The Childish Churl (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 15)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "About a week. We got in on Sunday night. We're staying at the Presidio in base housing. Mighty nice setup they got there."

  I nodded. "Nice views, from what I've heard."

  "Hell, yeah." The man took a deep drag and flicked the cigarette out the window and away from where I was standing. He opened the car door and stood. He was a little taller than me and in good shape. He stretched and, as he did, his shirt and white undershirt both lifted above his waist, revealing a flat stomach and a small line of blond hair leading down the middle of his belly. I glanced up, hoping not to get caught, but he saw me. He grinned and offered his hand, "Name's Walt."

  I shook. "I'm Nick."

  I glanced over at his wife and the kids. They were all sitting on the rocks and listening as she was reading some facts about the bridge from a little guidebook. She was saying, "And then, when they finish painting the bridge, they have to start all over again. Can you imagine? What if we had to paint our house over and over again?"

  One of the older twin boys asked, "Can we paint our house orange, Mommy?"

  She laughed. "What do you think Mrs. Crowley would say about that, Ronnie?"

  He grinned. "She would HATE it."

  I looked back at Walt. He was watching the scene with a faraway expression on his face.

  "How was the drive here? Across the desert?"

  He crossed his arms, emphasizing his biceps as he did, and said, "It was fine. We came through Phoenix. Stopped there for a couple of nights with her Aunt Mabel. She has a swimming pool and everything. The kids loved it." He winked at me.

  I put on my stone face. "So, two sets of twins, huh?"

  He nodded, but didn't say anything.

  "They must be a real handful."

  He shrugged. "I'm usually out on flight missions, so she does most of the work. They're all good kids." He licked his lips and flexed his biceps again.

  I wondered what the hell he thought was going to happen. I'd been hit on by plenty of married men, particularly in the Navy, but never by one in front of his wife and kids. Trying to think of anything to say to get the man to come to his senses, I asked, "How long will you all be here?"

  His eyes widened a bit and I realized what I'd accidentally just implied. He said, "Until Friday. I have to be back on base on Tuesday morning. I figure I can make it back in time. But probably only just in time." He paused for a moment and then he leaned in a little. In a lower tone of voice, he asked, "Why'd you ask?"

  I glanced back over at his wife. She was looking out at the City while the kids were gamboling over the rocks and laughing. I could feel her not wanting to see what was happening behind her back.

  "No reason. If you want some tips on places to see, be sure to visit Coit Tower. That's the white monument over there which sort of looks like a fire hose nozzle." I wanted to add, "It was built by a woman by the name of Lilian Coit who was a friend of my Great-Uncle Paul. The two of them spent several years competing to see who could bed more firemen. And she lost." But I didn't say that. Instead, I added, "And, if you can get a babysitter, you should take your wife to the Top of the Mark. That's—"

  His smile faded. "Everyone knows about places like that. Any guide book'll tell you."

  I shrugged. "I've never been a tourist here, so I wouldn't know."

  "Look, buddy, I've been trying every way I know how—"

  "I know what you're up to." I looked him up and down. "And, if I was free, I'd be happy to give you my number." I shrugged. "But I'm not."

  He gave me a lopsided grin. "You married, too?"

  I nodded. "Sure am."

  "Is she a real bitch, like my Georgia?"

  The way he said that felt like he'd hit me in the face. I turned and looked at her. She was sitting on a rock, pointing out something to the girl, who was nodding at whatever her mom was saying. I turned back and said, "You know what?"

  "What?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

  I walked up, looked at him in the eyes, and let him think I was finally interested at last. His smile widened. I pulled back my right hand and, before he knew it, gave him my famous right hook above his left kidney. He looked at me in shock at first and then doubled-over in pain but didn't say anything. And I knew he wouldn't. He couldn't claim that I'd come onto him, otherwise he would have slugged me first.

  I walked over to Georgia who looked up from her spot on the rock with a smile.

  "Excuse me, ma'am. I hate to bother you, but your husband seems to be having a problem over there."

  She looked around me, saw him doubled over, and looked up with a resigned expression. "Kids," she said, "Go get in the car. Right now." Her tone of voice meant business and they did as they were told without saying a word.

  I reached into my wallet and pulled out all the big bills I had. It was right at a thousand dollars. I said, "This is for a divorce lawyer."

  She shook her head. "I knew what I was getting into when I married him."

  I nodded. "That may be, but he's a real son of a bitch."

  She laughed bitterly. "You're right about that."

  I smiled as she stood. I pushed the money on her. "Take this. Put it away for a rainy day."

  "I couldn't."

  I nodded. "Yes, you could."

  She hesitated and then let me give it to her. She folded it up. I moved so he couldn't see her, just in case he was up already. She stuffed it in the pocket of her pink pants and said, "Thanks. What's your name?"

  I smiled and offered my hand. "Nick."

  She blinked a couple of times at me as she shook. "I know you."

  I nodded and said, "Sure. You need anything, I'm in the book. Williams. Sacramento Street."

  She stepped back. "Really?"

  "Yeah. Really. No one deserves an asshole like that."

  She pursed her lips. "Deserve him or not, he's what I've got." She paused. "For now."

  Chapter 10

  1198 Sacramento Street

  Wednesday, October 12, 1955

  Just before 6 in the afternoon

  I walked into the kitchen from the garage. Mrs. Strakova, our cook, was standing over the stove, stirring something in a big pot. She looked up and wiped her hands on a towel. "Hello, Mr. Nick. How are you?"

  I smiled and said, "Better. Just had a long drive in the country and now I'm home and hungry. When do we eat?"

  "Half past 6. Tonight we have beef stew with bread and salad. Mr. Carter ask that I make the Tutwiler Cake, so we have that, too."

  I nodded and said, "Good." That was a special dessert she'd come up with based on something Carter and I had run across in Australia. Her version was a thick and moist chocolate cake, filled with whipped cream, and covered on the outside with shredded coconut flakes. The dessert it was based on was called a lamington. And the person who'd served us our first one went by the name of Mrs. Tutwiler. She'd been murdered while we were there so, when we'd told Mrs. Strakova the whole story, she'd made her own recipe and christened it a Tutwiler Cake. I thought it was more than fitting.

  "Will you and Mrs. Kopek be eating here tonight?"

  She nodded. "Yes. The others have gone to the cinema. I offer to make dinner but they want to go to cafeteria before the show." She shuddered slightly. "This, I do not understand."

  I laughed but didn't say anything. I could understand the sentiment. Carter and I sometimes craved a trip to Gene Compton's Cafeteria every now and then because the food wasn't as rich as Mrs. Strakova's could be. Every one of her meals was a masterpiece. But sometimes I just wanted a turkey sandwich and some soup.

  . . .

  As I walked down the hall towards the bedroom, I could hear the television. I poked my head in the TV room and saw Carter hunched over watching the news.

  When he saw me, he stood, walked over, and switched off the set.

  "You didn't have to do that for me," I said.

  He nodded. "I know. I was done anyway." He walked past me without offering me a kiss or much of anything. I followed him to the bedroom.
When we walked in, he turned and said, "I think I'm gonna sleep up in the Sapphire Room tonight." That was one of the bedrooms up on the third floor.

  I looked at the big bed, built by my grandfather, and capable of taking anything Carter and I could get up to. "No. I'll sleep in my room, tonight. You sleep in here."

  He shrugged. "Suit yourself." Walking into the bathroom, he closed the door. After a moment, I could hear the sound of him relieving himself.

  I stood there for a moment, unsure what to do next. Finally, I decided to go have a look at my bedroom. I walked down the hall and opened the door on the right. Closing it behind me, I looked around.

  The room was long and narrow. A single bed was pushed against the wall, under the three windows that looked out over Sacramento Street and Huntington Park. A small desk and chair were pushed against the wall on the opposite side from the bed.

  Technically, it was a guest room, but it would have been for a guest we didn't like very much. The bed was small and there was a very old bedside table which should have been broken up for kindling. We'd replaced the mattress the summer we'd moved in. But the rest of the furnishings were from my childhood or before.

  Everything had been given a fresh coat of paint and was up to date, including the wiring. I hesitatingly touched the lamp and laughed in relief when it didn't zap me. I examined the cord and saw that it had been updated at some point. I presumed Zelda, the old housekeeper, had taken care of all that at some point after I'd been kicked out. But I'd never asked my father about it and he'd never told me.

  I stood and looked around the room again. It suddenly seemed odd that I hadn't really spent much time there in the fifteen months since we'd moved into the house. I tried to remember if it was the same room my father had grown up in. I knew he'd told me at some point, but I couldn't recall what he'd said.

  The one thing substantively different about the room was that it had a built-in closet at the far end. It was something which hadn't existed before I'd left. I'd never even looked inside, so I opened the door and was surprised by what I saw.

  The closet was wider and deeper than I was expecting. There was a pull-string switch for an overhead light. I yanked on it and looked around. All my toys and books, or most of the ones I could remember, were stacked neatly on shelves. I moved around and looked for the one thing I was hoping to find.

  After a moment, I could see it on a lower shelf in the far back corner. It was a big wooden box with a brass clasp which held the lid closed. I pulled it out and carried it into the room. Putting it gently on the bed, I brushed away the dust, pulled open the clasp, and lifted the lid.

  There they were. All my soldiers. Each one of them, just as handsome and perfect as I remembered them. I lifted the captain out and looked at his face. I could remember the nights I'd lain in bed and dreamed of meeting someone like the captain. He stood about six inches tall and was carved of wood. His face was almost as handsome as Carter's. He had green eyes and black hair with a thick mustache painted above his red lips. Like all the soldiers, he wore white pants, knee-high black boots, a blue coat, and a pointy hat. I knew he was the captain because he sported a red sash.

  I gently placed the captain on his back next to the box on the bed. Next, I took out the two lieutenants. They sported light blue sashes and were both blond with blue eyes and no facial hair. I placed them, together as always, at the end of the bed. I'd always thought it proper. They were a couple. That was the way I'd always seen them. They were handsome enough. They reminded me of Andy Anderson, a childhood acquaintance of Carter's and Henry's who'd been an agent for the F.B.I. before he quit to come and work for us. They were handsome, like Andy, in a nondescript way.

  I looked for the four sergeants. They were a rowdy bunch. Their faces were square, instead of long and aquiline, like the lieutenants and the captain. They had dark hair and dark eyes and sported dark green sashes. For whatever reason, I'd always thought of them as visiting bars in old Shanghai, down by the docks, and getting into fights. That was probably based on some movie I'd seen. Of course, since there were four of them, they made two couples, so I laid them out accordingly.

  The rest of the soldiers were corporals and privates. Whoever had carved them hadn't put as much detail in their faces as he did with the sergeants, the lieutenants, and the captain. I tended to treat them as cannon fodder. That was a term I'd read in some book or learned about in school. I was shocked the first time I heard a couple of marines talk about themselves using that phrase. One of them was missing his left arm. It was one of those moments, during the war, when the reality of what we were doing became obvious. It wasn't a game. It was real life.

  I'd always guessed that the soldiers were from the Napoleonic era. They were Prussian, or so my father had told me when he'd brought me the set from Germany in '32. He'd found them in Berlin in an antique shop. They were probably a hundred years old, even then.

  When I'd first opened the box, I just stared at them. They almost looked real to me. I didn't want to touch them. My father had pulled them out, one by one, and told me their ranks.

  Even after I'd brought them up to my room, I still didn't want to play with them. After a couple of years, as I got older and began to mature, I began to see them in a different light. They became part of my nighttime fantasies, spent in the very bed I was sitting next to. I had gazed out the windows and imagined what it would be like to be surrounded by so many handsome men, all in uniform...

  I laughed out loud. Suddenly, so many of my peculiar interests made sense. In many ways, Consolidated Security was like my personal box of toy soldiers. Cops and firemen, instead of soldiers and sailors, but it was the same idea. I started thinking about how I was going to describe that thought to Carter and then remembered I wasn't going to be doing that. Not anytime soon.

  . . .

  Dinner was delicious, of course. As we usually did, we ate in the kitchen with Mrs. Strakova and Mrs. Kopek. Carter took the lead and asked them question after question about the old country, Czechoslovakia. I always enjoyed hearing their stories. They'd grown up together and had been through a lot over the years.

  Once dinner was done, I stood and started gathering the plates. "I'll wash the dishes tonight." Mrs. Strakova had already washed the one pot. There wasn't much to do, really.

  Carter stood and said, "I'm going to see Henry. I'll be back in an hour or two. Since my car is still at the office, I'll take the Roadmaster."

  My stomach clenched when he said that. I wondered what they would talk about. But I just said, "Fine. See you when you get back."

  Without saying anything, he opened the back door and headed down the stairs to the garage. As I was piling the bowls and spoons in the sink, I heard the garage door open. After a moment, it closed again and I sighed.

  I turned on the faucet and plugged the sink. As the water rose, I sprinkled some soap flakes in and swirled them around with my right hand.

  "So, Mr. Nick. You tell us about it, huh?" That was Mrs. Strakova. She was leaning against the counter, looking at me.

  I turned and saw Mrs. Kopek sitting at the table, with her arms folded and her face full of concern. "What's to tell?" I asked.

  Mrs. Strakova reached over and turned off the faucet. "You sit. I get brandy."

  I laughed and said, "Fine." My laughter died when I saw her walking towards the wine cellar door. "Wait." Although we lived in the house, my father still owned it and he used the wine cellar that was directly under the kitchen. He'd made it very clear that we were not to touch anything down there. And, for the most part, we'd followed his instructions.

  She waved me away. "This is my brandy. Not father's. Mine."

  I shrugged. "OK." I sat at the table and dried my hands on a towel.

  Mrs. Kopek stood and said, "I get glasses." She walked over to the cabinet and pulled down three small juice glasses. Walking back to the table, she said, "The sadness hangs over this house. I can taste it and I do not like the taste."

  I nodded. "
Me, neither. And it's all my fault."

  She put the glasses down on the table and took her seat with a harrumph.

  Right then, Mrs. Strakova came up from the basement. She was carrying a small, clear, corked bottle. It was about half full. The liquid inside was a reddish amber.

  She pulled the cork out and poured out about half a glass each. Mrs. Kopek and I each took a glass. I swirled the liquid under my nose, trying to figure out what it was.

  Putting the cork back in, Mrs. Strakova put the bottle on the table and picked up her glass. She said something in Czechoslovakian which Mrs. Kopek repeated. They both had a long sip.

  I lifted my glass in the air and said, "Cheers," not sure what else to say. I took a sip. The brandy tasted like summer. There was no other way to describe it. It was fruity but there was some flavor I couldn't quite figure out. But it was a big flavor and it was heady. It was almost medicinal. A little bit of the stuff would go a long way. "What is this?" I asked.

  "Brandy from the red plums of Mrs. Jones," said Mrs. Strakova.

  I was impressed. I sniffed my glass again. That time I could tell what it was. But the aroma was richer and deeper than anything I would have imagined a plum could be. I took another sip. It was warming, that was for certain.

  "So," said Mrs. Strakova. "What is the argument you two have?"

  I shrugged. "I said some awful things and they hurt Carter. I don't blame him. I'd be hurt, too."

  Mrs. Kopek nodded and looked at her glass. "You can hurt him more easily than he can hurt you, no?"

  I nodded. "I suppose."

  "No. You know this."

  Looking down at the table, I thought about it for a moment. Finally, I said, "Yeah. I can't imagine Carter ever saying what I said today."

  Mrs. Strakova slammed her fist on the table. "You must apologize, Mr. Nick."

  I nodded. "I did already."

  "And what he say to you?"

  "That he needed some time to think."

  "So that is why he go see this Mr. Henry, no?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. They're old friends."