Once he was satisfied, he pulled the pipe out of his mouth and held it in his left hand. He blew out the match and then, to my surprise, popped the burnt end into his mouth. He winked at me as he did that and put the match in his coat pocket. "I learned to do that in Cuba. Spanish-American War."
Carter asked, "Does it hurt?"
The man shook his head. "You get used to it. Can't start a forest fire, which is the point." Pointing his head to the ranger station, he added, "Those kids think I'm too old to know better." He grinned. "But I know these woods better than any of 'em. I grew up here."
"Here in Big Sur?" asked Carter.
He pointed to the ground. "No, here. Just down the road. For a long time, this was the deep wilderness. We didn't get electricity until a few years ago. Of course, I didn't live on the Sur for much of my adult life. I've lived in Havana and Managua. Then Paris, before and after the Great War. Then New York." He took a puff off his pipe. "Then I came back here when all my money ran out after '32 and I couldn't get any work. I worked with my cousins. It was hard, at first, but my heart was always under these trees and I didn't know that until circumstances forced me to come back." He grinned. "Now, you couldn't get me to leave."
"You said you knew Frank Hughes?" prompted Carter.
The man looked at me. "I had the impression you were the private investigator and he was the fireman."
I nodded. "But he's turning out to be a great P.I."
"Not with leading questions like that, he's not."
I laughed and looked at Carter. "See?"
He grinned and nodded. "He's trying to teach me to let people tell their story. But I'm more impatient. He can sit and listen."
I nodded. "He's getting better."
"Good," said Mr. Pfeiffer. "I did a stint with Pinkerton's after I left the Army in aught two. That's why I was in Havana and Managua and Paris. After they discovered my true nature, I was asked to leave. That's when I moved to New York and set up my own little shop." He grinned at me. "I doubt it will surprise you much, but I met your Uncle Paul in Paris at a small club he used to frequent in Montmartre." He licked his lips. "He was quite a man. You look like him although you have your mother's eyes."
As I wondered how he would know what my mother's eyes looked like, Carter asked, "What was the name of the club where you met?" I looked up at him. He was getting better at interviews. The last time someone had mentioned that they'd met Uncle Paul in Paris, Carter had blurted out the name of the club. He was testing Mr. Pfeiffer. That was good work.
"Well, I doubt you would know of it. It disappeared during the German occupation, or so I heard. But it was a nice spot called Suzie's."
Carter nodded. "Right. That's what he wrote in his journals."
Mr. Pfeiffer looked over at Carter. "Journals?"
I nodded. "Yes, he left them to me. They're quite a read."
Mr. Pfeiffer nodded and looked up at the trees. Finally, he said, "Did he mention his contest with Lillie Coit?"
I grinned. "In great detail. She must have been something else."
"She was. Although her antics—and his—were a little before my time. And I didn't know anything about such things until I was in the Army."
I wanted to compare notes on the Army versus the Navy when it came to "such things." But, when I went to open my mouth, I noticed that Mr. Pfeiffer had closed his eyes again. We all sat for a while in the sunlight and silence. After about five minutes, the old man opened his eyes and said, "You wanted to ask me about Frank Hughes?"
I nodded but didn't say anything.
He smiled at me and gave me a wink. "Frank Hughes was some of the best candy I've ever had."
"Candy?" I asked.
"Trade."
It was Carter's turn. "As in rough trade?"
Mr. Pfeiffer sighed, and with more than a hint of irritation, said, "I can't keep up with modern slang. He was good at making another man feel good. That clear enough?"
We both nodded. I said, "Sure. Did you and Mr. Hughes...?"
"Yes. On a number of occasions. And it was all good, clean fun. Of course, I was much older than he. I was already in my 60s. The only reason I worked here was because they couldn't find a local foreman. Since I was a retired Army Captain and familiar with the area, the regional supervisor asked if I would take the job on a provisional basis." He cackled. "That lasted five years."
As he re-lit his pipe, Carter asked, "How old are you, if you don't mind me askin'?"
As he lit his match, he asked, "How old do you think?"
Carter sat for a moment and thought. "83?"
Mr. Pfeiffer puffed on his pipe and nodded. "Very good. Right on the nose."
"You don't look that old," I said.
Turning to look at me, he asked, "How would you know?" The question was a legitimate one but he asked it in such a way that I felt myself blush. It was, inexplicably, a kind of come-on.
Grinning, he said, "That'll teach you to keep those kind of opinions to yourself. The men who want to know they look young are all in their 50s. Before then, you don't give a damn. If you live to be 60 or 65, you find yourself not giving a damn once again."
I nodded. "Sorry."
He waved his pipe at me. "I'm a real son of a bitch, sometimes. Don't mind me. Now." He puffed on his pipe for a moment. "Where was I?"
"Frank Hughes," prompted Carter.
"Yes. So, we had a little thing going. He was about 30. Said he had a girl back in Oklahoma. Sent his pay to her like they were supposed to do. Twenty-two bucks a month on a salary of thirty. Of course, the government paid for all their essentials: housing, food, and clothing. The eight bucks was for making whoopee on and there weren't no place for doin' that around here, so most of 'em spent it on cigarettes and playing poker, which wasn't allowed but which everyone did."
He took his pipe out of his mouth and examined it. "This should've killed me years ago. I wonder why it hasn't." It was obviously a question he wasn't asking us, so neither of us replied. After a long silence, he said, "Then Jack Tremain showed up. And that ended my love affair with Frank Hughes." He sat back, closed his eyes, and let his face soak up more of the sun. "That Tremain was a big strappin' hulk of a man." He turned, opened his eyes, and looked at Carter. "You could've taken him, easily, but not many could." Closing his eyes again, he turned his face back towards the sun. "Tremain made his way through the camp, having the willing and then, when there weren't no more willing, he moved in on the ones he thought he could have by force. We finally were able to get rid of him after he'd attacked Frank. Left my poor Frank a bloody mess. You see, Frank had always been the one in the active role. He wasn't accustomed to the other way. I'd have offered myself to Tremain if he hadn't been such a stinkin' mess. Never did wash properly. And I can't abide that in a man. Not since my days at Cal, when I walked out for a very short while with a fellow who fairly stank up any room he walked into. Back in those days, we weren't concerned with deodorants or other such nonsense. But a good, clean man has a particular aroma, even the Negroes and the Chinese. They smell a bit different, of course, due to their difference in diet but clean is clean on any man, no matter his color. And, believe me, I've made quite a study in these matters." He cackled at that and then sat quietly for a long while.
Just when I thought he'd fallen asleep, he said, "That's when I got in touch with David O'Bannion up at the north end of the Sur. He came down, sat and talked with Frank, and hired him on the spot. The superintendent let Frank out of his contract, knowing it was for the best, and putting it under 'extenuating circumstances'."
Turning to me, he said, "The next time I saw Frank Hughes was right before the war. I ran into him in Carmel. We sat down for a cup of coffee. He told me all about Roberta coming in from Oklahoma in '36 and O'Bannion's girl child, Annie, who was about to start at Stanford. He mentioned how O'Bannion had made him see the error of his ways. That sort of thing." He frowned slightly. "He put on a brave face but I think the poor man was deeply unhappy." He shook his hea
d.
Carter asked, "Do you know why he would've tried to kill us?"
Pfeiffer sat quietly. After a moment, he said, "At a guess, I would say that he had worked himself into a state, as we used to call it. Your arrival triggered something. I haven't talked to him since Katie O'Bannion's funeral in '46, after that awful accident." He paused for a moment. "The thirty or so miles between here and there might as well be three hundred or three thousand. We don't go far, and, if we do, we go and come back in a hurry. Or we go and never come back." He cleared his throat. "Frank lost all three O'Bannions: First Katie, then Annie, then David. They were his family. And then it was just he and Roberta, which can't have been easy for a man like him. I suspect that he must have poked around Big John Reynolds's ranch. That place made this camp look like a Baptist prayer meeting. Whether Big John knew about what was happening in that bunk house is a secret that he took to his grave. But, living as close as he did, I can't imagine Frank Hughes not sneaking in some night and partaking of some of what was there for the asking. I was never there, but I heard the stories."
He turned and looked at me. "Speaking of stories, Henry Miller told me a very interesting one on Sunday night over the most delicious canned goose liver I've eaten in quite a while. He said it was courtesy of the two of you and that he told you to go to Paris and I have to agree with him. You have to. It's getting too dangerous for you here."
I shook my head, trying to adjust to the sudden change in his conversation. I could feel the same paranoid and panicked feeling that had come up the previous Saturday.
Carter asked, "Why do you think so?"
Pfeiffer looked at his pipe. "It's in the wind."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I don't expect you'll believe me, but when you get to be my age, you'll begin to notice how things tend to happen in cycles. I'd say this country has about five or so more years of this ridiculous return to normalcy. We did this back in the '20s after the Great War and that brought about the Depression. I don't think the same thing will happen again. Not a Depression. But something equally revolutionary is on the horizon. I won't be around for it. But it should be a real doozy, whatever it is." He cackled at himself one more time. "In the meantime, there's another few years of more repression for those of us who are members of the third sex. It won't last forever. Who knows? Maybe someday you'll be able to marry. I don't know. Something is changing, but it will get worse before it gets better."
I looked over at Carter. His face was lined with worry. Feeling irritated, I turned back to Pfeiffer. "Is that all? Just theory and philosophy?"
Looking at me with an arched eyebrow, he retorted, "Don't be a fool, Nicholas. How do you think I came to be here, right as you walked by? I may be older than Methuselah and live on the edge of the Earth, but I still have my fingers in lots of pies all over the world. Hoover has finally decided you're a thorn he wants to pluck. Isn't that enough? I heard they tried to trap you with a honey-pot by selling you an aeroplane full of listening devices. Seems like your men found them all. Or that's what I heard." He snorted. "If I'd been in charge of that operation, the two of you would be sharing a cell at San Quentin on felony sodomy charges courtesy of the State of California. But that's Hoover all over. He's a lout and a fool and keeps his job thanks to blackmail." He stood. "Time for you two to take me home."
. . .
He owned a small house that backed up to a grove of redwoods about a mile from where Henry Miller lived. Carter had helped him into the passenger front seat while I sat in the back. Other than giving Carter directions, he was quiet on the short drive. Once we arrived at his house, he turned to Carter and asked, "Would you be so kind as to scoop me up in your arms like an eager bridegroom and carry me inside?"
Carter looked back at me. I nodded. He said, "It would be my pleasure." He got out of the car, walked around and opened the door for Pfeiffer. Reaching in, he pulled the man into his arms while I got out behind him.
As we walked up the steps of the house, Pfeiffer leaned against Carter's chest and wistfully looked at me. "Don't forget this trick, Nicholas. When your man is gone, be sure to ask a young, strapping buck for such favors. They're always more than happy to do so."
I laughed. "I plan on going first."
Pfeiffer smiled sadly but didn't reply.
Chapter 21
14301 Deseo Drive
Los Angeles, Cal.
Thursday, November 17, 1955
Half past 7 in the morning
I opened my eyes and rolled over. Carter was stretched out on his back, one thick leg on top of the covers and one under. I propped my head on my left arm and watched as his chest rose and fell.
Just over his hairy chest, I could see the sliding glass door that led to the patio in the back of the house. The sun was up and the blue sky was clear. As we'd driven down Highway 101 the day before, we'd first encountered the smog that blanketed the area just east of Ventura. The house, situated off Beverly Glen Drive and just below Mulholland Drive, was above the smog line.
I carefully rolled out of the bed and walked over to the door. The architect had cleverly arranged for the line of sight beyond the back of the yard so that your attention was drawn to the Pacific Ocean off in the distance. But, on that morning, the smog was already so thick that it wasn't visible. I was grateful we were up above it all. We had smog, from time to time, in the City but it was nothing compared to the Southland.
Right then, I realized I could hear someone walking around in the kitchen. The aroma of coffee hit my nose at the same time. I pulled on my shirt and trousers from the day before, slid open the glass door, and padded outside. The pool at the end of the patio looked inviting in the morning light but the stone under my feet was cold as was the morning air, so I retreated back into the bedroom and closed the door.
Carter sat up and blinked. "Morning, Boss. How is it outside?"
"Just as chilly as it was last night. I don't think we'll be swimming today."
He grinned and tilted his head, looking at me.
"What?"
"I was thinking about last night. I was remembering how good it felt when—"
A sharp knock at the door interrupted whatever Carter was going to say.
I called out, "Yeah?"
A heavily-accented voice asked, "May I come in?"
Carter groaned slightly, pulled the covers over his legs and mid-section, and turned on his side in order to hide the obvious.
I grinned at him and said, "Yeah, Oscar. Come on in."
The door opened and a man in a morning suit walked in carrying a tray. Putting the tray on the chest of drawers by the bed, he said, "Good morning Mr. Nick and Mr. Carter. How are you?" The man stood about 5'7", was trim, had very short dark hair, and sported a thin mustache. He was our butler, cook, and house manager.
I replied, "Good, Oscar. How are you?"
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Nick. Coffee?"
"Yeah."
"It is black, no?"
"Two sugars."
He poured a cup for me and added the sugar as Carter asked, "How's Hans?" That was Oscar's long-time German lover.
Oscar handed me the cup and said, "He is good, Mr. Carter, Thank you. Coffee?"
"Please. Black."
Pouring, Oscar said, "How are you?"
"Good," said Carter as he took the cup and had a sip.
Looking at me, Oscar asked, "The scrambled eggs and the chewy bacon?"
I nodded over my cup. "Did Marnie talk to you?" We'd stopped along the way and called Marnie to let her know where we were and what we were up to.
"Yes. Mrs. LeBeau call and say you coming. She is very nice."
I grinned. "Yeah. And efficient."
Looking around, Oscar asked, "Where your clothes?"
Carter sat up. "There's a trunk full of them in the car outside." We'd had dinner the night before in Santa Barbara and then pulled up around close to midnight. We were both exhausted so we'd left the trunk in the car. "But it's a big mess
. And all our clothes in the closet are for summer. Do you think you could find something for each of us to wear today?"
Nodding, he said, "Yes. I wonder at strange red car in front of house this morning. Mercedes is now repaired and in garage. Hans and I get two weeks ago." He was referring to the blue Mercedes sedan that Carter had bought in the summer and then proceeded to wreck within the first couple of days of owning it. It had taken a while to repair, since many of the parts had to come from West Germany.
Carter said, "Thanks, Oscar."
He bowed slightly. "My pleasure. Now, I get clothes then prepare breakfast. Thirty minutes, I think."
I smiled. "That's fine. Thanks again."
He smiled in reply. "You're welcome."
. . .
We were sitting at the dining table, just off the kitchen, when the phone rang. I stood, walked over, and picked up the receiver since Oscar was in the bedroom trying to sort out our clothes.
"Yeah?"
"Hiya Nick! It's Roz!" That was the actress, Rosalind Russell. She and her husband, Frederick Brisson, a producer, had become friends of ours over the previous year. She'd also become friends with Louise, Carter's mother, because of some work they'd done together, raising money for The March of Dimes.
I grinned. "Good morning. How are you?"
"Ducky. How long are you two in town for?"
"Just a couple of days. How'd you know we were here?"
"The jungle drums, dear boy. Actually, I was just chatting with Louise this morning and she mentioned that you and Carter drove down the coast from Big Sur yesterday. Freddie and I read all about everything in the papers. I'm so glad you're still with us. What an adventure you've had!"
I laughed. "Yeah. It was something else."
"Look, we're booked for dinner tonight but Freddie has already cleared his calendar for luncheon. I'd suggest that we meet by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel but it's awfully chilly today."
"Why don't you two come up here? I don't think you've seen the place and we're above the smog line."
"That won't put you out, will it?"
The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16) Page 19
