lighter sputtered, and one of the uniforms stepped forward with a lit match, while another one sniggered. Miranda grabbed his hand for a moment, looked up, and said, “Thanks.”
She inhaled, leaning back in Grogan’s chair. Said it casually. “So you didn’t actually see him take Susie.”
Lois Hampton fixed her large brown eyes on Miranda’s, all reproach and a mother’s dignity, surrounded by the faint odor of Choward’s Violets and Sen-Sen.
“Miss Corbie-I didn’t need to see him. I know. My daughter’s in danger.” She bent forward, placing a gloved hand on Miranda’s sleeve. “Please-please help me.”
Rick wasn’t at the Press Building. Miranda hung up the payphone, watching husbands pull wives into the Ford Building. Hit the receiver, asked the operator to try the San Francisco News. Shook out another Chesterfield from the crumpled pack.
“Rick-Miranda. I’ve got something.”
He paused for a moment then, laughed, Irish lilt always so goddamn irritating.
“It’s not like you ever call and ask me over for a drink. What is it? Need some help with that shiny new PI license of yours?”
She struck a match on Ford’s wall.
“You were over two weeks ago.”
“Don’t worry, honey, you don’t have to ration me. What is it?”
“Little girl kidnapped by a clown.”
He whistled, and she held the phone away.
“Don’t fucking whistle. Woman’s name is Lois Hampton. Lives in the city. Five-year-old daughter, blonde. Susie. Husband is Geoff, they’ve got money. I need you to look her up.”
Silence, while Rick scribbled. “What about the clown?”
“He’s not a clown by now. I tried to tell Grogan to search the restrooms, but he’s still out looking for circus acts. Just check Lois Hampton.”
He hesitated. “Miranda-”
“Yes?”
“-should I look for-you know-”
“Molesters? Rapists? Another Albert Fish in a clown costume?” Her voice was heavy, and her hand shook when she brought the cigarette up to her mouth. “Check everything. I’ll call you back in half an hour.”
“OK.”
She hung up the phone, taking a last shuddering inhale of the Chesterfield. Squinted up at the giant National Cash Register, the two-foot numbers marking attendance. Twenty-three thousand and counting. A lot of them five- year-olds.
Children’s Day. Four hundred fucking acres of it.
She lost them at La Plaza. Nearest restroom was across the road at Vacationland. He’d sneak into the ladies room, use the girl as an excuse.
Clean-shaven, late thirties, dressed oddly. Maybe baggy pants and a souvenir shirt. Unless he’d planned it, and was hiding more than a trick hanky in his clown suit.
A guide stood outside, buttons still shiny on the uniform. College kid.
She asked: “You see any clowns this morning?”
He rolled his eyes. “Lady, I could tell you-”
“Don’t. This one kidnapped a little girl.”
Jaw dropped. “Geez, lady. I’ve seen maybe three or four. All the kids, you know. Children’s Day.”
“Any come in here?”
“Maybe. I’ve been moving around.”
She headed inside the curve of the building. Women’s and men’s restrooms, side by side, across from the cafeteria and barbershop.
Attendant a slow, stooped woman with a Russian accent. Da, there was a clown. Da, he come in with a child. She stroked the dollar bill like it was a pet.
The other one, younger, dark-haired, lounge help. Another dollar. Yes, miss, told him it ain’t proper. No mother, I says, and he says she’s sick in bed, and he’s off work, needs to wash up. Washed up right there in the sink. Felt sorry for him, miss. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.
Another dollar, help the guilt along.
Little girl was crying, miss. Hungry. Talked about doughnuts. What’s this all about? I ain’t done nothing wrong, miss, I can’t lose my job, gotta feed my own kids. No, don’t remember what he looked like without the face on. I ain’t done nothing wrong. He was just an average Joe, miss. Just an average Joe.
Miranda ran out of the powder room, the door banging behind her.
Doughnuts meant the Gayway, Maxwell House building, hot coffee and crullers, the Doughnut Tower’s fat red neon stripes slicing through the fog.
Couple of hundred in the restaurant, maybe forty kids. No little blonde girl. No clown, ex or otherwise. No luck. Spilled out like coffee, good to the last drop.
Miranda checked the Penny Arcade next door, then up and down the strip, past the Glass Blowers and Loop-A- Swing, the diving bell and flea circus. Her ankle twisted on a souvenir kewpie doll dirtied from sawdust and cigarette butts. She stopped, breathing hard, picked it up. Maybe from a kid in Children’s Village, the Gayway’s official nanny service, complete with on-duty nurse and riding ponies. Perfect for when the parents ogled nipples at Sally Rand’s.
She stared at the painted face. Midget Village, Chinese Village, Children’s Village. Too many goddamn villages. The clown would be in the big villages by now, San Francisco or Oakland. He’d gotten by her, gotten by them all.
Miranda walked to a phone by the Fun House and dialed Rick. Set the kewpie doll on the phone ledge.
“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.
