The Sartorial Senator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 3)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Kennedy pulled on his collar again. He looked down as he made shorthand squiggles. I wondered which one stood for the word, "fuck."

  "As far as I know, Commander Hamilton was as straight as they come."

  "Straight?"

  "Completely heterosexual. Kinsey zero."

  "Kinsey?"

  I sighed. "The Kinsey Report? The most talked about thing since the Bible?"

  Kennedy grinned for a moment and then went back to his notes.

  "And your lawyer. Jefferey Klein. He's Jewish, correct?"

  "Not religious, but yes."

  "So, you had an illicit relationship with him once you returned to San Francisco, correct?"

  "If you mean that I fell in love with him, moved into his house, shared his bed, and grew to like him more than love him, then yes."

  Kennedy was writing. "Now," He looked over at Carter. "Your present illicit relationship."

  "No."

  Kennedy looked at me. "No?"

  "No. I can't sit here and let you call any of these relationships illicit."

  "They are all criminal in nature, Mr. Williams. Sodomy is a crime in California. And, I might add," he looked at Carter when he said this, "It is also a crime in the District of Columbia."

  "The nature of each of these relationships, Mr. Kennedy, is love, companionship, friendship, shared responsibility, and a whole list of other things that any two people in love share."

  Kennedy was scribbling furiously. "Now, as to shared responsibility." He looked at me. "Isn't it true that you are now paying several homosexuals to be in your employ, including Mr. Jones?"

  Carter growled, ever so slightly. It was "high hat" time. I said, as calmly as I could, "These men are highly qualified policemen and firemen who have been unjustly removed from their jobs for the sole reason of being friends of mine. I pay them because we are forming a new private security firm. They are employees. Or they will be."

  "And what work have you done in this new firm?"

  "None. My lawyer is drawing up the papers to incorporate. We have no clients because there is no company yet."

  "So, you are paying these men out of pocket to keep them close by?"

  I noticed that this was the first question that didn't sound loaded. I replied, "Yes. They were unjustly fired and I feel a responsibility to help them. Also, it makes sense to keep someone on retainer for when you'll need their services. Just like they do in Hollywood. Or how you might do with a lawyer."

  Kennedy nodded as he turned a sheet of paper. "Now, your sister. Janet Williams. Where is she now?"

  Carter started in his seat and loudly asked, "What the hell?"

  Kennedy looked up at Carter. He had a steely glint.

  I said grimly, "She's in a jar on a shelf at my house."

  "What?"

  Carter said, "She was murdered three weeks ago. What's wrong with you?"

  Kennedy pushed back from the table and stood up. I said, "I wouldn't."

  He looked down at me as he took off his hat and coat. "I can hold my own."

  I shook my head. "You may be scrappy, Kennedy, but you're no match for my giant husband." Carter was sitting in his chair, amused.

  Kennedy looked at me with a face full of contempt and disgust. "You both sicken me."

  "Well, at least we're polite. Which is more than I can say for you."

  This seemed to get his attention. He took a deep breath.

  "Look, Kennedy. You're smart. You come from a powerful family. What are you doing in McCarthy's office?"

  He sat down. "He's a friend of my father's. And he's a good man."

  I tried not to roll my eyes. "Really?"

  "Yes. He's doing what's best for the country. He's protecting us from communism. Sometimes he looks excessive because some of my colleagues get ahead of themselves in their exuberance to defend the country."

  I looked at him for a moment. He seemed very sincere.

  Carter said, "So, it's not McCarthy. It's Cohn."

  Kennedy was surprised by this. "Well, I couldn't really say."

  I said. "You don't like Cohn, do you?"

  Roy Cohn was McCarthy's number one aide. He was the obvious power behind the throne. And rumor had it that he was, unfortunately, one of us.

  "I don't think that's any of your business."

  I stood up. "Anything else, Mr. Kennedy?"

  He looked at his notes. "No. If I need more, I'll be in touch through your lawyer. But I doubt there's anything else to talk about."

  Carter stood up. We both towered over him. I decided to step back, to give him some space. He stood up, put on his coat, and started to pack his satchel.

  "I don't think it would be a good use of the senator's time to bring you before the subcommittee. You don't seem to have any connections to the Presidio, which is where this was going. And I can't find any actual evidence of anything happening there, either. So, I would say, this case is closed."

  By this time, he was packed and ready to go. He stood up.

  I said, "Mr. Kennedy. If there's anything I can ever do to help you personally, please let me know."

  The man looked at me with narrowed eyes and asked, "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why would you say that? Do you think I'm one of those..."

  "No," I said firmly. "You should be so lucky. We're not degenerate. We're not mentally ill. We're all around you, working hard, doing good things. You just don't see us because you don't know what to look for."

  I let that settle in for a moment.

  "I made that offer because someday the senator and his lapdog are gonna turn on you. You have way too much integrity. I suspect that's why you have a reputation for being a brawler. One day you'll realize how you've been used. And, when that day comes, I'll be happy to help you out in any way I can."

  This rendered him speechless. After a moment, he grabbed his hat, turned away, and walked past Andy. As he did, he said, "Agent Anderson." Andy grinned and nodded as Kennedy walked by.

  Chapter 21

  The Willard Hotel

  Wednesday, June 2, 1953

  A few minutes before 6 in the evening

  Andy went back to his hotel to pack. He was booked on a red-eye flight back to Los Angeles. We decided that we'd catch up with him once he was out of the Bureau. Now that Carter and I were agreed, we were definitely going to bring him on board our non-existent security firm. That would mean one more weekly salary, but I was making money faster than I could ever spend it, so that was fine.

  About five minutes before six, the phone in our suite rang. It was Runson, calling from the lobby. Carter told him to come up.

  When he walked into the room, Runson took a look at us. He asked, "Are those the sharpest clothes you have?"

  I looked down at my work-a-day clothes and simply nodded. Carter did the same.

  "Well, that'll have to do. These guys... Well, some of them are pretty high class. But your name will be your ticket in, even if you don't look as sharp as they might expect you to."

  I asked, "So, what's the plan?"

  "You'll receive a call here from Montgomery at 8:30. He'll give you an address and then expect you there by 9. Once you get there, you're Nicholas Williams with his lover, Carter Jones, and you two are wanting to explore... Then you let them take over. They'll ask you the right questions. You're both smart enough."

  He looked up at Carter. "I don't know how it plays in bed, but you won't be fooling anyone if you let Nick take the lead. Your size says everything." He looked appreciatively at the muscles that mirrored his own. "Where are you training?"

  Carter replied, "Mostly at home. I have the kind of weights I want. Don't have to deal with the usual bullshit that happens in a gymnasium."

  Runson nodded knowingly. "If I could, I'd do the same thing. I go to a place up on 18th Street. Kinda rough crowd, but they have what I need."

  Carter looked at Runson for a moment. "I like what you're doing with your arms. Even under your coat, I can see the defin
ition."

  I tried, once again, not to get jealous.

  Runson pulled off his coat. His shirt was tight over his whole torso. Tight and very defining. Carter looked him over, like a rancher might look at a bull.

  Runson stretched and posed a bit, saying, "Some of this came easy. The rest I've had to work at."

  "Yeah. I know what you mean."

  They began to talk at length about different muscle groups, types of weights and routines, and what foods they did, or didn't, eat.

  I walked over to the window. From here, we could see the White House. I wondered what Dwight and Mamie were up to right then. It had to be damn more interesting than what was going on in this room.

  . . .

  At 8:30, after a steak dinner delivered to the room along with an excessive amount of weightlifting chatter, the phone rang.

  "Yeah?"

  "Is this Mr. Williams?" a refined voice asked.

  "Yeah. Who's this?" I looked over at Runson who was shaking his head. Carter looked very amused.

  "This is Mr. Montgomery. I believe you were expecting my call."

  "Oh, sure. Yeah, my... Well, we're interested in..."

  "I understand Mr. Williams. It's difficult at first to discuss these things. Might I suggest you come visit our little group this evening? Say, around 9?"

  "Yeah. That would be great. Kinda embarrassing."

  "No need to be embarrassed. We meet at a private home. May I give you the address?"

  "Sure. Shoot."

  The voice cleared its throat in a disapproving way. "The address is 2509 Massachusetts Avenue, Northwest. It's very easy to find. It's across the street from the Embassy of Japan. Ring the doorbell at the front door and the butler will admit you. Did you, by any chance, bring formal wear with you on your trip to Washington?"

  "No."

  "Well, that's fine. I'm sure you weren't quite prepared for this type of encounter. Who referred you, if I may ask?"

  I put my hand over the receiver and whispered, "Who referred me?"

  Runson said, "Tom Jefferson."

  This surprised me.

  "Tom Jefferson."

  The voice got a little chilly. "Of course. I don't know if he'll be here tonight on account of the recent tragedy."

  "Right. Sad news."

  "And, if I may, how do you know Mr. Jefferson?"

  I thought for a moment. "Through friends back in San Francisco."

  "I see. I didn't think he'd ever been there."

  "I don't think he has. But we have a mutual friend."

  "And who would that be?"

  "Well, I'd better not say. I dunno if Tom would like it."

  "Of course. Discretion at all times, Mr. Williams. Well, I've enjoyed our little chat. You be good Nicholas and we'll see you soon."

  "Yeah. Sure. At 9."

  "Indeed. Goodbye, Mr. Williams." The line went dead.

  I put the phone back on the cradle.

  "Well?" asked Runson.

  "He wanted to know how I knew Tom. But, it was something he said at the end. It was..."

  "What?" asked Carter.

  "He said, 'You be good.' Like I was a kid, or something."

  Carter smiled his broad smile. The one that makes me all weak in the knees. "He has you pegged already."

  Runson suggested, "Or he was testing the waters. Be careful with that guy. I've heard that he's crazy."

  . . .

  The cab dropped us off in front of a red-brick home. It looked colonial to my mind, but what did I know? It was two stories with windows trimmed in white. A circular brick drive was full of cars: two Cadillacs, a Lincoln, and a Silver Shadow.

  We walked to the front door. I pushed the doorbell and heard it ring from inside.

  In less than a minute, it was opened by a nondescript man dressed just as a butler should be. He looked to be in his late 50s, with graying hair. He stood erect, although not tall. And he looked very disapproving.

  "Yes?"

  "Nick Williams and Carter Jones."

  He looked us both up and down and said, "Yes. Please step inside, Mr. Williams."

  We both walked in. He took our hats and said, "Wait here." With that, he turned and walked down the hallway, past the staircase, and turned left into a room where I could hear the murmur of male voices.

  Carter said, "Cigars and whiskey by the fire, if my nose is right."

  I took a whiff and could smell the cigars, but nothing else.

  At that moment, a tall man came out of the same door that the butler had disappeared into and walked towards us.

  My first impression was of a sleepwalker whose eyes were open. He walked slowly and deliberately. When he smiled, however, it was very unpleasant.

  His teeth were perfectly straight and perfectly white. But there was nothing happy, welcoming, or remotely pleasant about his smile. It looked to me like someone was pulling his lips back and making him do something he didn't want to do.

  He looked right at me, ignoring Carter, and walked up. He was slightly shorter than Carter. He had jet black hair that was pomaded back neatly in the style that was most often seen on men about 20 years younger. I guessed he was around 45, or so. He was impeccably dressed in a tuxedo. His bow tie was perfect. His shoes were perfect. Everything was perfect.

  But he looked like an unhappy grim reaper. I had seen that before, usually in dark alleyways behind a dive bar near the docks. It was the furtive sense of never really being satisfied. It smelled bad. It reeked of desperation and loneliness and I wanted nothing to do with it.

  But we were here to find out if this man killed Michael Bushman. I knew something was rotten here. I just wasn't sure if this sad, awful, frightening man was capable of murder.

  He extended his hand and I took it. It was large and clammy. He shook in a way that said he wasn't interested in touching me but was going through the motions. It was odd. But no more odd than anything else.

  He said, "Follow me, gentlemen."

  We did just that. Carter put his hand on my neck. It was reassuring but, I suspected, he was already beginning to play the role he would be expected to play that evening.

  We walked into a room where we found seven other men. Some were seated. Some were standing. Four had cigars and were puffing away. Each man was dressed formally. One man was in white. The rest in black.

  "These are our new friends." That was all the introduction we got.

  I felt like I was in a meat market. Four of the men were inspecting me as if I was a prized pig they were thinking of bidding on at the county fair.

  The other three men were looking at Carter like they were thirsty and he was the tall, cool glass of water that would quench their thirst. One of them, the shortest of the three, walked up to Carter and asked, "Do you share?"

  Carter looked down at the guy scornfully. He folded his arms and shook his head. One of the four who'd been inspecting me, and who was standing next to the bookcase, said, "Rodney. Take a seat." The short man meekly complied.

  "Order. That's what we like, isn't it?" said the man I was assuming was Ronald Montgomery, our tall host.

  One of the four men, the one standing by the fireplace, which was roaring away in competition with the central air conditioning that was on full blast, turned to me, puffed on his cigar, and blew it in my face.

  "Money is a funny thing, isn't it?" He said that to the man standing next to the bookcase. That man nodded and looked at me. Carter unfolded his arms and put his hand on my neck again. He squeezed it.

  I waited to see where this was going. The man at the fireplace looked up at Carter and said, "Seems like you already know a thing or two about training. Nice, compliant fellow you have there."

  Carter said, "He knows how to behave."

  The man at the bookcase said, "You are a fireman, if I remember correctly."

  Carter nodded.

  Montgomery said, "Was a fireman." I tried not to visibly bristle.

  The man at the bookcase said, "That's right. Did you tel
l him to call out George Hearst? Or did he do it on his own?"

  I took a deep breath and tried to look compliant.

  Carter reached down and kissed me on the cheek. I heard the short man who'd been sent to his chair make a sound.

  A sharp, "Rodney!" came from the man by the bookcase.

  Carter said, "He does what he wants in public. I take care of things in private. We know where we stand."

  Montgomery said, "Awfully careless, if you ask me. You let him go about, calling important men names, and he gets you fired. If he was mine, he wouldn't have been able to walk or sit for a month after such an outburst."

  Carter ran his hand down my back and rested it on my ass. He spoke in his thickest drawl. "Not every punishment involves pain."

  The man at the bookcase said, "That's how I've trained my Rodney. He knows his place. But, I think it does a boy good to give him some rope."

  The man at the fireplace laughed at this. "Just enough to hang himself."

  Montgomery added, quite seriously, "Or not quite hang himself."

  The four standing men all chuckled at that joke. I was trying very hard not to start punching. Whatever had awakened inside me the night before was now very much wanting to get out and take charge of the room. I hoped the ferocity I felt wasn't burning through my eyes. Just to check, I turned and looked up at Carter. He looked back at me for a long moment. Then, without warning, he quickly backhanded me across the face. It was loud and didn't hurt much.

  "Very smart, Mr..." the man at the fireplace stopped himself. "Mr. Fireman."

  Carter rubbed his hand on the place where he'd hit me. "He knows his place. Just needs a little reminder, from time to time."

  I looked down. I studied Carter's shoes for a moment, while trying to sort through all the emotions.

  When I looked up, I saw that Montgomery had moved across the room so that he was in my field of vision. He had been behind me. I figured he had been studying Carter. Now he was going to study me.

  We all stood there. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. After another minute of silence, a clock chimed the half hour.

  Montgomery said, "Thank you, gentlemen."

  I wondered if that meant the meeting was over. Everyone stood. The three couples assembled themselves together. That left the man at the fireplace and Montgomery alone since, obviously, they were not compatible with each other. I wondered about that.