San Diego Noir

I pulled the bourbon out of Bill’s desk drawer at the office and poured two fingers into a tumbler. Then I added a third. The bite of the tan fire on my dry tongue was bracing. I had chided Bill for his now-and-then habit of a drink during working hours, but now I completely understood.

What next? So far I knew that Mary had left her clothes and other items behind and had gone without saying goodbye to anyone. Mrs. Smith had been awfully fast on the mark to get rid of her stuff, cleaning out her room shortly after she left. The red notations in the ledger matched up with girls who seemed to have no local ties and had also moved away from the house. The town was full of workers from the Midwest who’d left small-town life for good jobs at the aircraft factories.

Like Mary.

I pulled the list of names from my handbag and started making phone calls. After working my way through the personnel departments of all the factories with my story of checking employment references on a group of girls who wanted to rent a house together, I learned that they had all left their jobs with no notice, just didn’t show up one day.

Just like Mary.

Then I called the coroner’s office. Ten minutes later, saying goodbye and promising a home-cooked meal for Bill’s buddy there, I hung up and looked at the list again. None of them had shown up as bodies. It was as if they’d vanished into thin air.

Just like Mary.

I had a pretty fair idea that something was afoot in that old place, but I had no proof. All the girls with Ys on their paperwork had disappeared. Except for me. Was I next on this filthy list? Was I slated to die just because I seemed to be alone in a strange town? I slammed the glass down so hard that the pencils lifted and resettled in their holder, and the phone jumped off the hook.

That’s it, I decided, and reached for the phone to call Mike McGowan at the police station. I knew the number by heart—Franklin 1101. Bill had had me commit it to memory before he left. “If you’re ever in over your head, doll,” he’d said with a clownish half-grimace, “you call Mike, got that?” I’d laughed, shaking my head, and quivered my bare shoulders in mock fear. He’d just looked at me and given me a big kiss hot enough to melt the North Pole.

We were in love, and he was going away. The next morning he took a cab to the navy base, got on his ship, and I hadn’t seen him or heard from him since.

I started to dial—and then hung up. What would Mike say to me, half in pity? No habeas corpus, no crime. Bill wouldn’t go running to the cops, not before he had proof. I knew what I had to do—go back to the house and find something concrete.

I sighed as I changed out of my dress and back into my Rosie the Riveter dungarees.

Downstairs on India Street, the day was just winding down. People were heading toward the Waterfront Bar to have some beers. Sailors three and four together were laughing and talking too loud. The driving beat of “String of Pearls” pulsed from a radio. A newsie announced, “Allies take Salerno! Get yer late edition here!” I bought one and tucked it under my arm.

The iron monger rode down the street in his old buggy with the run-down nag, calling, “Rags, iron, any old iron!” Mr. Papadopoulos from the Greek café came running out of the house with an armful of rusty Model T parts.

A streetcar jangled up the tracks and I ran to catch it. “That’ll be a nickel, lady.”

I pulled out my coin purse. “Transfer, please,” I said.

“Okay, Rosie.”

I read the headlines while holding on to a canvas strap as the car swayed and bounced. One man, seeing my amateurish clinging, vacated his seat and with a patriotic salute waved me to it. I smiled and settled in to read the paper.

That night, before I allowed myself to lie down on the narrow bed, I again pushed the suitcase against the door. My mind sparked with thoughts, like men flicking cigarettes in a dark room. I tossed and turned, and as the first hints of dawn came through the edges of the blackout curtains, I dropped into a leaden sleep.

I had breakfast with Nancy in the musty dining room—three cups of coffee and a heel of bread with a scraping of margarine on it. We were the last ones at the table and Mrs. Smith was looking at us balefully. As soon as we began to slide our chairs away from the table she pounced on it like a vulture and began to clear it off.

“Come with me,” said Nancy, leading me to a back door and down a short flight of steps to the backyard. The yard was still in full summer dress, even thought it was September. A profusion of datura and morning glory tumbled over the back fence. Arches and paths ran around rosebushes heavy with nodding blooms; day lilies, carnations, and lobelia grew out of cracks, and paths of wood chips and slate stones wound round lush lawns.