The Unexpected Heiress (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 1)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  If Walter Winchell were to find out and publish all the sordid details, or even just a whisper of the truth, in his mean-spirited daily column, that would mean curtains for both Taylor and Rhonda, poor kids.

  "Nick!"

  I looked up to see Jeffery standing there, perfectly turned out, looking tan, fit, and happy.

  I stood up and shook my friend's hand. He always lingered a little longer than most men, but we had our history, and that was OK by me.

  I followed him down the thickly carpeted hallway past the artistic touches he'd had put on the walls and into the vast cavern in the sky that was his office.

  The window behind his desk was panoramic, to say the least. The Ferry Building, showing the time to be right at 2:30, was on the right. The Golden Gate Bridge was on the left. And all the glorious bay, with Alcatraz in the middle, was in between.

  I took my usual seat as Jeffery swept around his desk and took his.

  "So, how you been, Nick?"

  "Just peachy, Jeffery. And you?"

  "Can't complain."

  "But you will."

  He laughed and said, "OK. So here's the story. Big raid at the Kit Kat on Polk Street last night. Cops picked up about 20 and showed them off to the papers, but mostly the Examiner."

  I shook my head in disgust.

  Jeffery said, "I know. Perversion sells. Particularly in this town."

  "And particularly on the front page of the Examiner."

  "Exactly."

  "So, which one of the 20 is your client?"

  "That's where it gets interesting. My client managed not to land in the paper. He's the twenty-first, you might say."

  "Did they book him?"

  "For loitering."

  I raised my eyebrows. "Really? Who does he know?"

  "Good question. That's one of the first things I want you to find out."

  "Why don't you ask your client?"

  "I would, but he's down in Hollywood."

  I shook my head. "Oh no. I'm not going to play interference for any studio or star."

  Jeffery looked at me. "This one is different."

  "They're all different. Jeffery. This one can't come to terms because Daddy will disinherit. This one has a morals clause in his contract. That one is married with two kids in school and one on the way. But they're all the same. They're all hiding from themselves."

  Jeffery nodded quietly. I came down off my high horse.

  "Not everyone has an unbreakable trust like you, Nick."

  "I know." I sighed and gave in to the inevitable. "OK. Who is it?"

  "Taylor Wells."

  I laughed. "Gee, and I just read a little blind item in Time about him and Rhonda at the Copa last week. Not even Winchell knows."

  Jeffery smiled. "Winchell knows but cash talks and he's not publishing. Part of our job is to make sure he doesn't publish. And your first assignment is to find out who is covering for him inside the police department. We need to know who our friend is."

  "Working inside the system this time?"

  "I've done it before."

  "But not well. I'll keep your name out of it."

  "Keep Taylor's out of it too."

  "Taylor is it?"

  Jeffery just smiled at me.

  I stood up. "I assume there is a hefty fee involved?"

  "Of course. Metro is picking up all the expenses."

  "Well, bully for Metro."

  "Write the check to the usual place?"

  "You got it. The San Francisco Fireman's Benevolent Fund."

  As I turned to leave, Jeffery asked, "How is Carter these days?"

  I put my hand on the doorknob and turned to get one last look at the orange span and blue waters off in the distance. "He's doing good. Getting around better. We have our good days and our bad days, just like any married couple."

  "He working yet?"

  "Not yet. Doing a little arson investigating on the side for the police. He can use his cane to hobble around. He helps them out and they give him good, useful work to do. Keeps him from going crazy."

  "Well, give him my love."

  "I will. And I'll be in touch."

  With that, I shut the door behind me and whistled a show tune as I walked down the hallway. When I rounded the reception desk, I put on my hat.

  Robert said, "I just love Mary Martin." I nodded, walked out the door, and kept whistling, all the way to the elevator.

  Chapter 3

  The Shell Building

  100 Bush Street

  Monday, May 11, 1953

  Just before noon

  I picked up a copy of the Examiner at the lobby newsstand. Sure enough, there on page one screamed the headline, "Homo Nest Raided. 20 Arrested For Lewdness." The article continued about the brave boys of the North District and how they took on the queers of Polk Gulch at the infamous Kit Kat Club ("One of the denizens told this reporter of a 'marriage' between a femme and her bulldagger. Jake, no last name, was the best man and the maid of honor. No further information is available on how this transformation was achieved.").

  There were four newspapers in town: the Examiner, the News, the Call-Bulletin, and the Chronicle. The rivalry for subscribers and advertisers between them was fierce. And the Examiner was the home of yellow journalism, so stories like this were a dime a dozen. In the current climate where a Communist, a fellow-traveler, or a homosexual (and we were our own special category) might be suspected of reporting back to Soviet Russia or Red China, any story like this was damning in a way that was almost impossible to recover from. For me, it didn't matter. Rolling in money kept me insulated. But for most of the Joes and Janes out there, the possibility of this happening was a scary proposition.

  As I stepped outside onto the windy street, I threw the rag into the first bin I saw, mad at myself for having spent an unnecessary nickel, and headed over to the first phone booth I could find.

  I pulled the door closed and dropped in my dime. First things first. I called the office and Marnie picked up. "Nick Williams, Private Investigations," was the efficient greeting.

  "It's Nick."

  "Hi Nick. New case with Klein?"

  "Yeah. Say, remember Anna, that little girl with the polio?"

  "Sure, I do. Sweet kid."

  "Just ran into her pop, Tony, and he says she's doing better. Might be able to walk soon."

  "Aww, that's great, Nick."

  "Yeah. So, you think you could find something nice for a girl her age and have it sent over? I think you still have their address from before, right?"

  "Oh, sure, Nick. Got it right here. He don't know it was you who paid all those bills, does he?"

  "Doesn't look like it. You did a great job keeping that on the Q.T."

  "That's swell. When I think of that"

  "Gotta go, Marnie. See you tomorrow. Go home when you're ready."

  "Thanks Nick."

  I hit the switch hook, waited for the tone, and dropped another dime. Now on to serious matters of another ilk. I rang up my buddy, Lieutenant Mike Robertson, to find out what the hell had happened with that raid. The desk sergeant answered and reported that Mike was out on a call. I left my name and number and asked for a call back. I heard the sergeant snicker as he hung up.

  That made me think again about the front page picture and all those guys trying to hide their faces behind their hats as they were loaded into the paddy wagon, only to have their names, addresses, and places of employment all listed just below to make sure that Hearst rubbed it in and did it hard. No mercy. I kicked the side of the phone booth for good measure and then slammed open the door as hard as I could.

  A passing stranger said, "You better be careful, mister, you could have a heart attack if you don't take it easy."

  I took a deep breath and said, "Thanks buddy. You're right about that." I turned towards Market Street so I could grab the streetcar and get home.

  . . .

  We lived at 137 Hartford Street in the unassuming and quiet neighborhood of Eureka Valley, ju
st below where Market Street started its climb up the hill to become Portola, high above the city below. Our neighbors were a mish-mash of mostly Italian and Irish families whose children had mostly left home to move to more fashionable spots like Daly City and San Rafael.

  The streetcar dropped me off at Castro Street. I walked across Market, down 17th Street to Hartford, and then up a block and a half to our modest bungalow on the left. It was the one with the Buick that was really too big for the driveway.

  When I opened the door to the house, I hollered, "Honey, I'm home!"

  I heard a grunt from the basement. I threw my hat on the chair in the front hall, ran through the kitchen, and then bounded down the steps. I found Carter sitting on a bench doing two of his favorite things: lifting up weights and sweating. I stood in the doorway and asked, "How are you?"

  He looked up at me and then dropped the weight on the concrete floor. I looked for a crack, but this time it didn't happen. I kept thinking the floor would open up one of those days, but so far no luck.

  Carter looked at me and smiled. "I can already tell my day has been a whole hell of a lot better than yours. What's got a bee up in your bonnet, Nick?"

  I kicked my shoe at nothing in particular and looked down at the floor. "Fucking cops."

  Carter made a dismissive noise. "Now, you know, buddy boy, I don't take talk like that around here. We're respectful of the law in this house."

  "Yeah, well, when the law respects us, I'll respect the law."

  "Wanna tell me about it?"

  "There was a raid at the Kit Kat Club last night, complete with newspaper headlines and photos and ruined lives. You know, the usual."

  "Well, if those boys and girls would stay home and behave then these things wouldn't happen." He grinned his good ole southern boy grin. I figured he was trying to get a rise out of me because I knew he didn't believe any of the bullshit that just came out of his pretty mouth.

  "If, for one minute, I thought"

  "Woah, Nellie. Hold on. You know what I think and how I feel. I suppose you have a new client out of all this mess."

  "Yeah. I went to see Jeffery today and he hired me. No expense spared."

  Carter whistled. "So, who's the big-wig that got rustled with the rest of the cattle?"

  I shook my head. "Can't tell you. You know how it is."

  "Hush-hush and all that?"

  "Brother, you have no idea."

  Carter raised an eyebrow at me. "Hollywood?"

  I shrugged.

  "Studio money?"

  I shrugged again.

  "Well, shit." And he used three syllables to pronounce that last word, like the good ole boy from South Georgia that he was.

  "How's the leg?"

  "Well, if no fog rolls in tonight, I expect it will be pretty good. I had no idea when it got crushed by a fire truck that it would become a weather prediction device." He smiled his slow, southern smile at me.

  It had the effect he was hoping for. I pulled off my tie, disposed of my coat, and we spent the next 30 minutes in the basement making a hell of a lot of noise. This was, according to the man himself, his first most favorite thing.

  . . .

  Later that night, we were curled up on the sofa listening to classical music on the radio, courtesy of KEAR, when the phone rang. I moved my legs off Carter's lap, walked into the hallway, between the kitchen and the living room, where the phone had its own little alcove, and picked up the receiver.

  "Yes?"

  "Hold please for Dr. Williams."

  I put the receiver back in its cradle.

  "Who was it?" asked Carter.

  "Wrong number." I stood there for a minute knowing it would ring again and it did.

  The smooth, female voice was back. "Is this Nicholas Williams?"

  "Who's asking?" I knew who was asking.

  "This is Marlene Johnson, Dr. Williams' private secretary," came the polite answer.

  "Then, no, this is not Nicholas Williams. Nicholas Williams was last seen floating on a raft off the island of Borneo and we have no knowledge of his whereabouts."

  As I put the receiver back on the machine, I looked over at Carter who was standing in the hall, leaning against the wall. He looked at me and smiled.

  "Your dad?"

  "His secretary."

  "I see." The phone rang again. "You going to answer it?"

  "No. Since you're here, why don't you?"

  He raised the one hand not holding the cane. "Me? No thanks."

  "Well, then, I guess we can listen to the tolling of the bell."

  It kept ringing. And then it stopped. I looked up at Carter and said, "5, 4, 3, 2, 1..." The phone started ringing again.

  I looked down at it and studied the black Bakelite device so courteously provided to us by Pacific Telephone at a monthly rental rate of $1.35, federal excise taxes not included.

  Carter said, "God dammit," and grabbed the receiver. "What?"

  He listened and said, "He's right here."

  The voice on the phone was agitated about something. I let it work itself out while Carter held the phone in his outstretched hand.

  Finally, I gave in and took it from him. He hobbled closer and began to rub my neck with his free hand. The smell of tiger liniment, which he got at some place in Chinatown, was strong but not unpleasant. I was beginning to like the smell, as a matter of fact. And it was always very soothing when Carter's big, hairy paw did its healing magic on my sore muscles.

  Someone was speaking at the end of the line and I didn't want to listen. I just wanted to crawl in bed next to my man and repeat some of what we'd done down in the basement earlier, but then I heard the word, "Janet."

  I finally spoke. "What about Janet?"

  "If you would listen to me, Nicholas, I'll tell you," came the irritated reply.

  "Go ahead."

  "She's in the hospital. She was in a car accident and they don't know if she'll make it. I want you to go down there tonight and make peace with her."

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear and looked at it as though I had suddenly realized I was holding a banana against my head. I was having a hard time understanding what he was saying.

  I looked up at Carter and my face must have told the story. He took the receiver from my hand and spoke into it.

  "Dr. Williams?" He used his 4-star southern voice knowing it would be needed. "Can you repeat the details?"

  He listened and nodded, not daring to interrupt. Carter had been brought up well, which is why he would never return to the State of Georgia.

  He said, "Thank you, we'll be leaving right away." An angry retort was the reply. Carter put the receiver down in its cradle and whispered, "And fuck you too, old man."

  I leaned against the wall and started to cry.

  Chapter 4

  137 Hartford Street

  Monday, May 11, 1953

  Half past 9 in the evening

  Since it was Carter's right leg that took all the damage, I had to drive. That was OK, since I needed something to do to keep my mind from going crazy.

  Janet was at St. Mary's Hospital, over by Golden Gate Park. It wasn't a far drive. We probably should have taken a cab, but I wanted to pull out the Buick, so we did.

  It was a nice convertible '52 Super. Green body with a sharp chrome grill and a white cloth top. I probably needed to start thinking about a new one at some point, but I liked this car. It was a long car for our short driveway and it would never fit in the garage but it rode smooth, was roomy, and it took the steep San Francisco hills in stride.

  We made the loop of blocks around to Castro. As we crossed Market and drove up the steep hill where Castro becomes Divisadero, I looked at the houses and apartment buildings with their homey lights and wondered how many of them had televisions and how many were to tuned in to watch America's favorite redhead, laugh at her zany antics, and sympathize with her long-suffering Cuban husband. Thoughts like this and whether it was time for an oil change and lube job on the car
kept me from screaming obscenities at a God I didn't even believe in.

  We entered the building and found Janet's room. A nurse told us it was family only so, instead of telling her to jump off the roof, I calmly said I was Janet's brother and that this was a cousin from Georgia. The woman calmly looked at me and then at Carter and asked, "And you are related?" I nodded. "To each other?"

  Carter said, "That's right, ma'am. We're a close family."

  She looked back at me and drily said, "I don't know what kind of story you're peddling but that poor girl needs someone by her side because she won't be lasting long and you're the first 'family' who's come to see her, so go right on in."

  I took a deep breath as Carter opened the door. Janet was the only patient in a room with four beds. She was by the window. Her face was bruised but otherwise seemed fine. I wondered how bad the internal injuries were then I decided I didn't want to know when I heard her breathing.

  I had heard men breathe like that when I was in the Navy. They didn't call it a death rattle for no reason.

  I walked over to her and carefully put my hand on her shoulder, which seemed like a spot that wasn't broken or battered too badly.

  "They should never have let you drive in the first place. I told Dad that when you were learning to drive on that poor old Hudson Eight."

  Janet smiled a little and said, very quietly, "Fuck you, Nick."

  "There's my girl."

  She smiled a little again, although it looked painful. Her eyes were closed and were the least bruised part of her face, but she didn't open them.

  "Is Carter here?"

  Carter said, "You mean your real close cousin from the south?"

  She took in a painful breath and asked, "She bought that?"

  I said, "Enough to let us in the door so we could see you, sweet cheeks."

  "Listen." I moved in closer. Carter hobbled over to my side of the bed and stood behind me.

  "Tell Dad something for me."

  "What's that, Janet?"

  "Tell him to go fuck himself."

  Carter laughed quietly and I tried not to start wailing right on top of my baby sister. I couldn't believe the old man wasn't here. But I was glad too. Because if the last words on Janet's lips were going to be those, I might be able to live through this.