City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (5 page)

The Italian held her off at arm’s length, looking her up and down with a critical eye. Her long cream-colored velveteen coat hung open, revealing a spring green silk evening gown with a plunging neckline and fabric gathered delicately at the shoulders, not quite the same model as the one she’d been shot in on the Gayway. Matching green gloves reached almost to her elbows. She wore a pearl necklace with matching earrings purchased last year and her hair in a chignon. A small orchid clung to her left temple.

“You, how do you say it, make me not breathe. I think I never see you look so beautiful, even when you work. Will you be visiting Vicenzo tonight?”

“
Grazie,
Raphael. No wheel, just dinner. I’m meeting some friends.”

He held his hand up to his heart and gave a small bow. “You favor us,
mia cara.
Joe will be happy he is here to see you tonight.”

He pushed open the chromium double doors for her. Marie wasn’t working hat check. The redhead in her place smiled sprightly.

“Coat to check, Miss?”

Miranda was slipping out of the long velveteen wrap when she heard the redhead titter and felt a hand on her bare back. She spun around to find Gonzales holding the coat.

He looked down at her, brown eyes warm, teeth white and perfect.

“Miranda—you look lovely. Allow me.”

He passed the coat to the redhead, who was staring at him, jaw slack and eyes misty. Gonzales handed Miranda the ticket, his fingers brushing hers.

“Thanks. You’re a little early, Gonzales.”

He bent over her hand, tuxedo jacket stretched tight against his wide shoulders, scent of leather and lime from his skin.

“We have much to discuss.”

Well-bred cough behind her. Clark clicked his heels together and bowed, blond comb-over stiff and in place.

“Miss Corbie. The usual table?”

Gonzales’s voice was pleasantly firm. “Not tonight, if you don’t mind, Miranda. I would like to start someplace new. Please give us a table near the orchestra.”

Miranda shrugged, nodded to Clark. The maître d’ clicked his heels again, ignoring Gonzales entirely.

“Very well, Miss Corbie. Follow me, please.”

Gonzales took her elbow, leading her between the giant faux-marble columns of the grand entrance and down the steps to the main floor, golden light dripping from the giant seashell sconces, smell of Fleurs de Rocaille rising from tables carefully positioned between large potted palms.

The band tonight was sweet swing, a slight, balding man leading a feeble rendition of “That Old Feeling,” while a few of the older couples moved stiffly around the dance floor. Gonzales, smiling, held out the chair for Miranda.

She shrugged again, sat down. Clark looked from one to the other and handed them menus, frown line between his eyes. He leaned in toward Miranda, voice low.

“Should I tell Joe you are here, Miss Corbie?”

She looked up, surprised. “Of course. I don’t need a menu, Clark. Just make it the usual.”

Gonzales bent forward attentively, black hair thick and lightly oiled, shining where the light caught it.

“Miranda … if you permit me, I’d like to make a recommendation. The
Lobster Fra Diavolo
with ravioli,
antipasti misti
to begin.”

She looked up at Clark. He pursed his lips and nodded.

“The lobster is very delicious.”

Miranda frowned, locking eyes with the tall brown-skinned cop in the custom tuxedo.

“I said I’d have dinner with you, Gonzales. That doesn’t mean I check my decisions with the coat.” She tilted her head up to meet Clark’s wide smile. “The usual, Clark.”

Gonzales laughed, showing his teeth. “Lobster for one, then, please. And perhaps you will at least allow me to order some wine. A dry red wine, I think. Château Margaux ’29 would go very well with your steak.”

“I will see what we have, sir.” Clark spun on his heels and marched to the bar, throwing them a backward glance.

She took out her cigarette case. He held out a gold-plated lighter and clicked it on. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, while she held his hand and lit the stick.

“Is wine part of police training now? Or just a little something you picked up along the way?”

He laughed again. “I hope that cigarette case doesn’t contain your Baby Browning.”

“I don’t need a gun with you. You learned your lesson the first time.”

His grin grew wider, the white of his teeth contrasting with the firm tanned skin.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Thank you for agreeing to meet me tonight, Miranda. Though I still don’t know why you would not let me escort you here.”

“I was busy. I work for a living. You did too, once.”

He waved a hand. Perfectly shaped nails with a faint polish.

“I still work, Miranda, you know that. We’ve met once already since I returned from Mexico, and still you do not allow me to take you anywhere. Am I such a bad driver?”

He laughed again lightly as she watched his throat muscles tighten, the play of the tux against his arms and shoulders. More lime and leather, mixed with mint and French cigarettes. He reached across the table with an easy motion and picked up her hand. His fingers were warm and strong.

“But I am glad you are here tonight. With me.”

She pulled her hand away. “Don’t get carried away.”

Jorge and another waiter she didn’t recognize appeared with a large plate of prosciutto, peppers, mozzarella, and sourdough bread, along with a bottle of wine.

Jorge bowed to Miranda. “The
antipasti misti
are compliments of the house, Miss.” He turned to Gonzales, lithe body shifting into a stiffer posture. His lip curled slightly.

“We do not carry Château Margaux, sir. We can offer you a Burgundy from the Sonoma Mission Winery, or a wide variety of the most excellent cocktails.”

Miranda said: “I’d like a Blue Fog. What about you, Gonzales?”

He stroked his thin mustache. “Open the Burgundy, please.”

Jorge uncorked the bottle with an extra flourish, pouring a small amount into a glass. Gonzales sipped it. The waiter shot a glance at Miranda, eyebrows raised, smirk on his lips. She shook her head very slightly.

Gonzales said: “The wine is all right.”

The waiters left, Jorge, like Clark before him, casting a backward glance at Miranda.

A fatherly hand fell on her bare shoulder. “
Carissima
,
come vai?
I understand you are here with a friend tonight.”

Joe Merello gave a slow wink and broad grin under his white derby, red carnation in his boutonniere nodding in response. He looked down at her, beaming like a proud uncle.

“Raphael tells me you are most beautiful
stasera
,
e si, è vero. Sei una dea. Una dea d’amore, forse?
”

He laughed like a cherub, clapped another hand on Gonzales’s shoulder. “You take good care of
mia bella
,
capito
? You want to play tonight, Signore, you are most welcome. You have already found
la bella fortuna.
”

Joe nodded toward Miranda, squeezed her shoulder, and ambled toward another table. She watched as he bent over the hand of an old lady in gold lamé who giggled like a schoolgirl and made Betty Boop eyes, eyelashes fluttering madly.

Gonzales leaned forward, voice low. “I don’t understand why you will not let me take you to the Mark Hopkins or Bal Tabarin. They have far better food and music, and no gambling.”

Her eyes flashed green. “These are my friends.”

He reached out for her hand again. “I am also your friend, Miranda. Don’t worry, I won’t report Joe.”

She pulled her hand out of his grasp. A short brunette was warbling “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” and a few more couples got up to fox-trot. Gonzales cocked his head.

“Are you all right? Would you like to dance?”

“No. I want to hear more about Mexico and the Fifth Column situation.”

Gonzales smiled and poured the wine. “I shall, Miranda, but please join me in a glass first. This is not the best vintage or the best vintner, but it isn’t too bad. Red wine is healthful—much better for you than gin.”

Jorge danced up to the table, still grinning. He set the Blue Fog down in front of her, and bowed.

“Anything else, Miss Corbie?”

“Not right now, Jorge. But I’m expecting another friend soon, and he’ll want a drink.” She watched Gonzales, voice slow and deliberate. “Mr. Sanders.”

Jorge backed away, smile broader, extra bounce as he glided off. Gonzales set the wineglass down slowly, red flush highlighting his cheekbones. His tone held a hint of reproach.

“Sanders is joining us? When did this develop, Miranda? I thought…”

She crushed her cigarette stub in the glass ashtray. “I said I’d eat dinner with you, Gonzales, not go on some kind of moon-and-spoon date. I warned you the first time. I even gave you a nosebleed.”

She sipped the Blue Fog and held his eyes until he looked away, anger and hurt tightening the line of his jaw.

“You already played your dramatic scene, gave your best Rhett Butler imitation before you left for Mexico. We picked it up again last week, and I let you. I shouldn’t have.”

“Miranda, I—”

“Let me finish. So you’ve kissed me a couple of times. So what? You saved my life, you’re a good cop, and yes, I like you. I consider you a friend. That’s why I’ve met you twice, why I want to hear about your work. But I’m not Scarlett O’Hara or Eliza fucking Doolittle, and I don’t need to be told what to eat or what to drink, and incidentally, where to sit, and yes, I have a college degree, and yes, I’ve heard all about the so-called finer things in life. I’m not impressed.”

“I only mean that I want you to have the best, and—”

“You don’t understand, Gonzales. The Club Moderne is part of who I am. Joe took me in when no one else would. And I’m comfortable here. I work here.”

He looked down at the wineglass, red drops dripping down the inside slope. His lightly accented voice was low and hoarse.

“You don’t have to work, Miranda. You have a choice.”

She set the highball glass down with a clink.

“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you’re either drunk or stupid. I’m going to forget you said it and move on.”

His large hands balled into fists. More red flushed his cheeks.

“I will not forget it, Miranda. I know you feel something for me, as I do for you. Your touch … your body does not lie.”

Julius’s Castle, last week, last time they’d met. First time after Mexico.

He’d told her about intercepted cables and shadowy men in corner
tabernas,
of swastikas and Spanish dancers. It was the stuff of Hollywood, a John Buchan novel, and she remembered how his eyes shone, how he’d held her.

Clear night on Telegraph Hill, colored lights of San Francisco winking back at them while he kissed her, hand on her breast, tongue in her mouth, his hips pressed to hers. Heart in her chest, in her ears, making her shake, roaring like distant bombs, pulse artillery-fast, and she pulled away gasping, not yet, not yet …

It’s only a paper moon …

Rip down the curtain, charade over, no nights in Madrid, no olive grove, no Johnny, no, just a rich, good-looking cop who saved her life and felt oh so good against her skin, but that wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

Her voice was even, lips a red gash against white skin, auburn hair burning under golden light.

“I like you, Gonzales. But you live in a different world, and it’s not mine. Never will be.”

He pulled a gold-plated cigarette case out of his tuxedo pocket. Lit one of the brown-tipped French cigarettes. His hand shook a little. He avoided her eyes.

“I spoke to my mother about you when I visited home. She advised me against a formal relationship, but I stand by what I said. You do not have to work, Miranda. I want to marry you. I am in love with you.”

The room spun, seashells and warm beaches, palm fronds and Palm Beach, golf on the coast, skiing at Sun Valley, newest dress by Hattie Carnegie, fresh from the twice-yearly trip to Manhattan. Bloomingdale’s and I. Magnin, the May Company and Bullock’s, Marshall Field’s and a special jaunt to Chicago just to buy a goddamn hat.

Tall, dark, and handsome, looks just like a movie star, whispered conversation and schemes from the blonde in the country club bridge tournament, that Mark Gonzales is a Mexican, but one of the good ones. Wife’s history, though … why, Nancy said she was actually a
whore
! Can you believe it? And he seems so nice, and good-looking, too …

She looked up at the earnest, somber man in front of her.

Searched his eyes, but Miranda Corbie was nowhere to be found.

She drained the Blue Fog and the room spun again, the band starting to play “Someone to Watch Over Me,” and it was Paul Whiteman at the bandstand and Sherman Billingsley at the next table, Walter Winchell scribbling on a napkin for his next column, 1936 and marcelled hair and silk gowns with sheer, silk stockings. The music ached, oh it ached and throbbed and filled her with such joy, such ineffable joy, an echo of the man who held her in his arms, tall dark and handsome, Irish grin, white teeth, hard muscles on his arms from working at the docks, from growing up in New York and fighting his way out.

To the
Times.
To the Stork Club.

To her.

Johnny.

She said: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. I like you, Mark, but I don’t love you, and I never will. I don’t think you love me, either, not really. You don’t know me.”

His shoulders sank. He reached for her hand. She let him.

“I could try to, Miranda. May we remain friends?”

She withdrew her hand, gave him a sad smile.

“I hope so.”

*   *   *

Gonzales left most of the lobster untasted, drank three more glasses of wine, spoke little and about trivial things, the department, when he was going back to work, about the possibility of a transfer to Los Angeles when he was through with the Dies Committee. Miranda ate the steak, green beans, and scalloped potatoes methodically, trying not to listen to the voice of reproach, of guilt, reciting a memory of his hands on her skin, and how her pulse had raced against his long, lean body.