The Savage Son (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 6)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Ike was looking down at the floor. I couldn't tell if he was playing the part Carter had just handed him or not, but those were real tears running down his cheeks.

  Chapter 8

  137 Hartford Street

  Thursday, December 17, 1953

  Just before dinner

  That night, I made a couple of pans of lasagna, one with garlic and one without, and a salad. Kenneth was coming over for dinner and to meet with us about what we did know and didn't know. I'd also invited Andy and Dawson for dinner since we needed their help and inside knowledge, as well. Andy had a good overview of the case and Dawson was a former homicide detective for the Washington D.C., Metropolitan Police.

  Around 7:30, the doorbell rang. I was just pulling out the lasagna pans so Carter answered the door. After about a minute or so, Carter popped into the kitchen and said, "They're all here. You want a drink?"

  I nodded. "Martini. And I'll be right there."

  Carter smiled at me and was gone.

  . . .

  Over dinner, we kept the conversation light. Once we were done and the dishes were put away, we all gathered in the sitting room. Dawson and Andy were on the sofa holding hands. Kenneth was in the chair facing the door, had his pad in his lap, and twirled a pencil in his hand. Carter was in the other chair. I sat on its arm next to my husband while he rested his hand on my thigh.

  Kenneth went over the story as we knew it. Andy and Dawson asked a couple of questions along the way but we mostly let Kenneth do the talking.

  When he was done, Dawson asked, "Isn't the gas chamber automatic when it's murder and prostitution?"

  Kenneth said, "Not automatic, but it's definitely life, at least."

  Andy piped up. "Do the cops know about Ike's hustling?"

  I said, "They don't have a lot of time. Who knows if they'll be able to trace Ike to Sugar Joe's."

  Carter added, "I called Joe and asked him to let me know if they visit."

  Kenneth looked at Carter with some alarm. "You didn't tell him to lie, did you? That's obstruction."

  Carter shook his head. "No. He asked about that. I told him to tell the truth. But to let me know."

  Kenneth looked mollified.

  I said, "I think you have to assume, though, that the cops are gonna find out, no matter what. That's why, at breakfast before you got there, I told Mike we needed a Chinese wall in this case."

  Kenneth smiled. "Where did you hear that term?"

  "I get around. Bottom line is Mike is building a relationship with his old buddies at the North Station. We need him to stay clean on all this."

  Kenneth nodded and sighed. "It helps that we have the hearing on Monday." He didn't look too thrilled about it.

  "What?" I asked.

  "He has such a good motive for murder."

  I nodded. "Yeah. I've been thinking about that. What about the letter?"

  Kenneth said, "Well, if you'll stand the cost of it," I nodded as he spoke. "I want that letter translated. How did the father know what they said?"

  Andy suggested, "Maybe he took them to a translator when he got them."

  Kenneth was making notes on the pad. "Maybe."

  Carter asked, "But do the police know about the letter?"

  Kenneth looked up. "I can't imagine how they would."

  I said, "That means they don't have a motive."

  Dawson asked, "Do we know if they have a gun?"

  Kenneth shook his head. "We don't know. I don't think they do, but they haven't confirmed that."

  Dawson, who was as broad as Carter but much shorter, fidgeted for a moment and then stood up. He pulled a package of Pall Mall out of his shirt pocket. I had been playing with my beat-up Zippo, so I offered to light his cigarette. As soon as it was lit, he began to pace.

  He exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and said, "Your kid left no fingerprints except on the door and the cops have no gun." He looked around expectantly. "What's their case?"

  Kenneth smiled grimly. "Not much. I'm afraid of all sorts of things that the D.A. might do. With Nick involved, this trial could become a real show."

  Carter squeezed my leg. Kenneth said, "Sorry, Nick. But you know how it is."

  I nodded. "Yeah. I do. Did we make a mistake by sitting in today?"

  Dawson made a snorting sound when I said that.

  "What?" I asked.

  "You know, if I had known there was non-privileged conversation going on, I'd have run to my D.A. fast as lightnin'. That's like a gift to the prosecution."

  He was right and I didn't like the sound of that.

  Kenneth said, "I know. We took a risk. But we needed Ike's cooperation and fast. And I thought he would open up to his idols."

  Now it was Carter who snorted.

  Andy said, "Hey. It's real. The kid keeps newspaper clippings of you two in a scrapbook?" He shook his head. "I can guaran-dam-tee you he's not the only one."

  Dawson added, "Regardless of what I said, Kenneth's right. The best way to go was to trade on that. Otherwise, you might still not know some of what the kid said."

  That made me think of something. "After we left, did you get any other details from Ike?"

  Kenneth shook his head and smiled wanly. "I couldn't tell you if I did or didn't. Attorney-client privilege."

  Andy asked, "But, didn't you lose that when Nick and Carter sat in with you on the interview?"

  Kenneth nodded. "For that part of the conversation, yes."

  I felt a knot in my stomach. "So, do you think the D.A. might call me to testify?"

  Kenneth shrugged. "He might. But nothing you have to say would help his case, as far as I know."

  Dawson huffed and sat down on the sofa. "But you don't know what his case is."

  We all sat there for a moment as Kenneth made some notes.

  Something popped into my head. I said, "What Mrs. Kopek said was right, you know. They came out ahead. They'd be living in a one-room apartment somewhere. Or maybe even dead. They were bloodsucking capitalists, after all."

  Carter grabbed my thigh and said, "Hey, now."

  I nodded. "Yeah. I know."

  Kenneth tapped his pencil on his pad. "Only problem is that we don't know if Ivan knew about that or even understands what that means. He's only 23."

  Carter laughed. "He understands that all right. That kid is a master at running cons."

  I nodded. That he was.

  . . .

  A little after 3, I woke up again, thinking and worrying about Ike and the hearing. I wondered if Carter and I had made a huge mistake by sitting in on the interview.

  Realizing I couldn't do anything about that in the middle of the night, I lay in bed listening to Carter breathe and tried to drift off. But, after about ten minutes, I knew there was no way I was going back to sleep. So, I quietly got dressed. I softly hopped down the stairs and was out the front door without making a noise.

  The night air was cold. I turned up the collar on my coat, pulled my hat down over my ears, and thrust my hands into the relative warmth of the pockets. Heading south up Hartford, I thought I heard someone walking across the street behind me. I quickly turned in mid-stride. Someone was there and he ducked behind Pam's DeSoto before I could see him clearly. I knew who it was, or had a pretty good idea, and left him there to deal with later.

  I walked up to where Hartford ended at 20th Street. Turning right, I followed the sidewalk to Castro.

  As I turned the corner to go north and head home, I found a cop sitting in a patrol car that was pulled in the driveway of the first house just down from the intersection. He was writing in his book and had the dome light on so he could see. As I walked past, I heard the car door open.

  "Hey, Mister."

  I stopped and turned around. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and subtly turned my palms in his direction to show I didn't have any weapons.

  "Yes, sir?" was my normal reply to cops at work. Particularly in the dead of the night.

  "What are you doing out at 3:30 in the m
orning?"

  I smiled. "Couldn't sleep. Thought a brisk walk in the cold air would do me some good."

  He looked at me thoughtfully. "Don't I know you?" There was a street light at the corner but it didn't offer much to see by.

  I shrugged.

  He walked up and looked closer. "What's your name?"

  "Nicholas Williams."

  "Where do you live?"

  "137 Hartford. Just around the corner."

  "Huh." He kept looking at me. "Williams?" A light went off over his head. He smirked. "Yeah." He sucked in the cold night air. "I know who you are. You lost your P.I. license, right?"

  "I got it back. But it's provisional." That was the last thing I would have expected him to know or care about. The bureau over in Sacramento had revoked my license in August when I'd been charged with felony sodomy in Georgia, even though the charges had been dropped. Kenneth was working with another lawyer to get it reinstated. So far, they had convinced the bureau to reinstate it provisionally while they completed a more thorough investigation.

  "Well…" His face moved between disgust and grudging admiration. "I don't like your kind but I gotta hand it to you for takin' that George Hearst down a peg. The Examiner is a real pain these days."

  I nodded.

  Right then, the radio in his car squawked. He looked away for a moment and then turned back to me. "Get on home."

  I nodded and headed downhill. Home was where I wanted to go.

  He called out, "And, have a good night."

  I raised my hand in thanks.

  . . .

  As I approached the house, I watched for any movement. It looked like he was still hunched behind Pam's car. I wondered if he was cold and wanted to come in.

  I walked up the steps to the front door and opened it. I turned on the porch light and quietly said, "Come on in, Sam. No need for you to huddle in the cold."

  I walked into the sitting room and switched on one of the lamps.

  There was a knock on the door and Sam said, "OK if I come in?"

  I turned around and looked at him. He wasn't pretty, like Ike. I guessed he was somewhere north of 40 but he was definitely handsome in his way. He was bundled up. Even had a scarf, which looked a lot warmer than what I'd been wearing.

  I said, "Close the door, put your hat on the rack, and come in. Want something to drink?"

  Sam asked, "Got any milk?"

  . . .

  Sam and I were sitting at the kitchen table. He smelled. There was no other way to put it. I lit up a Camel to help cover the odor.

  "You have an apartment someplace?" I asked.

  "It's pretty crummy. Over on Eddy."

  "They have hot and cold running water over there?"

  Sam lifted an arm and took a whiff. "Sorry about that, Mr. Williams. Haven't had a shower in a couple of days."

  "Keeping one eye on Ike all the time keeps you busy, doesn't it?" I took a drag off my cigarette.

  He nodded and drank the rest of his milk.

  "You love him?" I asked as I exhaled the smoke.

  Sam furrowed his brow. "He's a sweet kid."

  I nodded. "Yeah. When he's not running a con, I'm sure he can be."

  The other man shrugged. "I know what he does. He's smart. Lot smarter than me."

  "But, do you love him?"

  Sam looked down at the table. "I ain't--"

  Much more sharply than I meant to, I said, "Love between men is no shame. And that's a direct quote."

  "Waddaya mean?"

  "I mean the Greeks wrote about it. It's in the Bible. David and Jonathan? Walt Whitman wrote about his love for the soldiers in the Civil War. It's only those people out there, who don't have any imagination, who think otherwise." I heard myself saying things I'd never said before. I'd heard them. I'd read them. But I'd never said them out loud.

  I said, "Look. It's like this, see? You love Ike. He loves you. And here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna stay here and help us figure out who did this murder."

  Sam looked down again. His glass was empty. "You want some more milk?" I asked.

  He said to his glass, "No."

  "So, waddaya say?"

  Sam sighed. When he looked up, his face was wet. "I guess I do love Ivan. But does he love me?"

  "I don't know. I think so, but I've only spent thirty minutes with him, so far. But, when I mentioned your name, he flushed. So, I'd say chances are yes."

  Sam sighed. "You know, I wanted to kill that asshole S.O.B. in his fancy house."

  "I figured as much. I wondered if you were keeping a watch on Ike or trying to figure out a way to kill the other guy." I paused for a moment. "How would you have done it?"

  Sam smiled brightly. "Strangulation. You do it right, doesn't leave a trace."

  "How'd you know that?"

  "Buddy in the Army showed me how. We killed a few Germans that way."

  "Where?"

  "Italy. Outside Rome. Monte Cassino."

  "You use a gun in the Army?"

  Sam smiled shyly. "Well, they issued me one. But I was the worst. Always gettin' bawled out by the sergeant. They even busted me down from Corporal to Private. That's how bad I was." He paused. "That's why I learned how to strangle a man. And do it in a way that he isn't expecting."

  I looked at the big man for a moment. I couldn't get my head around what he was saying but, then again, I hadn't been involved in combat. Besides, there was something else I wanted to clear up.

  "On Wednesday, what was that at the end?"

  "Waddaya mean?"

  "When you propositioned me."

  He shrugged. "Just a friendly offer. Never hurts to make friends any way you can." He paused. "Specially ones in high places." He looked down.

  These two were made for each other. I didn't know if that was a good thing or not. I asked, "So, we have a deal? You stay here. You help us find whoever did it." I paused and looked at him in the eyes. "I'll make it worth your while."

  Sam sat back and crossed his arms. "Look, Mr. Williams. I'll do what you want cause I love Ike." He stopped and smiled to himself. "Yeah, I do. I really do." I watched him flush and it was a beautiful thing to see. "But, I don't need your money. It's nice that you offer. But we can make our own way."

  I smiled, stood up, and said, "That's fine."

  . . .

  I heard Carter's big feet coming down the stairs. As he was walking by the phone alcove, I heard him say, "Jeez, Nick. What the hell smells in here?" He had a very sensitive nose.

  Sam stood up and looked abashed. I said, "Carter Jones, meet Sam Halversen."

  Carter, who was in his BVDs and nothing else, extended his hand and the two shook. Sam looked up and said, "Sorry about that, Mr. Jones. I haven't had a good shower in a couple of days."

  Carter looked over at me with his arms crossed across his bare chest and a question on his face.

  "I went out for a walk and found Sam casing the joint. So, I invited him in for a glass of milk."

  Carter laughed and said, "Well, it's good to meet you, Sam. You staying long?"

  I said, "Yes. He's gonna stay here with us while we figure out what really happened."

  Carter smiled tightly and said, "Bedroom is at the end of the hall in the front. Bathroom," he said significantly, "is on the left just before the bedroom. If you look in the middle bedroom, you'll see some of the clothes I use for lifting weights. Feel free to borrow a set."

  Sam said, "Thanks, Mr. Jones."

  I said, "He's Carter and I'm Nick."

  Sam nodded. I said, "Go on ahead. We'll meet down here around 8 for breakfast."

  Carter said, "And I have a set of weights down in the basement you're welcome to use anytime." Sam smiled and, with that, he was gone.

  . . .

  I told Carter about my conversation with Sam.

  He asked, "You think it's safe to have him under our roof?"

  I couldn't tell how serious he was. I said, "We know he's not a murderer."

  Carter shook his he
ad. "Only because he never got a chance. What makes you think he won't kill us by strangulation?"

  "Well, neither of us is fucking his boyfriend. And, if it makes you feel better, I offered to pay Sam to help us and he turned me down."

  Carter smirked. "But I assume you'll find a way to hire him, get him in one of your apartments, and sneak him some money, one way or another."

  I shrugged. "Sure. What's the fun of being obscenely rich if you can't give it away?"

  Carter's smirk relaxed into his slow, sweet smile.

  . . .

  We were sitting at the kitchen table talking about the hearing when I heard Sam coming down the stairs. As he walked into the kitchen, I looked up. He was only wearing a pair of Carter's drawstring cotton pants. The legs were rolled up to his knees. From what I could see, he wasn't wearing any BVDs.

  "Sorry to bother you guys. I just wanted to grab a cup of warm water before bed. If you have a kettle, I can help myself."

  I said, "Kettle is on the shelf next to the stove."

  Carter asked, "You put lemon in that?"

  Sam smiled as he ran the tap. "No. I used to do that, but now I'm just trying warm water. It really helps when I've got swelling."

  Carter looked the older man over. "Swelling?"

  Sam lit the gas, put the kettle on the fire, and turned around. His entire upper body was covered with hair. His head was salt and pepper, but everything below that was all gray. And there was a lot of it.

  "I'm older than you and it's easy to overdo the weights. Sugar Joe is the one who suggested trying just the warm water. And it works."

  I knew Carter was just looking at the man as a specimen of what it looks like to get older, but I was tempted to kick him under the table. Of course, I was having a hard time keeping my eyes off Sam myself.

  Carter said, "Enough in there for two cups?"

  Sam said, "Sure."

  I said, "The coffee cups are to the right of the stove." Sam opened the cabinet and took down two mugs. As he lifted his arm to do so, I could see the clear definition of his back and shoulder muscles even with all the hair that covered him.

  We sat there for a moment. I could feel sleep creeping back over me.

  Once the kettle began to make a noise, Sam turned off the gas. Carter asked, "You don't let it boil?"

  Sam shook his head as he poured the water into the mugs. "No. I want it warm, not boiling hot."