Free City of Secrets by Kelli Stanley Page B

withholding evidence.”
    His chin was stubborn. “It’s—it’s all I got left.”
    She looked out at the dark smear that was the Lake of Nations, cry of a night bird high overhead.
    â€œI understand. But Pandora wouldn’t want you to go to jail. Do it for her, Ozzie. Please.”
    Raised his face, eyes red even through the blue green lights. “I’d better go in, Miss Corbie. I got a key to the performers’ entrance … some of the gang usually hang around after the last show gets out at ten thirty. I don’t want them seeing me.”
    â€œOr me. How about if I wait in the Court of Flowers?”
    â€œI’ll find you.”
    She nodded. Ozzie blended into the night.
    Miranda walked back through the giant Arch of Triumph, fountain gurgling in a syncopated rhythm.
    Imitation Europe. Built to last another year, then tear it all down, make way for an airport. Maybe the real Europe would be torn down by then, too.
    Flowers reflected in the spray, flowers everywhere. Fragrant reds and purples, framed in pastel and bright yellow lights, effusion, passion, love, and beauty, all screaming joy, joy and love forever, just like a fucking Miller song, like the teenagers sitting on a bench, like the old people arm in arm.
    They wanted to forget the world, keep it back. Make it stop.
    She raised her eyes to the gold phoenix on the Tower of the Sun.
    No stopping, not now. Fall, fall, fall, Humpty Dumpty and the goddamn eggshell earth, cracked and broken. Bombed and bloody.
    Their heritage, their fate, their role on the stage. Out, out, brief fucking candle, but burning like a firework they were, the ragtime jazz-time we’re in the money babies, conquer the world, conquer the Depression, make a utopia, Shangri-la.
    Her generation. Their world.
    Dying, dying, dead.
    *   *   *
    Ozzie found her standing by the pansy border. He held out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.
    â€œI’d like it back tomorrow, Miss Corbie. And then—I’ll do what you said. I think Pan would want it that way.”
    She took it from him, her face in shadow. “Thanks. I’ll bring it back tomorrow evening. Same time at the Ron de Voo?”
    He nodded. “I want to help. Please let me.”
    She took a step closer, blue and green lights illuminating the half-smile on her face. “You already have, Ozzie. If there’s anything else, I’ll let you know. You got a phone number?”
    â€œORdway 4884. That’s the hotel.”
    â€œAll right.”
    She started to walk back toward Pacific Avenue and the Gayway, and he grabbed at her arm. “Wait—are you going to go talk to Kaiser?”
    Anger, betrayal, shame. He hadn’t known about the other man. Her voice was gentle.
    â€œOzzie, this is my job. Let me do it.”
    â€œBut you might need—”
    â€œI won’t. Go on back to the Aquacade, find your friends. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    He hesitated, fists balled up, shoulders tense. Miranda said softly. “Go practice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Ozzie hung his head and walked away, dark outline finally disappearing through the Arch of Triumph and into the Court of Reflections.
    She looked at her watch: 1:15 A.M. Henry Kaiser was waiting.
    *   *   *
    She walked past Monkey Mountain, animals trying to doze under the harsh bright light of the Gayway. A few stragglers, mostly drunks wandering out from one of the flesh shows, always lining up with their hands on the bars, making Tarzan noises, making faces at the chimps. Once in a while, one of the animals would throw a pile of shit at the tormentors on the wrong side of the bars, but satisfaction was short-lived. Defense qualified as misbehavior, and one of the so-called trainers would come outside with a strap.
    Can’t have monkeys act out of place, lady. They’re losing us money, can’t risk the show gettin’ the boot. Goddamn