, transfixed. She stepped closer to the open door. He was groping toward a small cast-iron pot on the stove. Miranda took another step. She was now parallel with the door. She waved the gun at him.

“I'm a woman, remember. You wouldn't want me to get hysterical and put a bullet through your brain.”

She moved sideways and took a step down, keeping the .22 trained on his chest. He gripped the edge of the yellow porcelain stove, eyes darting back and forth. Spittle sprayed his safari jacket.

“Whore—you'll beg me to kill you—”

She looked up at him. “I sure hope you try, Henry. I sure hope you try.”

Miranda hopped down the final step, slamming the door shut with the back of her right forearm, fingers still clutching the .22.

 

Eight

Short gasps. Legs wobbly. She ran through the darkened warehouse, praying the hallway door wasn't locked, hoping the college kids were still in the main exhibit room.

Shoved open the door, eyes blinking from the lights. Felt a hand on her arm, and she threw it off, backing against the wall, hand in her purse.

One of the kids, the blond one. Stuttering.

“I'm sorry, Miss, didn't mean to frighten—you OK? Henry show you the lions or something?”

Miranda allowed herself a laugh, pressed up against the cold cement. Glanced back at the hall doorway, started to walk quickly to the main exit.

“Is the door open? I've got to catch the last ferry.”

“I'll open it for you. But it's only two fifteen—you've got plenty of time. Last boat's not until three.”

He sprinted up to the large double doors, fumbling with the ring of keys on his belt. By the time she reached him, limping slightly, she could see the welcome darkness of the Gayway. Lights still on, but plenty of paths to shake a shadow.

“Thanks. Your friend go home for the night?”

“Went to grab a chili dog at Dinty's before they close.”

She nodded, patted him on the arm. “Good luck with school.”

He blushed at the contact, scratched his head. “You, er, work here, Miss? You ever get a night off?”

Miranda was already heading into the night, calliope gasping out a last, sad come-hither song, no children to lure, no cotton candy to tease, no Gayway until tomorrow morning. Smiled at him over her shoulder.

“You're sweet, kid. But try one of the Aquabelles.”

She shivered in the cold moisture until the fog wrapped her like a blanket, hand reaching for the remains of the last Chesterfield, buried somewhere under the .22. The blond Cal boy leaned against the door frame, watching her fade into black.

*   *   *

Second-to-the-last boat was crammed. Miranda tucked herself into a corner on an inside bench, too cold to face the wind. The small cigarette-and-magazine shop was still open, so she asked the middle-aged couple next to her to save her seat.

Rick made the front page, headline blaring,
DOUBLE DEATH—MURDER OF PANDORA BLAKE, MODEL ON TREASURE ISLAND, LINKED TO KILLING OF ANNIE LEARNER
. Nothing she didn't already know. Buried in the article, third paragraph from the top: “As yet, authorities refuse to confirm reports that the murderer wrote a word on the body of each victim, in her own blood.”

Miranda rubbed the back of her neck, hands and fingers numb with cold. Dug around in her coat pocket, pulling out the gloves she usually forgot.

Artists and Models wasn't mentioned specifically, just a “girl show.” That meant every flesh peddler on Treasure Island would be jam-packed tomorrow, sightseers lining up, asking to see the spot where Pandora Blake got murdered. Pandora would die a thousand deaths in a thousand spots all over the fucking Gayway.

She sat back, closed her eyes. Maybe someday Rick would be able to write full stories, someday when the press wasn't controlled by men who were controlled by big-budget department stores with large advertising accounts.

Wish upon a fucking star, maybe someday. Maybe someday her prince would come, too, except she'd lose him again, happily fucking ever after. Look in the Magic Mirror, lady, there ain't no one sitting next to you.

Miranda rubbed her neck again, gloved hands less cold but still trembling. She set aside the papers and woke up the counter girl, asking for a pack of Chesterfields.

*   *   *

She found a pay phone in the Ferry Building. Phoned Rick at the Hotel Empire.

He answered on the second ring, voice still alert.

“Miranda? You get anything?”

“Yeah. Congratulations on the exclusive.”

“Just tell me what you got.”

She tapped the ash and let it fall on the floor, gray blending in with the raised aluminum. Her left arm was stiff and sore from holding Ozzie's packet.

“Not sure yet. But there's someone you can check up on, see if he has a record. Couple of girls at Artists and Models fingered him.”

“Just a minute.” She could hear him rummaging around his nightstand drawer.

“Name?”

“Henry Kaiser. Works for Jacobs's jungle exhibit. Tried to brand one of the girls with an iron, but that's strictly off the record.”

Rick whistled, paused while writing. “Anything else?”

“More tomorrow, after I sleep.”

She could hear him grinning on the other end. “What's wrong, Miri? Getting too soft for the business?”