First Thrills: Volume 2 Page 6

“Sanders? You got anything?”

  “Yeah. Half a goddamn hour, Miranda—”

  “Fucking tell me.”

  He grunted. “Lois Hampton. You said the kid is five, right?”

  “Turned five last week. Why?”

  “She married Geoff Hampton, finance attorney, four years ago. Methodist service. No parents for the bride. She worked at Emporium—probably counter girl, from what the society column left out.”

  “So she married up. And the kid’s not his.”

  “Or is, but nobody waited for the license.”

  Miranda tapped her second-to-the-last cigarette out of the Chesterfield package. “What else?”

  “What the hell do you want for thirty minutes? No child killers. So far.”

  She took out the Fair lighter, lit, and inhaled, blowing smoke and watching it drift by the Headless Girl stand.

  “See if you can find a birth certificate for Susie. And call Whitney—the concession director. Lean on him for a list of clowns working Treasure Island today.”

  Rick hesitated. “Listen, I want her found as much as you do. But I can’t spend all day—”

  “Yeah, I know. Give it another hour, Rick. OK?”

  He grumbled. “Yeah, Miranda. Don’t I always?”

  She hung up the phone, staring at the two giant Ferris wheels turning side by side. Shielded her eyes to make sure. A little blonde girl and a dark-haired man were sitting in a top car, laughing.

  * * *

  Shoved her way to the front of the line, eyes on Susie, insults behind her.

  The operator leered, all teeth. “Your money’s worth, missy. One dime. I’ll make sure you get a good, long ride.”

  Miranda showed him her ID. “Stop the goddamn wheel.”

  Face red, he pulled one of the long handles. She leaned on his shoulder, the line behind her starting to whisper.

  “Step aside when you get to the car with a little blonde girl. I’ll tell you when.”

  He nodded, easing the cars to a stop, one at a time, one at a time. Three more to go before Susie.

  A fat lady in the car before them had difficulty getting out. Susie’s hat was off. The clown’s hand stroked her hair, greasepaint still filling the cracks in his face.

  Their car swung into line. Miranda poked the operator in the back with the kewpie doll, and he opened the gate, got out of the way. The clown gave Susie a small push and she walked forward. Miranda stepped in front of her, held out the doll.

  “This is for you, Susie.”

  The little girl stared at her, confused. Miranda grabbed Susie’s hand, eyes raised to the clown. He looked from one to the other, panic twisting his face. Then he jumped off the platform, running into the Gayway crowds while a woman behind them screamed.

  * * *

  It took three minutes to find a cop. She gave him Susie, ran past Greenwich Village toward the opposite end of the zone. Where the hell could a clown go to be inconspicuous? Except he wasn’t a clown anymore.

  She stopped in the middle of the grounds, breathing hard. Susie was safe. Not harmed. But the clown …

  She looked up at the complex called Children’s Village. And took out her last cigarette.

  * * *

  He was slapping on greasepaint when she walked in the room. Jumped up, shrank against the wall, eyes large without the makeup, focused on the .22 in her hand. Still sad.

  “Please, please, lady. I was just trying to see her. She don’t even know I’m her father.”

  She stared at him, smoke from the Chesterfield curling toward the cracked mirror.

  “Some fucking father. You expect me to believe you? You kidnapped a little girl, goddamn it—”

  “There’s proof. Loie’s got it. She showed it to me. Before—before she got married.”

  He wiped his forehead, his hand shaking. Sank slowly into the chair, the bare yellow lightbulb throwing shadows across his face.

  “Made me promise never to see her. Susie’s chance. Loie’s chance. My little girl could have the good things … I ain’t never gonna be able to buy her what he can. And I kept my promise. I ain’t seen her since she was a baby.”

  Miranda gestured with the .22. “Keep your hands on the counter. I saw Stella Dallas, and it plays better with a woman. You broke your goddamn promise. Why? Got religion, all of a sudden? Or did you figure you’d be Daddy for a day?”

  Face, mouth, voice, pleading, looking at her, not the gun. “Loie brought her here, to the Village. I make balloons for the kids … Loie was leaving for Sally’s, didn’t recognize me with the face and all. I stopped her, asked about Susie, but she was worried ’bout people seein’ us together. So’s I took Susie when she left, tried to—to spend a little time with her. Knew they’d probably look for me as soon as Loie figured it out, washed my face, took my street clothes with me.”

  Miranda blew a stream of smoke toward the cheap pine wardrobe in the corner, the pistol steady and pointed at the clown.

  “What were you going do with her? Tell me that—what were you going to do with her?”

  “I weren’t gonna keep her, lady. I just wanted to see my little girl. Give her some fun, something to remember her old man by. She said she likes cotton candy. Please don’t lose me my job. I like kids. I’m good with kids. Ask Anderson—didn’t he tell you? Didn’t he tell you I’m good with—”

  “Fuck the job. Worry about San Quentin.”

  Face whiter than makeup, shadows under the eyes, dark pools. Hands trembling on the counter. The Tower of the Sun carillon played the hour, “Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”

  His voice croaked, reedy, strong, sure.

  “All right. Go ahead. I’m not sorry for tryin’ to see Susie. I’m glad I did it. I’d do it again. And at least she’ll know her old man was willin’ to pay the price for seein’ her.”

  Miranda took a long drag on the Chesterfield, studying his face. He met her eyes, breathing hard, defiant. Disturb not her dream …

  She said: “Put some makeup on.”

  * * *

  She thought about Susie, and about what Susie would want. But fuck, Susie was five years old, and it didn’t matter what she’d want. Children’s Day was make-believe, and only once a year.

  At least she had a father who loved her. That put her ahead. Put her ahead of Miranda.

  She called Lois Hampton, calmed her down. Met with her privately, lunching at the Women’s Club, Susie still holding the kewpie doll. Suggested new terms for Susie’s daddy, especially with Geoff away so much. No, no publicity, Mrs. Hampton. No publicity.

  Called Rick. Got a liverwurst sandwich at Maxwell House, walked to the Owl for more cigarettes. Finally strolled over to Midget Village, watching Shorty twirl a six gun for some kids and their parents, the late afternoon sun stretching across the bay, the midgets making long shadows in the sawdust of the corral.

  A cop ambled by, stood next to her.

  “Hear you found the missing girl, Corbie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lost the kidnapper, though?”

  Miranda shrugged, opened a new package of Chesterfields. “I don’t know, Gillespie. Sometimes a clown is just a clown.”

  He stared at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

  She blew a smoke ring, watching it rise high on the bay wind, drifting above the Gayway.

  “It means Happy Children’s Day.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, and moved on.

  * * *

  KELLI STANLEY is an award-winning author of two crime fiction series. City of Dragons (from Thomas Dunne/Minotaur Books in February 2010) continues the story of Miranda Corbie—private investigator in 1940 San Francisco—ex-escort, and the protagonist of Children’s Day. Kelli’s debut novel, Nox Dormienda, set two thousand years earlier in Roman Britain, won a Macavity Award nomination, and the Bruce Alexander Award for best historical mystery of the year. Kelli lives in foggy San Francisco and earned a master’s degree in Classics. Discover more about Kelli and the
worlds she writes about at www.kellistanley.com.

  Underbelly

  GRANT McKENZIE

  Shorty Lemon poked his index finger between tiny nylon teeth and gave it a wiggle. The teeth parted easily and the brass slider ran smooth, but it still took some dexterous finger kung fu to unzip the suitcase from the inside.

  Once he negotiated the first awkward corner, the lid opened wide enough for him to peek out.

  The compartment was dark and noisy.

  Just beyond thin metal walls, a Cummins diesel roared as the transaxle drove eight massive steel-belted radials. On the other side, wind slapped against baggage doors, desperate to force its way inside. And below, the pavement whined as if protesting the weight of twenty-eight thousand pounds of fast-moving steel.

  Noise was good. It stopped the passengers in soft seats a short distance above Shorty’s head from hearing his movements.

  Shorty finished unzipping the case and stood to stretch. Even at three feet ten and one-quarter inches, a suitcase was a tight fit.

  Dressed in black cargo pants and turtleneck, Shorty liked to believe he looked as cool as Steve McQueen in Bullitt. With an excited grin, he pulled on his spelunking lamp, tightened the headband, and flipped the switch. Three super bright LEDs lit up the cabin to reveal a mountain of luggage.

  He hoped at least one of them contained chocolate. Milky Swiss was his favorite, but he had to be careful. Two months earlier he wolfed down a full box of festive Irish whisky liqueurs. The alcohol-filled chocolates had sent him into a near sugar coma and he was barely able to zip himself back inside the case before passing out. When his partner retrieved the case at the terminal, he discovered Shorty had puked all over his favorite McQueens.

  The memory still made him shudder.

  After rubbing his hands together to get the blood flowing, Shorty ripped bags open.

  He started with the largest one, but was disappointed to find that all it contained was a collection of old lady clothes. And from the look of them, they would have found more use in a landfill than in somebody’s wardrobe.

  He rolled his eyes. “Freakin’ loser.”

  He shoved the bag aside.

  The second bag contained a slick digital camera, a superthin Mac laptop, and a snack pack of Ritz Crackers with the fake cheese goop in the middle. A nest of rolled socks protected the crackers as though they were some kind of luxury treat.

  “Loser number two.”

  Shorty crushed the crackers in his hand before sprinkling the disgusting remains over the owner’s clothes. Whoever ate that garbage, he decided, deserved to wear it, too.

  He slipped the camera and laptop inside his own suitcase and moved to the next.

  Unzipping the bag, he stared at a gun … attached to a hand … pointing at a spot between his eyes.

  “Shorty.” A familiar scratchy voice was attached to the hand that was aiming the gun.

  “Twinkle?” Shorty lifted his head and exposed the gunman’s face to his headlamp. “What the hell are you doing? You’re Wednesdays on the Washington run.”

  Twinkle squinted against the light and his upper lip curled in a sneer. “Change of plans.”

  Jonathon “Twinkle” Toews climbed out of the suitcase, his gun never wavering from Shorty’s head. Shorty had heard Twinkle brag he had a quarter-inch on him in the height department, but he suspected the lying dwarf wore lifts.

  “Well fuck me blue,” Shorty said with a laugh. “This is some mix-up.”

  “No mix-up, Shorty. Big haul on this bus and I want my cut.”

  “Big haul?”

  Twinkle snorted. “Don’t play dumb. The horse is trotting cross-country, but it ain’t gonna make the stable.”

  Twinkle cocked the hammer. Even amid the blanket of engine noise, it was decidedly menacing.

  “Whoa, back up.” Shorty raised his hands in surrender. “I ain’t part of your circus, so what the fuck?”

  Twinkle snorted again. “You don’t know, for real?”

  Shorty shook his head and the light from his lamp danced around the cabin like the return of E.T.

  Twinkle resettled the hammer and lowered the gun. “Guess that’s why you ain’t packing.”

  “Exactly,” Shorty agreed. “I’m not packing because…” He hesitated, then sighed. “Really, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Heroin,” said Twinkle. “Sixty keys.”

  “That a lot?”

  “When it’s pure, uncut bone, baby. One hundred Gs a key.”

  Shorty whistled. “Six million dollars. And somebody put it on a bus?”

  Twinkle grinned, his Hollywood caps reflecting the light. “Who’s gonna rob a bus?”

  “Except you.”

  Twinkle shook his head. “’Cept you, Shorty. I work Wednesdays, ’member? The Washington run. Ask anybody.”

  As the double-crossing realization hit, the blood drained from Shorty’s face. It didn’t have far to go.

  “Keep opening bags.” Twinkle lifted his gun into the light as a reminder. “Find me the barking dogs.”

  Shorty tossed suitcases and boxes aside, searching for the likeliest suspects, until he discovered four black canvas bags with reinforced seams and heavy-duty zippers.

  “Here’s your barkers,” he said.

  “Dogs,” corrected Twinkle. He moved in closer. “Heroin is called ‘dog.’”

  “Ahh,” said Shorty as if he understood. “Because you have to be barking-mad to use it?”

  Twinkle was unamused. “You’re a lost cause. Always have been. Open the damn bags.”

  Shorty turned his attention and his headlamp to the bags. They were each locked with a tiny padlock.

  “Who, in their right mind, thinks these locks do any good?” he said. “I mean, really. You can get better ones out of a gumball machine.”

  “Just open them,” Twinkle growled. “Save the commentary for your eulogy.”

  Shorty pulled a pair of folding snips from his pants pocket and snipped off all four locks.

  “Open them,” Twinkle ordered.

  The first bag contained twenty vacuum-packed squares of white powder. The next two bags contained the same, but the fourth bag held money. Lots of it. One hundred dollar bills, crisp and smooth, bundled in packages of 50. If Shorty’s math was right, and it usually was, there were at least 120 bundles.

  Shorty whistled. “That’s not pocket change.”

  “I wasn’t expecting any money,” said Twinkle.

  “Oh, good. Can I have it?”

  Twinkle sneered. “You can’t use it where you’re going.”

  Shorty sighed and zipped up the bags. Bigger men than Twinkle had threatened him in his time, but none rankled quite so much.

  “So how you getting off?” he asked.

  Twinkle nodded toward the large loading doors that ran along the side. “I sure as hell ain’t going all the way to Boston. Open the doors.”

  “They’re locked.”

  Twinkle lifted the gun and pointed it at Shorty’s crotch.

  “I hear you only got one ball, Shorty. Want me to even you up?”

  Grumbling to himself, Shorty slipped the snips back into his pocket and returned with a stubby screwdriver that held six different bits. With the flick of his thumb, he made the Torx head shoot out of the compact handle and lock in place. Shorty settled in front of the loading door and worked his magic. Within seconds, the doors were ready to be opened.

  “What about the driver?” Shorty asked. “He’s bound to notice.”

  Twinkle cut him off with a snort. “He’s gettin’ paid enough to ignore what’s in his mirrors.”

  Shorty spun around. “So everybody’s in on this except me?”

  Twinkle grinned. “Somebody had to be the fall guy.”

  “Fuck!”

  Twinkle brought the gun barrel close enough to caress Shorty’s cheek. “What you waitin’ for?”

  Shorty heaved open the doors to bathe the compartment in blinding daylight.
A hurricane rushed inside, ripping open the lids of unzipped suitcases and forcing the loose contents to take flight.

  Twinkle screamed as a giant pair of old-lady bloomers leeched onto his face. Its breathable cotton crotch stuffed itself into his mouth and became lodged in his throat. When Twinkle finally yanked the choking garment free, Shorty’s clenched fist was closing in.

  Shorty hit him with everything he had, sharp knuckles against soft cartilage, powered by arms, legs, feet, and toes. The punch was a beauty.

  Twinkle grew two inches, his gun flying from his hand to the rear of the cabin as his nose was crushed against his cheek and his upper teeth pierced his upper lip. He flew backward, landing hard on the four black bags.

  Before he could recover, Shorty was on him again. The second punch sent Twinkle’s nose to the other side of his face and the bones in his cheek went crack.

  “You were going to kill me, you son of a bitch!” Shorty scored another hit. “How the fuck do you like it?”

  Twinkle cowered, his hands rising to cover his ruined face as snot, blood, and tears dripped from his chin.

  Shorty wasn’t in the mood for mercy. He raised his fist again, but before he could land a fourth blow, a gunshot pinged off the wall just inches from his head.

  Shorty spun to face the open doorway. A black motorbike and convertible sidecar bore down. His ex-girlfriend, LoLa, hung over the side. She fired again.

  Shorty dove behind the avalanche of luggage as the second shot ricocheted around the cabin. Cursing his luck, he peered out and felt his heartbeat stutter. LoLa was looking good in tight black leather and a silver helmet with an iconic honeybee painted on its crown. That had always been his nickname for her when they shared an apartment in the Village. She had a singing voice as smooth as honey, but a temper that stung like …

  Another bullet whizzed by his head.

  “Your ass is grass now, Shorty,” Twinkle mumbled through a bloody mouth. “My sis knows how to hold a grudge.”

  Shorty peeked from behind his wall of soft-sided cloth and cheap plastic. LoLa was closing in, her voluptuous pale bosom peeking from the unzipped V of the leather jacket as she strained against the sidecar to gain more reach. The muzzle of her .45 searched the interior for a kill.