The Childish Churl (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 15)

by Frank W. Butterfield

Mrs. Kopek looked up. "How old? How friends?"

  I shook my head. "It's not like that."

  Mrs. Kopek took another sip of her brandy. "You boys and your friends. So many. Just like my Ivan." That was her son. We called him Ike. And he was down in Soledad at the state penitentiary, finishing up a prison sentence. He'd been caught making and distributing pornographic films. He was supposed to be out on the twentieth of the month. I was looking forward to seeing him, as was Carter. His lover was Sam, who had been in the meeting earlier that day. He was an older man who'd grown up in the same town as Mrs. Kopek and Mrs. Strakova. He was really looking forward to having Ike home again.

  I said, "I know. It's different from what you're used to."

  She waved her finger in the air. "No. Not different. Love is love. But I think Mr. Carter should not go see Mr. Henry. He should stay here. Sit with you." She lifted her glass. "Have some brandy. Talk over things. This is what I do with my husband. We talk and talk until we settle. Then we sleep."

  Mrs. Strakova added, "Yes. Never sleep on anger. No good."

  "No good," added Mrs. Kopek.

  I had a sense that the plum brandy was hitting them both pretty hard. I'd only drunk about a third of mine. My head was spinning a little already. It was heady stuff. They were both about done with theirs.

  I said, "You're both right, but I have to let Carter do what he needs to do. This happened before. Once."

  "Yes?" asked Mrs. Kopek.

  I nodded. "It was in the summer of '48. Carter was going to a conference in Sacramento. I drove him up there and then left him there the next morning. He didn't like that, so he hitchhiked his way back into the City and came to find me in my apartment. I was upset by then and had gone for a long walk. When I got home, he was standing in the living room."

  Mrs. Kopek nodded. "And that night was good, no?"

  I smiled. "Yes."

  She smiled back and pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured about half a finger of the brandy in her glass. "You see," she said. "He find you tonight. When he come home. You see."

  Mrs. Strakova said something in Czech. Mrs. Kopek handed me the bottle and said, "Please to pass." I did as she asked and watched as Mrs. Strakova poured a small mouthful into her glass.

  She put the cork back in the bottle and looked at me. "You like?

  I nodded. "Yeah. But it's strong."

  "Yes," said the cook. "It will make you sleep tonight."

  I smiled and said, "Good," as I took another long sip.

  . . .

  I glanced at my watch. It was half past midnight. The brandy wasn't helping much. I was stretched out in my old bed, just as I'd done for years and years. I was looking out the windows and listening for the sound of Carter's big feet coming up the stairs.

  I turned on my side and stared at the soldiers in the dim light from the street lamps outside. I'd set out the captain, his lieutenants, and the sergeants. They were keeping watch over me. The corporals and the privates were in the box, on the floor, waiting to be called for if needed.

  The captain, with a face that I had committed to memory, seemed to be concerned about something. I wondered if he knew what was happening. I wondered what a Prussian captain of the guard would have thought about Carter and me. He most likely would have been disgusted. Then I remembered my time in the Navy. He would have been disinterested. That was more likely. He would have known, would have seen how such things could happen between men in the field, and simply not wanted to know the details.

  But as I looked at his handsome face, I was sure he did know and he did understand and that he did care. He looked worried. I knew it was my imagination or, maybe, a trick of the light. But I felt better for it.

  . . .

  "Nick?"

  I opened my eyes and looked up at Carter. He was kneeling on the floor in front of me. His left hand was on my shoulder and he was squeezing it affectionately.

  "Hi there, Chief. How was Henry?"

  "Mad at me. How are you?"

  I smiled a little. "OK. Why mad?"

  "Because he thinks I'm an ass and that you're a saint."

  "I'm no saint."

  Carter leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips. "Thank God for that."

  . . .

  When I opened my eyes, the morning light was filling the room. I'd forgotten how bright it could get in that room in the morning with the curtains pulled back, as they were.

  Carter's right arm was draped over my chest. His long, thick right leg was holding my two skinny legs tightly against his left one. He was snoring lightly in my ear.

  I looked over at the captain standing at attention on the desk. He seemed to be smiling once again.

  Chapter 11

  1198 Sacramento Street

  Thursday, October 13, 1955

  A quarter until 8 in the morning

  I stood in the shower, letting the water run down my back. Carter was looking down at me with a gleam in his eye that was familiar and made me feel warm inside. He slowly began to grin. From what I could see, looking him up and down, he had one thing on his mind.

  When he'd crawled into bed behind me the night before, we'd just lain there and talked. He'd kissed me on my neck and ran his hands over my chest but that was as far as we'd gone. Barely to first base, really.

  But I could see a home run in my future as Carter moved towards me and lifted my chin with his left hand. He kissed me gently, at first. But his passion became stirred and his kisses more urgent. After a long moment, I realized the phone was ringing.

  "Damn," said Carter. He didn't move and he didn't stop kissing me.

  "It's the market calling for Mrs. Strakova. Or maybe someone calling about the wedding."

  He began to kiss me all over my face. "I'm sure you're right."

  We stood there, under the shower head, and continued to ratchet things up. After a minute or so, I heard a polite knock on the bathroom door. It was open but I didn't turn around.

  Carter put his arms around me and pulled me into his furry chest. With a growl, he said, "Someone better be dead or dying, Gustav."

  I laughed as I heard a very timid voice say, "It is the police. For Mr. Nick."

  "Can he call them back?"

  "I think there is someone who has died."

  I sighed and said, "You stay here. I'll handle it."

  Carter opened his arms and said, "Gustav? Can you bring Nick a towel?"

  . . .

  "Yeah?" Under Gustav's stern eye, I had dried my hair and my hands and was standing next to the bed with the towel wrapped around my waist.

  "Mr. Williams?"

  "Yeah?"

  "This is Sergeant Bullston at the Mission District station. We have a corpse here. There's no identification but there is a piece of paper in the man's pocket with your name on it. Ring any bells?"

  I had a hunch. "Very tan?"

  "Could be. We were wondering if he might be Egyptian or something like that."

  "My guess is his name is David Grossman. He worked for Bechtel. His wife lives in Mill Valley."

  "Client of yours?"

  "Nope. His wife came to me on Tuesday and said he was missing. We checked with Bechtel and they said he'd been due in on a Monday flight after a trip to Africa. We made some inquiries and discovered he'd been on the flight, had gotten off, and was met by some man before he walked into the terminal. The man had hustled him off. The stewardess who saw the whole thing said she thought the man was maybe F.B.I. He'd been on T.W.A.'s flight 35 from Chicago. I think that was the plane that had a bomb on it."

  "What? A bomb?"

  "Sure. Didn't they find a bomb in the hold of a Super Connie yesterday at the airport?"

  "Not that I've heard of. Look, maybe you could come down here and talk to the lieutenant and identify the body."

  "I can come down, sure. But you'll need to find someone else to identify him. I've never seen him in my life. I'm sure someone from Bechtel could do it. Save the poor widow the heartache."

&
nbsp; "Sure, right." I heard a voice in the background say something to the sergeant. "Say, Mr. Williams, my lieutenant is on his way out. Maybe he can come to you?"

  "Sure. 1198 Sacramento. Corner of Taylor."

  "Right."

  "Who's your lieutenant?"

  "Lieutenant Nathaniel Thomas. He worked on that house fire of yours on Hartford Street back last year."

  "Sure. And didn't you and I talk back then? About Lysander Blythe? The one who tried to convince you he set the fire?"

  "That was the one. Poor sucker. They killed him anyway."

  I sighed. "Yeah."

  . . .

  Carter and I were dressed and eating our breakfast at the dining table. Since we were expecting Lieutenant Thomas, we'd decided to eat there instead of in the kitchen.

  I was cutting into a piece of ham steak, when the doorbell rang. Before I could stand, Gustav was out of the kitchen like a shot.

  I looked over at Carter. "He's eager."

  Carter swallowed a mouthful of eggs and said, "Not as eager as I am. When this cop leaves, you and I—" He jerked his thumb in the direction of the stairs.

  I grinned and nodded.

  Right then, Gustav walked around the corner and said, "Lieutenant Thomas."

  I stood and said, "Thanks, Gustav."

  He stepped over by the kitchen door and waited.

  The lieutenant came around the corner, looking annoyed. He was about 5'9", was wearing a tan trench coat and a crumpled brown hat. His green tie was loose and showed a yellowing collar on his white shirt. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and would have been clean-shaven, if he'd had a shave. He also smelled like he needed a shower.

  I offered my hand as Carter stood. "Lieutenant, I'm Nick Williams." He shook my hand with a rock-hard grasp. "And this is Carter Jones." They shook. "Breakfast?" I asked.

  The lieutenant leaned over and looked at our plates. "I won't be puttin' anyone out?" The tone of his voice didn't match his face or his appearance. It was soft and southern and instantly charming.

  I shook my head. "Nope. How about some scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and biscuits with red plum jam?"

  He grinned slightly. "Can I get the bacon chewy?"

  I laughed. "Around here, any time of the day or night. How about coffee?"

  "Sure, thanks."

  I looked at Gustav, who nodded and walked into the kitchen. Pointing to the chair to Carter's left, I said, "Have a seat."

  He did that and Carter and I followed suit. I said, "Sounds like you found the missing Mr. David Grossman."

  Lieutenant Thomas nodded. "I think so. Sergeant Bullston is calling over to Bechtel to see if someone from there can identify the body before we have to bother Mrs. Grossman. Hate to do something like that if it isn't necessary."

  I nodded. His voice was almost lyrical.

  Carter asked, "Birmingham?"

  "Montgomery."

  Carter nodded. "My sister-in-law is from Tuscaloosa." He was referring to Michelle Richardson who was married to Kenneth, Ed's oldest son. In a way, she was my sister-in-law, if I considered Ed to be my stepfather and Kenneth my stepbrother. And I did, even though Ed had never married my mother. But it gave me a small thrill to hear Carter use that phrase to describe Michelle. It also reminded me that she and Kenneth, their son, Jimmy, and Kenneth's brother Bobby and his wife Peggy, would all be arriving later in the day. They would be staying with us. I made a mental note to check on things with Gustav and Mrs. Kopek about making sure everything was ready.

  Lieutenant Thomas offered half a grin. "I know you're from Albinny." He pronounced Albany the way the natives did. "Got some cousins down that way by the name of Johnson. Maybe you know them? My second cousin is George Johnson. He owns the Buick dealership in town."

  Carter and I both stiffened a little. We'd met George Johnson when we'd been in Albany.

  Lieutenant Thomas laughed softly. "I'm just joshin' with you. Of course you know cousin George. Last time I saw him, he was tellin' me all about these two nigger-lovin' faggots who came to town to solve a murder. He sold 'em a Buick a thousand over list and ate out on that story for a month o' Sundays." Looking at Carter, he said, "I believe it was your daddy who got pushed into that big saw, wasn't it? I heard it was a closed casket at the funeral. And then your mama left town to move here, didn't she? Now's she gonna marry some no-tell Yankee, from what I heard. Small world, ain't it?" He looked down at his fingernails. They were dirty.

  The whole time he'd been talking, his voice stayed soft and just as lyrical as when he'd first opened his mouth. The ugliness of his words were almost softened by the tone of his speech. Almost softened.

  I took a deep breath and looked at Carter. He was rubbing his jaw, which wasn't a good sign. It meant he was about to slug the cop.

  I stood and said, "Lieutenant, why don't you and I go into my office? Gustav can bring your breakfast in there when it's ready." I put on my high-hat voice. It came in handy, from time to time.

  The lieutenant shrugged and stood. "Ain't no skin off my back. I just have a few questions for you anyway. I'm sure it won't take more than five minutes."

  I walked around the corner and towards my office without waiting to see if he followed me. I could hear the squeak of his leather shoes on the marble floor, however.

  When I walked into the office, I leaned against my desk and crossed my arms. Thomas ambled in a few seconds later with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Hope I didn't ruffle any feathers with Mr. Jones."

  "What do you need?"

  He pulled out a grimy notepad and the stub of a pencil. "Why'd a dead man have your name on his body and nothing else?"

  I shook my head. "I have no idea. We've been trying to find him. His daughter and wife asked us first. And then the security team at Bechtel asked us, as well."

  The lieutenant looked up. "I find it hard to believe that they would ask some faggots to do a man's job."

  I shrugged and didn't reply.

  "Were you able to track his movements?"

  I recited what I could remember off the top of my head, starting with him leaving Southern Rhodesia all the way to his arriving at the airport here. I finished up by asking, "How was he killed?"

  "I'm the one asking the questions. Who were these stewardesses you interviewed?"

  "Irma, Jenny, and Carol."

  "Last names?"

  "You'd have to ask T.W.A. We were at the Tonga Room. That's where we'd heard they liked to spend the evening."

  He shook his head and licked his lips. "I do like those stewardesses. Any of 'em attractive?" Before I could reply, he laughed. "Look who I'm askin'. Well, never you mind, Mr. Williams." He looked down at his notepad. "Anything else you can tell me?"

  "I don't think it was the F.B.I. who met him at the airport."

  "Why's that?"

  "They only travel in pairs on official duty."

  "Who do you think it was?"

  "I have no idea."

  Right then, Gustav appeared with a cup of coffee, which he handed to the lieutenant. It was only the cup. No tray and no saucer.

  I asked, "Where's—?"

  Gustav interrupted me. "Out of eggs and bacon and toast. All gone." His voice was curt.

  I nodded, trying to suppress a grin.

  Apparently the coffee was lukewarm at best, because the lieutenant drained his coffee cup in one gulp. He made a move to hand it back. Before Gustav could take it, the lieutenant grinned and dropped it on the wood floor. It bounced and then broke into a couple of pieces as we all watched. I could hear the china crunch under his shoe as he made his way towards the entry hall. Without turning around, he said, "Thanks for your help, Mr. Williams." He pulled the front door open. "We'll call you if we need anything else." With that, he was gone.

  Chapter 12

  Offices of Consolidated Security

  Thursday, October 13, 1955

  A quarter until 9 in the morning

  "What we need in this office are some drapes."

  C
arter and I were sitting on the sofa. He was on my right, had his left arm around me, and was kissing me deeply. He only spoke when he came up for air. We had decided to come to the office instead of going back upstairs to finish what we hadn't even started. After that encounter with Lieutenant Thomas, I wanted to talk to Mike.

  There was a knock on the door. Carter came up for air and loudly growled, "Come back at 9, goddam it!"

  The knock was repeated and then the door opened a crack. I heard Marnie timidly ask, "Nick?"

  Carter let me go and sighed. I couldn't stand up and I knew he couldn't either. I said, "Come in at your own risk."

  Marnie slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Her eyes were bulging.

  "Everything OK, doll?"

  She shook her head. Walking over, she handing me an ivory business card with gilded writing.

  Lord Gerald Whitcombe, D.S.O.

  GROsvenor 6772

  London, W1

  I looked up as I handed the card to Carter. "Is he alone?"

  She shook her head again. "There's a woman with him. She's about Mother's age."

  "But no cops or marshals?"

  "No."

  I sighed with relief. "Can you ask them to wait for a couple of minutes? And can you make some coffee for us?"

  She nodded. "He talks just like in the movies."

  I grinned and said, "Good to know."

  . . .

  The man walked in with a woman behind him. She looked a little surprised by the view but he didn't give it a second glance. Offering his gloved hand, he asked with a grin, "Mr. Nicholas Williams, I presume?"

  I nodded. "How are you..." I hesitated, not knowing what to call him.

  He grinned. "If we were on the old sod, you'd be right on the money with Lord Gerald. But here in the wild west of San Francisco, I'm just plain ole Mr. Whitcombe." He added with a twinkle in his eye, "Since 1782, that is. But there wasn't a San Francisco then, was there? And this territory was more in the line of Spain, certainly not jolly old England, what?" Turning to Carter, he offered his hand, "And you must be Mr. Carter Jones."

  Carter nodded as they shook and said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Whitcombe."

  The man stood about 5'7" and was trim. He had graying blond hair held in place by some sort of brilliantine. I pegged him at somewhere north of 60, but he looked much younger. His eyes gave him away. They were cornflower blue and seemed to look through everything. He was wearing an oddly tailored navy suit with a vest and a striped red tie. He was holding a bowler hat in his hand. His gloves were kid gray and he was the very picture of an English gentleman, at least the ones I'd seen in the movies. Marnie had been exactly right about that. The only thing he was missing was a monocle.