. . .
Carter and I walked into my cell. I leaned against the wall as he sat down on the cot.
He grinned and asked, "Who was it?"
"Jeffery."
He whistled. "What'd he have to say?"
I replied, "I'm gonna tell you but you have to promise you won't get upset. OK?"
Carter frowned. "What?"
"Promise first."
"Sure. What was it?"
I took a deep breath. "The foundation has been funding Wildman's research."
He looked at me and slowly stood up. "The foundation?"
"The new foundation. You know American Liberty Freedom bullshit."
He looked down at me. His ran his hand over his face. That was always a sign he was about to slug someone. I had a strong desire to back out of the cell.
In an awful whisper he slowly said, "Are you telling me that we are in here because of your uncle's goddam money?"
I nodded.
"I'm gonna--"
I reached up and put my hand over his mouth. "Not in here." I kept it covered until he nodded.
Still whispering, he said, "Damn it, I wish I had a punching bag. With a picture of Jeffery Klein's smug little face on it." He took a deep breath and walked over to the window. He put his hands on the bars and started yanking on them in anger. I thought it was funny until he pulled one of them out.
Chapter 12
Marin County Jail
Sunday, July 18, 1954
About half past noon
The small visitor room was packed. On the table, we had a plate of sandwiches made for us by Mrs. Strakova. There were bottles of Coca-Cola with straws in them. But no one was eating or drinking. There was, however, a lot of shouting going on.
On one side of the conversation, if it could be called that, were Ben Ross and Kenneth Wilcox. On the other side was Jeffery and myself. I couldn't believe I was standing up for the guy, but someone had to. Against the wall stood Dawson, Sam, and Carter who were all glaring daggers at Jeffery. I couldn't blame them.
Ben took a deep breath and said, "How could you ever think that this was worthy of a grant? Weren't there starving artists who needed the money?"
I held up my hand and said, "We can argue this until the end of the world but that doesn't get us anywhere. Jeffery already apologized." Carter snorted behind me as I said that last sentence. "And, if anyone is to blame, it's me."
Several people started talking at once. I stood up and said, "Look. Jeffery told me for years that I shoulda been paying attention to that foundation. He was right. It was my money."
Kenneth said, "That's all very noble, Nick. But that's not how charitable foundations work." With steely emphasis, he said, "This is Jeffery's mess." He sighed. "At least you've canceled the grant. Have you advised Wildman?"
Jeffery nodded. I kept expecting him to get defiant and lash out, but he never did. He just sat there, taking it all as it was being given to him. I really did feel for the guy even though I still wanted to slug him hard.
"What did he say?"
Jeffery looked up at the ceiling. "You saw how he is. He started telling me that I was being swayed by my unnatural affinity for Nick, whom I was projecting as a father figure because he was so wealthy. He went on in that vein for a while before I finally hung up on him."
I looked at Jeffery for a long moment. "Do you believe that?"
He sighed. "I don't know what to think. I can't believe that any of this happened." He bent over and put his head in his hands.
I looked around the room and asked, "Can we let Jeffery go so we can get down to business?"
He looked up at me. "I want to stay and help."
I pulled him up by his arm and said, "I'm no lawyer, but you shouldn't be here."
Ben said, "My thoughts exactly."
I led Jeffery to the door, opened it, walked him into the hallway, and closed the door behind me. I pulled him into a hug and said, "It's gonna be OK."
We stood there for a moment before I remembered where we were. I pulled back and said, "Go home and take care of yourself."
He looked at me. It was the most pitiful thing I'd ever seen. "I'm so sorry, Nick."
"You cleaned up the mess. You did right by me, Jeffery. Now, go home and do right by you." A look of fear passed over his face. He knew what I meant. I was talking about his sham of a marriage. "She knows everything. I can promise you that. Just come clean. Maybe you can work out an arrangement." That seemed to give him a little hope.
He sighed deeply, turned, and walked away.
. . .
Dawson was giving his report. "I think I found something important. O'Connor has his own darkroom."
Ben looked up from his notepad. "Why is that important?"
"Once I found that out, I asked around to see if anyone knew if he was an amateur photographer. None of his cronies at that bar had ever seen him with a camera. But, I made some calls to the supply stores in the City and discovered that he's bought a lot of film, paper stock, and chemicals. A lot."
"How much is a lot?" asked Kenneth.
"In the last year alone, over two grand."
Ben whistled. "That's a lot on his salary. Any idea what it's for?"
Dawson shook his head.
Kenneth asked, "How'd you find this out?"
"Funny enough, it was at the Rexall. He'd been buying Ektachrome film from them on a regular basis and one day the store manager told him about a supply house in the City where he could be at a lower cost. The manager told me that O'Connor was such a good customer--"
Ben put up his hand. "Wait. O'Connor is a customer of theirs?"
Dawson nodded. "He sure the hell is. That was the next thing on my list to tell you. He knows Noreen. They're what you might call pals."
Sam snickered when Dawson said that. Ben looked over at him and asked, "What?"
"Pals? Is that the word for it these days? Those two are going at it like rabbits."
"How do you know?" asked Kenneth.
"I saw them do it. O'Connor needs to remember to pull the drapes on his windows, including the ones that just look at the side of the hill." Sam laughed again. "Noreen and her husband live on San Carlos. O'Connor lives just up the block. I didn't know who she was, but I was casing O'Connor's house and I see this middle-aged dame walk up and knock on the door. Of course, she was wearing dark glasses and a scarf, as if that fools anyone in a small town. Anyways, he lets her in. In five minutes, they're doing it." He shook his head. "It wasn't pretty. But, I'll tell you this. He had her performing alone."
"What do you mean?" That was Ben.
"Well, she was spread out on some kind of animal rug. Might have been a bearskin." He gave us some very specific details of how it worked. It wasn't shocking, but it was surprising.
For some reason, I remembered that Officer Krauss had frisked me the morning before. I reached into my pocket and pulled out whatever it was he'd put in it when he did that. In all the excitement about breakfast, I'd forgotten about it. I pulled out a folded over piece of paper. It was a cutting from a magazine. When I opened it up, I started laughing.
Everyone turned to me. Carter asked, "What is it, Boss?"
I was laughing so hard, I could barely talk. I passed the cutting over to Kenneth, who looked up at me and smirked. "Who is this?"
I took a deep breath and said, "That's Noreen. On a bearskin rug. I don't know what that thing in her hand is called, but it looks like she's having a lot fun with it." I wiped the tears from my face. "Poor gal."
. . .
Kenneth sent Sam and Dawson back into the City to see if they could find the magazine the clipping was from. There were plenty of newsstands open on a Sunday that sold girlie magazines, although this one might have been more risqué than most.
Meanwhile, Carter, Ben, Kenneth, and I were going through the big folder of documents that Jeffery had brought. I was looking at Wildman's initial proposal for a grant. I came across this gem at the end of the proposal and read it out loud to the other
s:
Therefore, it is not the case, as prior researchers in this area of study have proposed, that there exists an intrinsic disorder that the male homosexual has within him at birth that may remain dormant for his lifetime or suddenly come to life if stimulated through external means.
In my research, I have determined that homosexuality is an expression of a disordered psyche, not an innate characteristic of a small percentage of male humans. Even Kinsey, in his proposed spectrum of male sexuality, has suggested that most males might express homosexuality in confined environments, such as aboard a ship or within a prison, where normal female companionship is not available. In other words, the disordered expression is a result of the environment.
In my continuing research, I propose to interview healthy adult men of all classes, professions, and ages, in order to demonstrate that any expression of homosexuality is arising purely from an extant situation. Such research will confirm that once the stimulation that leads to the abnormal expression is removed, normal orientation is re-established.
In order to perform the exhaustive interviews required for such research to be complete, and have the work supported by appropriate personnel and supplies as detailed in Attachment C, I hereby request that the foundation grant an initial sum of $50,000 effective from the first of October of 1953. I also request an addition grant in the amount of $75,000 at the anniversary date of this grant in 1954, with any additional annual grants to be determined by the board.
As I put down the binder, Ben laughed and said, "Why have I never heard of this fifty thousand dollar study? Wildman's office is down the street from mine. He doesn't have any employees and only rarely has clients, from what I've seen." He shook his head.
Kenneth asked, "Where did the money go?"
Ben started counting on his fingers. "One, clothes. The man is a fashion plate. Two, new cars. He has a big Cadillac and a nifty little M.G. from England. Three, trips. I've heard him talk about sailing to and from England as well as little jaunts down to Mexico."
Kenneth was making notes. "How much can we verify?"
I looked at the box. "Shouldn't he have submitted reports?"
Kenneth nodded. "Yes. I was just looking at the final grant. Oh, and it was for a hundred grand. With a guarantee for another hundred this year." Ben laughed again. He stood up and stretched. Walking around the table, he put his hands on my shoulders and said, "At least your Uncle Paul would be impressed by the amazing grift Wildman has pulled."
All I could do was agree. It was impressive.
Kenneth said, "This is the impeachment proof we were looking for. There are no reports."
Still standing behind me, Ben asked, "What about the chain of evidence?"
Kenneth nodded. "Yes. We'll have to get Klein to testify."
I wondered about that and if Jeffery would do it. Kenneth stood up and walked over to the window. While Carter and I watched, Ben walked over, turned his head, and kissed him on the back of the neck. It was sweet.
. . .
For dinner, Mrs. Strakova served us roasted chicken. Understanding that we didn't have knives, she cut the bird into pieces in the way I'd seen at restaurants in Chinatown. A leg was just chopped across the bone. At first, there was some grumbling but then the flavor of the chicken, along with the mashed potatoes, string beans, and a fresh biscuit made the meal a hit. I wondered where she'd learn to make biscuits, since this one reminded me of some I'd had in Georgia.
Fitzsimmons and the two guards sat at the table with us. It was hard at times to remember we were in a jail. The super told a mildly bawdy joke which started a round that got progressively bawdier. By the end of dinner, the whole group seemed genuinely happy.
Afterwards, we invited Fitzsimmons to join in a game of Hearts with Tiny. It seemed to me that the super and Tiny knew each other intimately because they bandied inside jokes back and forth. It wasn't anything that anyone outside of the life would have noticed, but it was obvious to me.
I tried not to win any of the hands, remembering my experience in the Navy. It was always best to let the person at the table with the most power win the game. It was just good politics, as my old friend Mack once said.
After three hands, the super stood up and rubbed his belly. He was wearing what looked like brand-new street clothes which were cut in a way that was more flattering to his paunch. I had no interest in the man, but I could see how others would be attracted to him. While we were inside, it was a good idea to be friendly, but that was the extent of things.
He looked around the room and sighed. Being a smart man, he had taken the chair that had its back to the wall. "Well, men, it was a good dinner." There was a small round of agreeable noises from the rest of the common room.
"Williams."
I stood up and said, "Yes, sir?"
"Follow me to my office."
I looked down at Carter, who nodded once.
Fitzsimmons moved to the gate and I followed him. As we walked down the hallway, he started humming a tune I didn't recognize. He opened the door to his office for me and said, "Have a seat."
I did just that. The room was dark. It was getting close to sunset and the patch of sky I could see through the window had streaks of pink and purple in it. I suddenly realized how much I wanted to go outside. The county jail didn't have a yard and not being to see the sky was beginning to get to me.
As I pondered this, Fitzsimmons walked to his desk and turned on the lamp. He pulled out a key from his pocket and unlocked the top drawer of a filing cabinet. Pulling it open, he reached in, and removed an envelope. He closed the drawer and walked over to where I sat. He sat down on the corner of his desk like he'd done before. His right leg swung back and forth casually.
"I have something here for you."
I nodded and waited.
"But it's gonna cost you."
"How much?"
He took off his coat, threw it on the other chair, and stood up. Walking to the door, he locked it. Standing with his back to the door, he began to loosen his tie, but he didn't take it off.
Smiling at me, he said, "Not as much as you think." In the dim light that spread from the lamp into other parts of the room, I couldn't see his eyes. That made me nervous, but I decided not to jump to conclusions. I waited for him to say more.
He walked towards me until he was right on top of me. He pulled on his shirt and lifted it up. I could see the tattoo of a red rose on the right side of his hairy belly. It was a little distended from his weight gain, but it was still clear. He said, "Like that?"
"Sure. Navy?"
"Yeah." He tucked his shirt back in and, as he did, he said, "Stand up."
I did. We were almost eye-to-eye. He put his arms around me, squeezed me, and moaned a little down in his throat. I didn't return the gesture. I just stood still.
Whispering, he said, "I just want you to hold me, Nick. That's all. I like money a hell lot more than anything else, so it won't go any further than that. And, I'm not packing." He sighed. "Just hold me, Nick."
I put my arms around his solid bulk and tried to think of him as a hurt kid who wanted affection. I pulled him in close and held him.
At one point, he backed up and sat down on the desk. I stepped in close, pulled his head to my chest, and ran my hand over his brilliantined hair, while he made a strange kind of purring sound. We stood there for a long while. After a while, I realized the holding was making him excited. It was weird but it made sense. After reading all of Wildman's psychological babble, I had to wonder if Fitzsimmons was never held by his mother or his father when he was a baby. And maybe that's all this was. He just wanted something he never got. I knew how that felt.
It was probably twenty minutes before he quietly said, "Thank you, Nick."
I ran my hand over his head one last time and said, "You're welcome." For some reason, I kissed him lightly on the cheek which made him moan. It was a very strange thing.
After another moment, he handed me the envelope and quietly said
, "It was worth the twenty-five grand. Go on and get outta here." So, I did.
. . .
I put the folder beneath my undershirt, walked down the hallway, waited to be let in at the gate, and found Carter playing cards with Tiny. They were cutting up about something. I nodded in the direction of my cell and headed that way.
Once I was on my cot, I pulled the envelope out and looked at it. It was brown and the size of a large photograph. I turned the envelope and twisted it slightly. It felt like it contained photos. I was afraid to open it, so I waited for Carter.
After a couple of minutes, he appeared in the door. "What happened?"
I motioned to him to come sit down next to me, which he did. The cot groaned a little with his weight, but it held, as always. Without saying anything, I handed him the envelope. He was about to open it when he stopped and sniffed. He laid it on his lap and put one arm around me. Leaning in, he whispered, "You smell like Fitzsimmons. What happened?"
I quietly told him. To his credit, he didn't laugh or snicker, which made me love him even more. I said, "He was like a sad and lonely kid."
Carter handed me the envelope. "Open it. We'll look at it together."
I nodded. I pulled the tab back and let the photographs fall out. As I did, we both gasped.
They were oddly focused and grainy close-ups of two men being intimate. One of the men was lean and nearly hairless. The other was bulky with muscles and some fat and covered in body hair. The last photo was of the lean's man face. It was Wildman. His mouth was full and just above where his forehead touched the belly of the hairy man was the tattoo of a slightly distended rose.
. . .
The next morning, Officer Krauss let me out for breakfast detail just before 5. As we walked to the kitchen, he quietly said, "I hear your boys have been all over Sausalito. That true?"
I nodded.
"Find anything?"
"Yeah. I can't thank you enough, Officer Krauss."
"Name is Bill. For when you get home."
We were standing by the kitchen door by this time. I looked at him and asked, "OK if I shake your hand?"
The Iniquitous Investigator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 8) Page 14
