Free City of Dragons by Kelli Stanley Page A

boys in the newsroom.”
    “Miranda …”
    “As a matter of fact … fuck you, too.”
    He jerked the cigarette out of his mouth, let it fall to the ground, and crushed it with his shoe.
    “You’re lucky I know you. Although maybe I should say knew you.”
    She was watching the sweat trickle down the singer’s forehead. Rick stared at her.
    The song warbled on, the boy singing about something he didn’t know, didn’t understand, never had, never felt.
    “You’ve gotten really good at locking people out, Miranda. A college degree in three years. But you weren’t the only one who lost Johnny. And one of these times you’re gonna find yourself in an empty room with no furniture. And nothing to keep you warm.”
    She turned to watch him leave, his shoulders square and tight at the hat check counter. She watched him pick up his battered coat, covered in ash and food stains, and the old brown fedora that matched, the brim slightly too wide for his face.
    She watched him dig around for his last quarter to leave a tip, and watched him, without a backward glance to the dance floor or her, stride through the door, the Chinese doorman smiling broadly and tipping his hat.
    … if I didn’t care … for … you?
    The song set was over, the singer retiring with relief and the audience clapping with it. Miranda collected her wrap, her coat, and her hat—she never danced in a hat—put a quarter in the tip tray and headed out.
    Noise hit her on Clay, the kind you couldn’t dance to. Rice Bowl Party in full swing, the drunks in charge. High-class drinkers flitting out of the nightclubs, bees from a hive, honey for China, spiked by a dry martini and the promise of a hand job after the fireworks. Lower-class drinkers wandering, looking for a trash can or a gutter to empty their guts in, a quick blow in the alley if the B-girl could get it up.
    She stood in a doorway, planning the shortest route back to the apartment. Saw a young woman, shoulders hunched in the damp cold, hurrying down Clay Street, a dress in her hands.
    Chinese, beautiful, not as young as she looked. Hell, thought Miranda, none of us are anymore. She ran across the street, narrowly missing some screaming Stanford fraternity boys getting carted up the hill in a rickshaw.
    “Betty—Betty Chow!”
    Recognition. Then something else, something Miranda didn’t expect. Fear.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know who—”
    “Yeah, you do. It’s Miranda. We worked at Dianne’s together a couple of years ago.”
    Betty laughed nervously, clutching the silk and brocade gown she was holding. She wasn’t wearing a coat.
    “Oh—of course. Miranda Corbie, wasn’t it?”
    Miranda stared at her. “Still is. What’s wrong, Betty? Dianne treating you badly, or aren’t you with her anymore?”
    “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just late for the fashion show. I ran out without my coat on.” Voice evasive, stockings too shabby.
    “Something’s wrong. Is it Dianne?”
    Betty looked at her wristwatch, glanced up at Miranda’s face, then looked around at the street full of people. None of them seemed to be paying any attention to the two women standing on the north corner of Clay. She bit her lip, rubbing some of the Tangee off. Miranda noticed her nails were chewed, too.
    The Chinese girl seemed to reach a decision, and lowered her voice.
    “I can’t talk here, and I’m late. I’m not—not with Dianne’s anymore.”
    Miranda raised her eyebrows. Dianne and her illusions protected the women, the cloaked respectability of the tearoom and gathering place for escorts. It was usually their choice on how much of an escort they were willing to be. Away from Dianne there were no choices at all.
    “Betty—call me. I’m in the Monadnock. Maybe I can help.”
    Betty clutched the embroidered red and gold dress tighter, her body halfway gone already. Something was holding her back. She licked her lips again, her voice even lower than Miranda’s.
    “You’re gonna need some help