I thought that was odd. Neither of them was anything less than the picture of health.
"I have one last question for you."
"Yes?" asked Mr. Kopek.
"Did he give you a hundred-dollar bill when he paid you each month?"
They both looked at the stack of bills in Mr. Kopek's hand. Very quietly, he said, "Yes."
. . .
"Well, what do you think?" I asked.
Andy and I were sitting in the car. I had turned on the engine and the dashboard light was on. As we were leaving their apartment, Mrs. Kopek gave us a Kodachrome photograph of their son.
He was standing on the Marin County side of the Golden Gate Bridge with the bright orange span in the background. The picture had been taken on a clear, sunny day. He was wearing a white t-shirt and dungarees. He had a fetching, sweet, and wholesome smile. Thick blonde hair was held in place by heavy pomade. His green eyes sparkled in the morning light. I could see the small scar on his chin that accentuated his good looks. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his trousers in such a way that his big arms and wide chest stood out. They were clearly defined by the tight shirt. This one photograph answered most of my questions.
Andy said, "Now I know why we didn't find any pictorial magazines. He's probably in them."
I nodded. "Exactly." I put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
. . .
I dropped Andy off at his apartment building and then headed home. After parking the car in the driveway, I walked up the steps to the front porch and unlocked the front door. I turned off the porch light as I closed the door and locked it behind me.
The house smelled like gingerbread and the hi-fi was on. Carter was listening to Dinah Shore. She was singing about those dear hearts and gentle people, and Carter was somewhere whistling along.
As I put my hat on the rack, I called out, "Chief!"
He called from the kitchen. "In here, Boss."
I walked past the phone alcove and said, "Something smells good. Are you baking?"
"Sure am."
As I entered, I surveyed the kitchen and couldn't believe what I was seeing. It looked like a flour bomb had detonated. Every surface was covered in white powder.
"Did you drop the flour canister?"
Carter looked up from the kitchen sink. He smiled. He was covered in flour and bits of something brown. I was assuming it was gingerbread.
"Nope." He paused and looked around. "Looks like I made a mess. Sorry 'bout that."
I shrugged. "No need to apologize since you're on clean-up duty. What are you making?"
"A gingerbread house."
I looked at the table. There was something on a tray covered with parchment paper that looked more like a gingerbread lean-to. I didn't think it qualified as a house. It had a roof covered in a white icing that was supposed to look like snow. It reminded me of a photograph I saw once of a mountain village after an avalanche.
"Where'd you get the idea?"
"Marnie gave me a recipe."
"She did?"
"Sure. I thought I'd take it to her in the morning as a surprise."
I smiled.
"What?"
"Oh, she'll be surprised all right."
Carter walked towards me, trying to look menacing. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that your gingerbread house could be in the mayor's plan for urban redevelopment."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah."
Carter turned around and picked up a big bowl off the counter. I started to retreat slowly towards the icebox. As he turned back to me, he was holding a big spoon of icing and was pointing it at me.
"Son, you're in for it."
We didn't get to bed until well past midnight. And the gingerbread house didn't survive the carnage. But it sure was tasty.
Chapter 4
Mildred's Diner
Wednesday, December 16, 1953
About 8 in the morning
We decided to have breakfast at Mildred's before going to the office. She was a thin gal with a big Texas-sized personality. As Carter pushed opened the door, I heard her say, "Well, looky there! Two times in one month! I must be on the dollar tour."
The place was busy and our arrival caused a few heads to turn and watch as we walked through the diner. I heard my name whispered by a couple of people.
We took our usual table in the back. It was a two-top next to the kitchen and nice and private. Mildred came by with a coffee pot and two cups. After pouring out the java, she put down the pot, took out her pencil and pad, and asked, "What'll it be, fellas?"
Carter said, "Flapjacks, two eggs over easy, and chewy bacon."
Mildred wrote on her pad. "Slim? How about you?"
"Two scrambled, chewy bacon, and white toast with butter."
"You got it." She winked at me and walked into the kitchen to yell at Joe, her cook.
I looked at Carter and smiled. He smiled back and had a look on his face that made me feel all warm inside
"What?" he asked.
"I was just thinking about last night."
Carter winked. "Why do you think I'm so hungry this morning?"
I laughed.
. . .
"Did you make any calls last night?"
Carter had a mouth full of flapjacks. He swallowed and said, "Sure did. It was the first place I called."
"Where?"
"Over in the south of the slot. Sugar Joe's on Mission." This was a gymnasium that was next door to a Turkish bath. Word was that both businesses were owned by the same person, Sugar Joe. The place was notorious. The police had raided it about a year ago, and several men had their faces plastered in the Examiner and their lives ruined. For whatever reason, the raid didn't shut the place down and they were doing big business from what I'd heard.
I said, "That doesn't surprise me."
"Really?"
I pulled out the photo that Mrs. Kopek had given me the night before.
Carter looked at it and whistled. "Pretty."
"Yeah." I told him about the money and how clean his room had been.
Carter asked, "So, what do you think?"
"Not sure. He obviously didn't skip town."
"Kidnapping?"
"Maybe. But I have a bad feeling about this."
Carter took a sip of his coffee. "You thinking foul play?"
I nodded. I didn't like the thought. About 3 in the morning, I'd gotten out of bed to relieve myself. I couldn't immediately go back to sleep, so I'd sat in bed in the dark next to Carter with a cigarette and thought about all the things that might have happened to Ivan Kopek. And murder was the only thing that made any sense. But I didn't want to deliver news like that to his parents. Not at Christmas and not ever.
. . .
We'd decided to go over to Sugar Joe's before heading to the office. Before we left Mildred's, I used the payphone in the back to call the office.
Robert answered. "Consolidated Security."
"It's Nick. Where's Marnie?"
"She went down to the market to pick up some coffee. You want to leave a message?"
"Tell her Carter and I will be in around noon."
"Got it. Anything else?"
"Yeah. About 335 Turk Street."
"How did it look last night?"
"Good. The manager's doing a fine job. Only thing is that the fifth floor was hot. The tenants had the windows open and it was still boiling. Can you check into that?"
"Sure thing, Nick. I'll call Mrs. K right now."
"Thanks, kid."
I hung up and walked towards the front of the diner. Carter was standing at the counter chatting with Mildred. As I passed a table of two couples, one of the ladies spoke up.
"Excuse me, aren't you Nick Williams?"
I stopped, lifted my hat politely, and said, "Yes, ma'am."
She looked at the other woman at the table with a tight smile and then hissed, "You should be ashamed of yourself."
I wasn't sure
what to say so I walked on.
. . .
As we drove down Van Ness, I told Carter what had happened.
"You should have said something to Mildred."
I shook my head. "It's not her problem. Doesn't really bother me that much."
Carter huffed. "It bothers me, Nick. You're not in this alone, you know. Tell me if it happens again."
"What would you have done if you'd been there?"
Carter, who was driving, put his right hand on my knee and said, "I would have given her a real reason for you to be ashamed."
I laughed.
. . .
Sugar Joe's didn't look like much from the outside. The windows were painted over in brown and the paint was peeling. The Turkish bath just said "Baths." The sign above the door was faded and looked like it dated to before the first world war.
Carter pushed open the door to the gymnasium and, as we walked in, my nose was assaulted by the smell of years of sweat along with the sickly sweet odor of cleaning fluid. At 9 in the morning, the building was mostly empty although some die-hard enthusiasts were skipping rope, lifting weights of various sizes, and punching big bags suspended from the ceiling on chains. As we walked past, I noticed that Carter got a few looks, which was par for the course.
We headed to a back office where we found a man of about 40 seated at a desk covered in mounds of paper. When he saw Carter, the man jumped up and exclaimed, "Carter Jones! How the hell are you?"
The man was balding, was covered in thick muscles, and was wearing thin cotton drawstring pants that hid nothing. His shirt was ripped at the collar and had holes in a number of places. He looked like he'd been a boxer at one time. His nose was broken and he was missing a couple of teeth. Otherwise, he was as handsome a man as I'd ever seen and, when he looked at me and smiled, I could feel a shiver that I couldn't deny.
"This is my partner, Nick."
The man shook my hand so tightly that it hurt. "Finally get to meet the old ball and chain, right Carter?"
Carter looked down at both of us and smiled. I could see by the twinkle in his eyes that he had noticed my reaction.
"Yeah. Nick, this is Sugar Joe himself. Joe Hamilton."
I smiled and said, "Nice to finally meet you, Joe."
Carter had been a regular at Sugar Joe's for several years before we met. By the time Carter and I started going together, he wasn't coming by as much. He had started collecting his own weights and was lifting them at the fire station and then, later, at our house.
Joe looked at me and asked, "So, this is about Ike the Polack?"
I nodded.
"Well, I ain't seen him in a week, which is kinda unusual."
"Does he come here often?"
"Sure. He's here most days for three or four hours a day. Has to be to maintain his shape."
Carter suddenly said, "Hey Joe, let's go next door."
I took a moment to glance around. I noticed a thick, squat man who was openly listening to us. He caught my eye and motioned me over.
Joe said, "Lemme change into street clothes. Be with you guys in five."
I whispered to Carter, "Be right back." He nodded.
I walked over to the man. He smiled at me and asked, "Are you askin' about Ike the Polack?"
I nodded. "Sure. You know him?"
"Sure do. Great piece of ass. You know where he is?"
I shook my head. "I'm looking for him myself."
The man looked me up and down. "You ain't his type. You're not bad looking but too skinny, if you don't mind me mentioning it. And way too young."
I smiled. "I'm not looking for him for that. Just trying to locate him. I have a message I need to give him." That was a line I used when I was trying to find a missing person who might just be hiding out for whatever reason.
The man pulled back. "Is he in some sort of trouble?"
I shrugged. "Dunno. Hope not. Seems like a sweet kid."
The man smiled. "Brother, you are right about that."
I pulled my card out of my pocket and handed it to the guy. "If you see him, would you call me?"
He looked at the card and whistled. "Nick Williams." He looked me over, as if re-assessing my qualities in light of my name. "In the flesh." He paused. "You slummin' 'round here?"
I shook my head. "Just doing my job."
The man offered his hand and I shook it. It was thick, dry, and covered in callouses. "I'm Sam Halversen. And, for what it's worth, I think you're an alright Joe. We need more like you."
I smiled and said, "Thanks."
. . .
We walked down the block with Sugar Joe to Ruby's Grille, a diner on the corner. He led us to the back and we sat in a booth. Carter and I sat on the side facing the door while Joe sat opposite. The waitress, who was chewing gum, came by and asked, "Your regular, Joe?"
He smiled and said, "Yep."
"How about you two?" she asked.
I said, "Coffee for me."
"Me, too," was Carter's answer.
She smacked her gum, said, "Got it," and walked away.
"Carter, man, coffee?"
"I'm not doing all those crazy fads anymore, Joe."
The older man reached over and felt Carter's bicep through his coat sleeve. "Well, whatever you're doin', it's workin'." He ran his hand over his face, coughed, and said, "So, what can I tell you about Ike?"
I asked, "When was the last time you saw him?"
Joe thought for a moment. "Last week sometime." He closed his eyes for two beats. "Yeah. It was a week ago today. I saw him in the morning. He came in for his usual routine and then left sometime after noon. I don't know when exactly. I think he left with a John."
I pulled my pack of Camels out of my pocket and began to tap one out on the table.
Joe shook his head. "Man, those things are gonna kill you. Can you wait til we're done here? I can't stand the smell of 'em."
I nodded and put the pack back in my pocket. "Does he turn tricks often?"
"Sure. That's how he makes his livin',"
"I heard he was a Teamster and drove for the Call-Bulletin."
"Ike? Not him. He's full time. And he ain't cheap. He caters to a high-flyin' clientele, if you get my drift."
"How'd a John know to pick him up at your place?"
Joe smiled. It really was a dazzling smile. Even his missing teeth were part of the charm. Carter nudged me slightly under the table. Joe said, "It was next door."
"Don't you own the baths?"
"Yes and no. I have an interest in them. Anyways, I saw him leave. I was holding the punching bag for one of my buddies and watched as this high-tone gent walked out the door with Ike. That was the last time I seen him."
I nodded. Right then, the waitress was back. She set down our cups of coffee and then handed Joe a glass full of something orange that had a foam on top. It was the kind of glass you normally get a malted in. But this wasn't ice cream.
"Thanks, hon."
"Sure, thing. Don't know how you drink that stuff but, hey, it's a free country." With that, she walked away.
Joe took a straw out of the dispenser and put it in his orange drink. "Carrot juice," he said, by way of explanation. "Amazin' stuff." He put the straw in his mouth with a big grin and winked at me.
"What did the John look like?"
Joe took a big sip and closed his eyes again. "He was shorter than Ike. Maybe 5'9" or so. Black hair. Dark eyes. Not handsome. But, you know, distinguished." As he talked, he kept his eyes closed. "High-tone suit of clothes. All real expensive. Oh, yeah, and he had those waddaya call 'em? The white thing on the shoes?"
"Spats?"
"Yeah. That's them. Old fashioned."
I nodded. "How old was the man?"
Joe shrugged. "Older than me, that's for sure. Maybe 50? 60? His hair was the kind of black that you know ain't natural. Oh, and one other thing." Joe slurped up the last of his carrot juice in one big, loud blast.
"What?"
"He and Ike weren't speaking En
glish. I don't know from languages, but I guess it was whatever those Polacks talk."
Chapter 5
Driving to the office
Wednesday, December 16, 1953
Just before noon
As I was maneuvering the Buick through the traffic on Mission, I said, "I need to head over to Ernie's later today with Andy and see if we can catch up with Ike's old boyfriend."
Carter asked, "Think so?"
I nodded. "Covering all the bases."
After a moment, he laughed.
"What?" I asked.
"I was thinkin' about you moonin' over Sugar Joe."
"I wasn't mooning."
Carter shook his head. "With all these weight lifters around, I can tell I'm gonna have to keep an eye on you, aren't I?"
I laughed. "You know I only have eyes for you, Carter Jones."
He put his left hand on my right leg and squeezed. "I know. But I get a kick outta watching you when a handsome guy gets your engine revving."
"I never even get into first gear."
"Yeah, but you're thinking about it. I can read you like a book, Nicholas Williams."
That sent a chill down my spine. Carter hardly ever called me by my proper name and it always got me going when he did.
"You missed the turn for 5th Street."
I shook my head. "Not going to the office. We're going home."
Carter sat back in the seat and spread his legs out. "Well, all righty then."
. . .
An hour later, we were just getting out of the shower when the phone rang. We'd finally had an extension put in our bedroom in November so, using my towel, I made sure my hand was dry and then picked up the receiver.
"Yeah?"
A clear and efficient female voice said, "Hold for Dr. Williams." It was my evil bastard of a father. I almost hung up the phone but decided not to.
"Nicholas?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are you home in the middle of the day? I called down to that outfit of misfits you call an office and your secretary told me you were gone for the day."
"Yeah." I didn't know what else to say. I looked over and could see Carter watching me. I mouthed, "Father." He frowned.
"You have the manners of an ape, Nicholas."
"Why are you calling?"
The Savage Son (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 6) Page 3
