One Miranda watched as the thin arm, pocked and dotted with needle points, snaked under the dirt-gummed bars of the pawnshop. Swan dance, like a prima ballerina. Except the fingernails were chipped and filthy, the muscle wasted from too much hop. She nodded to the pawnbroker, his chubby stomach still quaking, eyes darting from her to the arm. The Chinese was as rapid as his breath. Hand froze, jade necklace still dancing in its grip. She prodded the proprietor with her shoe and his eyes came back to her, wide and scared. He bit his lip, tucking small feet behind the dented stool he perched on, while she threaded her way past a scarred wooden counter loaded with cameras and musical instruments, the sleeve of a moth-eaten beaver jacket thrown carelessly over a half-eaten plate of chow mein.
Hoped she'd remember how the hell to get out of Yick Lung, Chinatown pawnshop, hoped she wind up somewhere near the small, almost invisible side door used by the embarrassed customers. The Chinese didn't like to show their faces to a pawnbroker. Too much shame. No shame for Mr. Kwok. Just a fat bank account he could spend in Quentin if he didn't play along. Dark, uneven warrens, sound of her footsteps lonely, with occasional shrill laughter from an upper story and the smell of damp kitchen slop and cooking rice drifting up from below. Right then left, up a small incline, walls crooked and peeling, right again … light coming faster, past the green door, whatever lurked behind it, and back to the shiny brass knob and wide-mouth lion guarding the home of Mr.
Leon Kwok, pawnshop owner and fence. Air. Sunlight. Chinese violin ached a rendition of "Red River Valley," the smell of spent firecrackers blending with sandalwood and incense. Her stomach growled at the thought of a fried sesame ball, and she could use a goddamn Chesterfield. Miranda took a deep breath. No time. She walked quickly around the corner to Spofford Alley and the side entrance to Yick Lung.
Men with dead eyes threw dice against a joss house, rubbing hands on worn pants, threadbare shirts. They looked away from the entrance and back again, drawn like moths, their fingers rattling the change in their pockets, dice to determine who would pawn what to keep throwing, keep alive the chance to win. A black Buick hurtled down Washington, riding the brakes, radio cranked high with Glenn Miller and Ray Eberle, punctuated by the tinny horn. Fools rush in … Miranda leaned against the brick wall, out of sight of the door, next to a poster advertising Southern Pacific Weekend at the Fair. Come out, come out to Treasure Island, celebrate the City's one hundred and sixty-fourth birthday, grand old lady, dirty old dame, naughty and bawdy, still flirts like jail bait. You want the real thing, mister, try Pickles O'Dell down on Pacific. Don't know 'bout virgins, mister, ain't got many left in San Francisco … She shook her head. Meant to find out why Pickles was pushing babies, not the dried-up B-girls she was known for.
Too busy since May. Too busy trying to make money. Too busy trying to find her mother. Miranda's gloved hand crept up to the left side of her cheek. Scar still there, small, under the makeup. Little souvenir from the Musketeers, one for all and all for one. Heil Hitler. Just a month ago.
She knew all about fools rushing in, almost rushed in to a lobotomy. Her breath was coming out quicker, shorter, and she stared at the door, shutting out memory. Couldn't shut it down at night, couldn't push the images out of her mind, Technicolor, nude girls and dead gangsters, brain splattered on a bathroom wall. Spain and Johnny and red-orange sunset, violin strings up and out, no Gone with the Wind, no Tara, no tomorrow was another fucking day. Miranda shook herself and reached into her handbag. Drew out a Chesterfield and lit it with the Ronson Majorette, one click. Thought of the woman who hired her, cool and immaculate, husband in the Bohemian Club, eyes like dry ice. Jade parure.
Missing from her home. Houseguests? Three friends up for the weekend, for the Fair. Family? Daughter and a son. Husband? Absentee. Lover? She remembered how the woman's eyes flickered, the thin white parchment skin on her lids veined blue, eyelashes black and bristled. Everything insured, of course, no scandal, nothing public, but she'd like them back, whether the daughter sold them out of spite and jealousy or the friend needed a temporary loan to pay expenses. Whether her friends weren't her friends, and her lover wasn't her lover. She wanted the jade back.
For sentimental reasons, of course. That, and the fact that it was worth fifty thousand dollars. The rich don't like to part with their money, especially if it's old and has been in the family a long time. Jeeves the Butler and the bank account. Both deserved a little loyalty. The lady was new money, studied elocution at a Los Angeles soda fountain by way of Schenectady. But her husband was as old as sin in San Francisco, and he might start asking questions. St.
Mary's chimed her bell. Son, observe the time and fly from evil … Goddamn it, something was wrong. Miranda pinched out the cigarette with her fingers. Carefully turned the tarnished brass of the doorknob. A too-skinny man in traditional garb, loose-fitting brown silk and smock, held a knife to fat Kwok's throat, his back to Miranda. The pawnbroker's arm was already bleeding from one cut, dripping on the wooden floor, held out stiffly to his right. His pudgy body pressed against an antique cherrywood wardrobe, his face contorted in a silent scream. The skinny man didn't hear the click behind him, so Miranda stuck the .
22 in his back. "Drop the knife, Randolph. Your mother wants her jade back." * * * Took her half an hour to calm down Kwok and pry Randolph off the floor. He lay in the corner, drool drying at the corner of his mouth, mouth open and mewling, looking for a pipe to smoke or a tit to suck. Scion of the rich and powerful, progeny of old money and a new shipment of heroin. The fence wanted reparations, to his arm, his person, his shop. His reputation.
Miranda handed him three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, pale scent of Narcisse Noir still clinging to the fibers. Not much hope for his reputation, she told him, but if he wanted it repaired, she could take it up with the bulls … She finally left with a miniature red granite dragon the suddenly eager-to-please Kwok pressed into her hands, toothy smile, bits of bok choy still clinging to his teeth. Jade necklace-and the matching bracelet and earrings Randolph had already pawned-were in her jacket pocket. Her fingers gripped Randolph's arm. He wiped his mouth and grinned vacuously, eyes empty. She walked him past the herbalist and the grocery shops, down Washington Street and Waverly and the Twin Dragons nightclub, "Make-Believe Island" floating from a radio, Mary Ann Mercer and the Mitchell Ayres Orchestra sounding faraway and blue. Wonderful island … where broken dreams come true … Miranda walked faster down the hill toward Kearny and the Hall of Justice, pushing and pulling the tall, thin man beside her. Make-believe island, Treasure Island, where broken dreams lay dead and bloodied, an ice pick through the breast … Randolph yelped, stopping in front of the Chinese Telephone Exchange.
"You're hurting me!" She needed a cigarette or even a Life Saver but knew better than to let go of his arm. "March, Randolph. Mommy's waiting." He made a strangled noise in his throat and she almost felt sorry for him. He dragged his feet, Chinese sandals scuffing the dirty cement. "How much are you getting?" "Not enough." "I-I've got my own allowance, I can-" Miranda threw up the arm that held her purse, flagging a Yellow Taxi dropping a middle-aged woman off at Puccinelli's Bail Bonds on Washington. "You can't take a piss by yourself, Randolph, and your allowance is all gone.
Do yourself a favor. Ask your father to spring for a doctor, and get off the juice." The taxi pulled up, dark-skinned man about fifty with black and gray stubble and a smile that was missing some teeth. Miranda opened the door, shoved Randolph inside. Leaned in through the open window, her voice low. He was curling again, shaking in the corner. "Hit up the old man. And stay away from the hop … and your mother.
" She opened her purse and gave the driver a five-dollar bill and an address in the Burlingame hills. Watched him speed up Washington Street while she shook out a Chesterfield. * * * Lunch at the Palace's Rose Room felt like a shower. She splurged on Poulet au Vin with a Tomato Surprise salad, sipped an iced tea, and tried to ignore the up-and-down stares of a businessman at the bar, chin mapped with five o'clock shadow, smile full of false teeth. A traveler left a Los Angeles Times on the chair next to her, partial to his hometown paper despite the Examiner building across the street. HITLER ENDS WAR IN FRANCE, it broadcast. Count on Hollywoodland to write a war headline that sounded like a fucking happy ending. Below the thick black letters,.