Carter answered for me, "Oh, we will."
"Promise?"
I said, "Promise."
Janet's eyes fluttered. Her body began to shake. And then everything was very quiet. She was gone.
. . .
I went to find the nurse and told her the news. This was a different nurse. She came in, took one look at Carter, and said, "Family only."
"We are family. He's my..."
Carter said, "I'll be outside." He hobbled over past me and was gone.
"Are you the brother?"
I nodded. Having been relegated to a role without even a name actually felt better. I didn't want to be "Nick" or "Nicholas." I just wanted to be "the brother."
"Well, I need you to sign some forms. Do you know what we're supposed to do with the body?"
"The body." Ah, yes. The lifeless, inanimate corpse on the bed that had just a moment earlier told me to tell my father to go fuck himself. I decided that this was the perfect moment to do so.
"My father will have to make those decisions. Where's the nearest payphone?"
She told me and I walked out into the hallway. Carter looked up at me and I said, "OK, cousin, we need to call the father about the body. Come on."
I heard him mutter, "Oh, shit," under his breath.
"Cousin, you have no idea."
When we got to the phone, I dropped my dime and called his office number. Even though it was late in the evening, I knew he would be there. And that Marlene would be with him.
When the line was answered, it was Marlene's polite, efficient voice that spoke. I figured she was probably a very nice person and didn't get paid enough in either cash or fringe benefits to be in the center of the latest battle in the ongoing War of the Williamses, so I just said, "This is the son. Put the father on the phone."
She made a sound but said nothing. I heard a hand cover over the mouthpiece and some discussion mumbled its way up the wire.
His voice spoke clearly and crisply. "Is it over?"
I sighed and said, "Yes. It was fast."
"Good."
"I have two messages for you. One is from the hospital."
"Yes?"
"They would like to have instructions on the disposal of the body."
There was a brief silence. "I see. I'll take care of that. What's the other message?"
"The other message is—"
Before I could say it, I saw Carter's big, thick finger press down on the hook, effectively ending the call and saving me the trouble of having a stroke right in the middle of a hospital which, if you think about it, would have been very convenient.
I looked up at the man I loved more than ever and said, "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Now, let's go home and go to bed."
I nodded and we walked and hobbled our way out.
. . .
I pulled the Buick into the small driveway and walked up the steps with Carter. Standing in the doorway was my favorite cop in the world, Mike Robertson.
He was standing under the light, which we had failed to extinguish before leaving, smoking the stub-end of a cigar and reading a dime-store novel. He stashed the novel in his back pocket and crushed the cigar with his policeman's shoe as we hobbled and walked up the stairs.
Carter spoke first. "Hey Mike."
"Carter." Mike nodded and smiled. "Looks like you're healing up nicely."
By this time we were all on the porch together. It was always amusing to me to be around these two giants at the same time. Carter was about 6 inches taller than me at 6'4" and Mike was about an inch taller than Carter. Both of them had the same muscular build.
But whereas Carter had easy-going southern boy good looks with sandy-blond hair, Mike was more of the scary but handsome type. He had a pronounced forehead, jet black hair, and piercing blue eyes. When he was happy, he was reasonably attractive. When he was unhappy, you began to think of terrorized villagers running to get out of his way.
Carter asked, "How about some rye and water?"
I unlocked the door, walking between the two behemoths who liked to play that game where they pretend they can't see me because I'm so short. Since I'm usually the tallest guy in the room in a city full of Italian and Irish immigrants, I find this mildly amusing. And anything that made me think of something or someone other than my baby sister was OK by me.
I pushed open the door and Mike asked, "Do you always leave the door open like that, Carter?"
Carter replied, "No. I guess the wind must have blown it open."
"You two think you're real clowns, don't you?"
Mike walked in behind me and asked, "Did you hear a high-pitched voice coming from somewhere?"
Carter closed the door and pulled me into a hug. "No. It was my husband here. And he ain't that small, truth be told."
"Husband?"
I pulled Carter's arms in tighter. "We thought we'd try it on for size. What do you think? We can both be husbands."
"We are what we say we are."
"Have you been reading more of that Krishnamurti stuff you get down at the bookstore on Sacramento?"
"Well, you know me. I gotta have something to read all the time. And the occult or higher thought is just as good as Zane Grey."
I nodded. "Uh huh. I see. I'll be sure to send a note about that to the New York Times Book Review and see what they make of it."
"Did I hear mention of rye and water? Seems like the hospitality in this house is on a rapid decline."
I pulled away from Carter, tossed my hat on the table, threw my coat over the banister, and went over to the bar. While I built him a drink I asked Carter, "The usual?"
"No, not tonight." I wondered at that but agreed with him. I wanted to get drunk in the worst way, but it would have to be a real bender. Just a sip of rye or gin wasn't going to be enough.
Mike had made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, coat and hat still on. I pulled the hat off his big head and put it on the hallway table. Then I handed him his drink. "You not drinking either?" he asked as he ran his hand through his hair.
I shook my head. "No. It's been a hell of a night and I need to either stay sober or go full on out."
Mike took a sip of his rye while Carter eased himself on the sofa where I joined him and leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body coming through his shirt. He put his bum leg up on the table. I leaned forward and slid a pillow underneath it for support.
Mike asked, "What happened?"
Carter said, "Janet just died."
Mike looked at me and then back at Carter. "Just died? When?"
I said, flatly, "Tonight. About twenty minutes ago."
Mike put down his drink and said, "I'm so sorry to hear that. Do you want me to go? I'm sure you have family things to handle."
Carter said, "We are handling family matters. This is our family." He grabbed my right hand with his left and squeezed.
Chapter 5
137 Hartford Street
Monday, May 11, 1953
Later that evening
We told Mike the story of what had transpired in the last hour. Carter did most of the telling. I mostly let him hold my hand and listened to him recount our little adventures along the way starting with the many phone calls all the way to the message I never got to deliver.
Mike was laughing when we got to that part and that let me finally let go a bit. I started laughing but found myself crying. I leaned in under Carter's muscular arm and let him hold me for a moment.
Mike stood up and I said, "Don't go." I sniffled and sat up straight. "I need to talk to you about why you're actually here."
Carter took hold of his cane and pulled himself up. "Since I know that this will be a private conversation, I'm gonna hobble myself up to bed. Goodnight Mike. Always great to see you." He patted Mike on his shoulder as he walked by. I watched him hobble up the stairs and then listened as he closed the bedroom door.
Mike said, "He's looking a lot better."
I nodded. "He's feeli
ng a lot better. He's a real trooper and is spending a lot of time downstairs, working on his muscles."
Mike smiled. "That can't be all bad for you."
I smiled back and said, "It has its unforeseen benefits."
Mike raised his head up, like he did when he was about to talk about something unpleasant.
"I guess you called me about the raid last night."
I nodded. Grief, which had been interrupted by companionship and laughter, was now mutating into low-intensity anger. I had to remind myself, This is my friend. He was once my lover. He's one of us. Just listen and find out what he says.
He said, "You know I had nothing to do with that."
I nodded.
"It's the fucking Examiner. They are riding the brass from the mayor to the chief of police and all over town. Everyone's nervous."
I nodded.
"We didn't call the papers. Someone else did. We wanted to go in, do it quickly, issue bench warrants, and go on."
I nodded and took a deep breath.
Mike looked at me guiltily.
"Who's your client?"
I was doing pretty good, so far. "Number 21."
"Oh shit. How do you even know about that?"
"Metro has deep pockets and they clean up their stars' messes real neat. Even way up here in the City by the Bay."
Mike nodded. He looked at his empty glass. "Can I help myself to another?"
"Sure. Go ahead." I was still OK, but it was getting harder to keep it all in.
Mike stood up and walked over to the bar. He poured about two fingers and then popped a splash of soda from the siphon.
I knew he was feeling bad. That was a lot of liquor for Mike Robertson. And he was probably still on duty. I wanted to say, "Take it easy. It isn't your fault. Damn those rags!" But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I took another deep breath as Mike lowered his massive form into the armchair. This was one house he knew he could relax in since all the furniture was already giant-tested and approved by Carter.
I wanted to get in his face and scream at him. But I didn't. I just watched him squirm. I knew, in fact, that, by not getting angry, I was torturing him. He could deal with anger and righteous indignation. Silence, on the other hand, particularly mine, was not easy for him to handle.
"So what does your client need?"
"We need to know who it is in the department that tipped off Metro."
A ball of confusion settled on Mike's face. "Well, why don't you ask ... your client?"
"He's in Hollywood. Doing whatever it is that Hollywood types do."
Mike looked at his watch. "Well, I can tell you he's in bed and been in bed for hours. They roll up the sidewalks early in that town—"
"Goddam you, Mike!" It finally burst out.
He grimaced but looked oddly relaxed. Now we were in a place he knew how to handle.
"Calm down, Nick."
I simmered and stewed a bit.
"Those men. Their lives are ruined! Ruined!" I was really howling. I heard a cane hit the floor upstairs.
Mike put out his hand. "I know, Nick. I didn't do that. I don't know who did."
I nodded. "Were you at the scene? Were you the arresting officer?"
Mike said, "You know how it works. I was supervising. It was the beat cops who did the arresting."
"Then who tipped off the papers, Mike? Who?"
He shrugged and took a sip. "I dunno."
I took a breath and regrouped. "I know this isn't your fault. But someone, somewhere, sometime has to finally stand up and say that we will not be used to sell papers, to get out the vote, or thrown around as political fodder."
Mike said, "I agree. I'm doing my part. You know that."
I looked at him and could feel the cool returning. I knew he was a good cop. I knew he did good work. I knew he was not hiding himself from anyone. And he needed to be told that I knew. So I did.
Mike relaxed and, finally, after I'd laid it on a bit thick, said, "Hey Nick! I get the message. I'm a good cop. I know. Or at least I try to be."
I said, "And you are. I'm sorry I blew up at you."
"I don't blame you. I'm the only cop around, so you get to be mad at me. Believe me, Nick, I want to find out what happened just as much as you do. I know why. We all know why."
I said, "Right. Now let's find out who."
He took another sip. "Ben White."
"Who?"
"Ben White. That's Metro's mole."
I nodded. It made sense. He was the go-to guy for any time a studio or production company wanted to film in San Francisco and needed the help of the police department. Talk was that he was involved in the development of a TV show based in the City and similar to Dragnet.
"Do you know him?" I asked.
"I've seen him around. He's at Central. I'm at North. So we don't pal around. But I'm sure I could set up a meeting for you."
"How so?"
Mike nodded with a grin.
"Another one?"
Mike smiled. "As a three-dollar bill. And, from what I've heard, if you bring Carter and another fireman along to double-date, you'll have Ben White eating out of your hand."
I laughed and said, "Well, he's got good taste, I'll give him that."
Mike stood up. "I'll call you in the next couple of days when I can get that set up." I stood up and we walked to the door. I handed him his hat from the table. He put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry about your sister. That's tough."
I nodded and said, "Thanks. Have a good night, Mike."
He stepped out onto the porch and pulled up his lapels. "Kinda nippy out here."
I looked out and could feel that the temperature had dropped several degrees since we'd been home. "You need a coat? I'm sure Carter could loan you one of his."
"No. This is fine. I'll walk down to Market and get a cab."
"Good night, Mike."
He waved back as he walked down the hill.
. . .
I stripped off my clothes and hung everything up. I was down to my BVDs and ready to get warmed up next to a hot fireman.
Carter was awake and reading. It was his favorite book. It was some sort of fantasy, by an English author, and involved a ring and a dragon and some dwarves. He'd tried to explain it me once, but it was too complex for my tastes. I liked the hard-boiled stories, the harder the better. They were straightforward. You knew where you stood with the characters. Nothing magical going on there.
I slipped in the bed and under Carter's waiting arm. "You have it out with Mike?" he asked.
"You should know. I heard your cane tap."
"I was wondering if I should come down there. But it sounded like everything got worked out."
"It did. He gave me the dope I was looking for."
"Uh huh. Son, you ever gonna tell me anything about this whoever he is that I'm not supposed to know anything about?"
"Not yet. But I will tell you this, I need you to find one of your buddies who has a hard-on for cops because sometime in the next week or so, we're going on a double-date."
"We are, are we?"
"Yes sir, we are."
"And where might that be?"
"You know. We're going to your favorite place."
Carter pulled me in close. "Tell me like you love me, honey chile."
"Top of the Mark!"
Carter let out a rebel yell and then turned over and kissed me deeply in the way that only a promise for the best view in the world and a porterhouse steak can deliver.
Chapter 6
137 Hartford Street
Tuesday, May 12, 1953
A little after 3 in the afternoon
I checked in with Jeffery by phone the next afternoon. I started off by telling him everything I'd found out from Mike about the raid. He said some choice words about the muckrakers at the Examiner, which I heartily endorsed.
"Old man Hearst has been dead and buried for almost two years, but I guess his ghost is running that filthy rag. This is j
ust the thing he'd blow his wad over."
I looked at the phone in disbelief and then asked, "Did you just say, 'blow his wad'?"
"Yes. What of it?"
I thought for a moment. It suddenly made sense.
"So, how long have you and Taylor Wells been an item? And how did you manage not to get pulled in with the other fishes two nights ago?"
There was a meaningful silence on the other end of the line.
"Jeffery? You there?"
"Damn you, Nick."
I laughed. "We should be celebrating! You're in love with the most famous homosexual in Christendom."
"You can't tell a soul, Nick. No one."
"Hey. These lips, they stay tightly closed. But how did you get out without getting caught at the Kit Kat?"
"I wasn't there, that's how." I wondered at that. Jeffery continued, "Does Carter know who your client is?"
"He's probably figured it out but only because I adamantly couldn't tell him. You know how it works these days. Not saying something can be as damning as spilling the whole mess of beans."
Jeffery sighed down the line. I heard some rustling of papers on his end.
"Wait."
I did as I was told.
"Janet is dead?"
"Yeah. Last night. Is it in the paper?"
"It's on the bottom of the front page of the Chronicle. Just a couple of paragraphs. Police investigating possible tampering with brakes. Why didn't you say something, Nick?"
I was quiet. What was there to say?
"Gee, pal. That really hurts." I wasn't sure if he meant her death or my silence or maybe both. "She was a great gal and a real friend. I'm sorry for you, buddy."
I was brief. "Thanks. When we have time for a drink or two or twenty, I'll tell you about the whole damn thing. Now, what's that about brakes?"
"Says here they found that the brake line had been cut on her car."
"So, it wasn't an accident."
"Looks to me like it was murder."
. . .
Later that same day, I had a very brief call from Marlene, my father's private secretary. She conveyed her condolences and then informed me of the time and the place of the memorial. It would be Saturday at 12 noon at Grace Cathedral on Nob Hill. It was a tony place, just perfect for a Williams bon voyage even though we weren't Episcopalians. In the religion department, the family was officially neutral, unless some affiliation was useful for a business deal.
The Unexpected Heiress (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 1) Page 3
