City of Secrets by Kelli Stanley Page A

enough, according to some of the neighbors.”
    Miranda nodded. Shoved the napkin aside and stood up.
    â€œThanks, Rick. I mean it.”
    He pushed himself up from the narrow bench, juke crooning Miller’s version of “Stardust.” One of the secretaries from the police pool was draped all over a big Irish cop, eyes closed, moving to the music. His callused hands, freckled, rough, held her like a piece of blown glass.
    Rick stared into Miranda’s eyes. “Be careful, Randy.”
    She flinched. Said briefly: “I always am,” and walked out through the doors of the Last Chance Saloon, ancient wood and hinges creaking, swinging into the night.
    *   *   *
    The cop at the turnstiles was too busy helping a stooped old lady and her middle-aged daughter in baggy tweed. Didn’t know the dark-haired ticket taker by name, but he smiled and waved her through, and she pushed forward quickly, heading for the Gayway.
    Loud applause erupted from the Cavalcade building, drowning the fragments of swing from the Dance Pavilion and the thin, reedy calliope beckoning children to the rides.
    The sawdust underneath her feet felt almost as welcome as the faces that creased in recognition, patting her arm, Midget Charlie taking off his hat, bowing low, single leftover from the Village last year and now working for Ripley.
    She headed straight for Artists and Models. No beat cop outside. Found Fred but not Tom.
    His smile was hesitant. “I’m sure glad to see you, Miz Corbie. Tom ain’t here, though.” Swallowed hard, wiped his face with his arm. “They hurt him kinda bad.”
    â€œI’m here to help him—to help Pandora. Are there any girls who knew her better than others? Anyone I could talk to?”
    â€œI—I think Lucinda mighta known her some. I seen ’em talkin’ together before. The girls’ hours was always gettin’ moved around, dependin’ on which girls Mr. Schwartz liked best.”
    â€œHe like Pandora?”
    Fred nodded. “’Swhy she opened. He liked her a lot.”
    Max Schwartz was a flesh impresario that liked to preview the merchandise and buy what he could on the side. He owned and operated most of the shows that Sally didn’t … Artists and Models, Candid Camera, Greenwich Village. She flipped open the notebook in her purse, took out the thick pencil and scrawled “Schwartz” on the page. Looked back up at the large man in front of her, his head bent forward in an effort to understand.
    â€œDoes Lucinda work tonight? It’s ten o’clock,” she added.
    He scratched his ear. “Around midnight, maybe. Last show’s at one forty-five, right before the Gayway closes.”
    â€œCan I go back to the dressing room, see if she’s there?”
    â€œSure, Miz Corbie.”
    He led her through a small tunnel backstage, with a green room right off the platform where the girls waited before draping themselves in a not overly tasteful tableau.
    Two more doors on the left. He knocked. Female voice answered, raspy and bored.
    â€œYeah?”
    He opened it a crack. Another bleached blonde, about thirty-eight, dressed in a cheap purple rayon robe and sitting at a World’s Fair souvenir card table, playing solitaire. A younger brunette sat on a stool in front of a three-light-bulb mirror, rubbing Pan-Cake on her cheeks and face. They both looked from Fred to Miranda. The blonde’s expression was wary. She stood up.
    â€œWhat is it? Whaddya want?”
    Fred muttered. “We was lookin’ for Lucinda. This here’s Miranda Corbie. She used to work for Sally ’cross the way—she’s a lady detective.”
    The blonde picked up a pack of Camels lying beside the worn cards, shook one out, and lit it with a match. Blew smoke out the side of her face toward the brunette, who stared at Miranda.
    â€œLucinda’s out stuffin’ her face with a burger.