He shook his head. "No. You don't." Pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket, he ran it over his eyes. "I cried for a month straight after you shipped out. Every time something like this happens to you, it's like it's 1941 all over again. I can't help it."
"I know, buddy."
Right then, Greg walked into the office. "Mike! Are you OK?"
Mike said, "Yeah." He blew his nose. "Getting there."
I got down off the chair and pulled out a Camel.
Carter said, "I'll take one of those."
Mike said, "Me, too."
I knew Greg didn't smoke, so I didn't offer one. I put three in my mouth and lit them all at once. I handed one to Mike and then to Carter. Once we'd all had a drag, I said, "Come on in, Greg. Pull over a chair."
He did just that and sat down right next to Mike, who put his arm over Greg's shoulders.
"We were about to start talking about Andy and what to do."
Mike took a deep breath and nodded. "So, this S.O.B. sheriff wants you to bring the payoff in person."
Carter asked, "How much?"
Mike shrugged. "Ten grand."
I smiled. "Well, that's easy. Why does he want me to come myself?"
"Who knows? I don't think you should do it."
"But, what happens to Andy?"
Mike nodded. "I know. I know." He thought for a moment. "We should approach the Texas Rangers."
Carter guffawed. "I thought that was just a radio thing."
"No. They're like the F.B.I. for the state. I heard they're investigating the mob in Galveston. They want to shut down the rackets but have been having a hard time with it. This sheriff is up to his neck with the mob."
"Are they gonna wanna deal with us queers?"
"It wouldn't hurt to try."
I nodded and thought about it. "Kenneth should be involved in this. He should approach them. And then we'll find out how they want to handle things. But, and I mean this Mike, if we don't have a plan outta them in twenty-four hours, I'm gonna pay the bastard sheriff off."
Mike looked at me and said, "Fine. I'll call Kenneth. I guess it's no good telling you not to go this afternoon?"
"Save your breath. If we don't have an airplane to use, we'll get the next commercial flight."
Sighing, Mike said, "OK."
"What's the latest on Mildred?"
"Our guy in Galveston, that Whitey Johnson, has her under surveillance. I heard from him this morning. Says he's convinced she's not working at the Rio Grande Club but she's still staying with that husband of hers. She seems to be free to come and go as she pleases. He's tailed her on a handful of shopping trips."
"Anything else?"
Mike stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on my desk. "Be careful, Nick. That place is like the wild west."
I nodded and looked at Carter. "Fortunately, I have a posse."
Carter grinned at me in that way he has that makes me want to go kiss him solid on the pucker.
Greg said, "Welcome home, you two."
I stood up and smiled. "Thanks, Greg." He stood up and pulled me into a bear hug. He did the same with Carter. He then put his arm around Mike and pulled him in close. It was sweet.
. . .
Carter drove the Mercury down to the airport. Dawson was with us. He was acting cool, but I could tell he was worried.
Carter parked the car in front of the small private terminal. We'd decided to leave it there while we were gone.
By the time we were unloaded and walking to the tarmac, it was just past 3. It was always nice to see the silver bird with its painted-on mascot, a rendition of our friend Red in Georgia.
I was glad that the Lumberjack was available. I really liked Captain Morris and his wife, Christine. He was an amiable pilot with a lot of experience, going back to before the war. She was our stewardess and a sweet gal.
We only had the one captain on the books for this airplane. Captain Morris had a small roster of pilots that he could call on to sit in the right seat for specific trips. The co-pilot on this trip was from Argentina. His name was Manuel Obregon. As we were introduced, I noticed he was either in awe of us or not that happy to be meeting us. Either way, he was a bit stand-offish. As long as we got to Galveston quickly and safely, it was fine by me.
Once we were in the air, I got up, leaving Carter and Dawson to chat. I walked over to the galley and asked Christine, "Do you have anything we can eat right now? We missed lunch."
She smiled sweetly and replied, "Of course! For dinner, I have Chateaubriand for everyone, including one that is well done." She looked up at Carter who had walked over along with Dawson. Carter liked his steak cooked to the consistency of shoe leather.
He smiled and said, "Thank you, ma'am."
"I can make you three a ham sandwich right now. How about that?"
Carter said, "That's great. Dawson?"
He said, "I'm fine. But I'll take a beer if you have it."
Christine smiled. "Coming right up."
I said, "Carter and I will be in the bedroom. Just knock when it's ready."
Dawson smirked at us and said, "Try and keep it down, boys."
. . .
We'd first flown on the Lumberjack the summer before when we had to make a quick trip to Georgia after Carter's father was murdered. Marnie had arranged the rental on short notice. It turned out that the plane was owned by Howard Hughes. Once we were back in San Francisco, Kenneth told me that Hughes was suing for damages to the plane. Instead of fighting him in court, I just offered to buy the plane outright. Now I owned two (and possibly a third) and mostly rented them to Hollywood muckety-mucks. We were making a nice profit on the business, which was nice.
My favorite part of flying one of my own planes was that each one had a bedroom. The one on the Lumberjack was all the way aft and extended the width of the plane, so there were windows on either side. It was about fifteen feet deep and had a very comfortable bed. There was a bathroom connected to the bedroom that included a shower. It was a nice setup. Carter and I took advantage of it and sat on the edge of the bed so we could catch up on our necking.
After about ten minutes, there was a knock on the door. Dawson cracked it open and smiled broadly. "It's ready when you are."
Carter pulled back and said, "Thanks, Dawson. We'll be there in a minute."
He winked at us and closed the door.
Carter stood up and adjusted himself. He pulled me and I did the same. I walked over to the window. I leaned down to peer out. It looked to me like we were flying over the San Joaquin Valley. In the distance I could see the Sierras.
Putting his arm around me, Carter squeezed in next to me. "Big change from forty-eight hours ago, isn't it?"
I turned to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and said, "Yeah."
Right then, we hit an air pocket and the plane bounced and fell a few feet. We both tumbled to the floor and started laughing. We lay there, for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. Carter put his arm around me and pulled me in close,. After a moment, we began making out again.
About a minute later, Dawson was back. He opened the door without knocking. "Are y'all OK?" He looked down at the floor and said, "Well, that answers that."
I started laughing again while Carter replied, "We're fine. We're on our way."
. . .
Christine served the two of us at one of the small tables that was bolted to the floor in front of a sofa that stretched along the side of the plane. We sat side-by-side. We both had beer in a glass. It was Bergie, of course, which was a local San Francisco brew and my favorite of what you could buy in a bottle.
Dawson sat on the sofa across from us. We talked about what it had been like in jail. We didn't talk about Andy. I had the feeling Dawson wanted to avoid talking about him as long as possible.
When we were done, I stood up, grabbed the plates and walked them over to the galley. Handing them to Christine, I asked, "How've you been?"
She put the dishes in the small sink and said, "G
ood. Real good. Did you know that Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio used the plane for a week?"
I leaned against the wall and smiled. "No. Robert didn't tell me. Carter and I've been a little occupied lately."
Carter and Dawson walked up right then. Carter said, "We got sent up the river, Christine."
She laughed and said, "I saw that. I'm sorry that happened."
I smiled and said, "But, tell us about Marilyn and Joltin' Joe."
"Well, she's about to start filming a new movie in September. Something called The Seven Year Itch."
Carter nodded. "That was a play on Broadway."
I looked up at him. "How'd you know that?"
He shrugged. "I read the papers."
I looked at Christine. "I don't. You can probably guess why. Anyway." I smiled. "Where'd they go?"
"Well, we picked them up in Burbank. First we went to Acapulco. Miss Monroe was renting a little villa there. I think they managed to dodge the press."
I nodded. "Good."
"But then they decided to go to Havana and spend a couple of days with someone. I never heard who it was."
She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. "But the press found her there, so we flew to The Bahamas, to Nassau. They spent the night on the plane because the press arrived right after we landed. John and I were mobbed at the hotel when they realized John was flying the plane."
I shook my head. "Where'd they go next?"
"After that night, we flew back to Burbank."
Dawson nudged me in the arm. "Marilyn Monroe slept on that bed." He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
I shrugged.
Carter looked over at Christine and said, "It's Joltin' Joe that Nick is thinking about. I guarantee it." She laughed and turned to wash the dishes. He wasn't wrong.
. . .
We landed at Galveston's Municipal Airport a little after 9 local time. When Christine opened the door, I could smell the nearby beach. It was a warm night. And there was a strong tropical breeze.
Whitey Johnson, the local P.I. Andy had been working with met us just outside the small terminal building. He was about 50, was thin as a rail, and smoked like a chimney. His hair was snowy white, his eyes were bloodshot, and he stood about 5'6". When he saw Carter, he looked up and his mouth dropped open. When Dawson came around behind Carter, the man's face frowned. Looking at me, he said, "That one's as wide as the other, ain't he?"
I nodded.
"Damn. What do y'all have in the water back there in San Francisco?"
I shrugged. "Carter came that way. He's from Georgia. And Dawson is from Virginia."
Whitey extended his hand to Carter. "Put it there, son. Always like to meet another Georgia boy." Carter shook his hand. Whitey continued, "I'm from Macon, myself. But I was raised here. Of course, to the natives, I'll always be a newcomer. Hell, if your family wasn't here before the hurricane, you're just a wannabe island rat."
Dawson smiled and said, "I'm from the tidewater of southeast Virginia. It's the same."
Whitey shook his hand. "Another Rebel. And what about you?" He looked at me with a squint.
Carter said, "His great-grandfather was in the Gold Rush. So he's as native as it gets in San Francisco."
Whitey extended his hand. I shook it while he tilted his head to the side. "Well, you ain't a Yankee, so I guess you'll do." He thought that was funny and started cackling. After a moment, he started coughing. "Damn." Pulling out a pack of Pall Mall, he took one, lit it after striking a match on the bottom of his worn shoe, and drew in on it. "These are gonna kill me one day but they taste so damn good."
As he took another drag, he looked at the plane and pointed at it. "That yours?"
I nodded.
"I guess you must be loaded. How's a P.I. get so rich?"
I shrugged. "Gold rush money."
Whitey smiled conspiratorially. "Must have some of those gold nuggets stored up somewhere, am I right?"
I shook my head and said, "We're set up at a place called the Hotel Galvez. Can we get a taxi and meet you there?"
"Hell, boy. If you don't mind my broke-down Hudson, I can carry all y'all."
I smiled. "That'd be fine but we need to get the two pilots and stewardess over there, too."
"Well, then, just go over to that there payphone and ask for Ace Taxi. They'll come right over."
Carter walked over to take care of that. I looked at Whitey as he grinned in the glow of the airfield lights. He looked at his watch. "The Braniff flight from Houston should be here in a minute."
I nodded and said, "Don't let us keep you."
He threw his cigarette to the ground, took out another one, and quickly lit it. "Hell, boy, I'm gonna take you all for a quick tour. You let your fancy pilot and what-not take the luggage in the taxi. There's a couple of places you need to see before it gets too late."
I sighed and smiled. "Thanks, Mr. Johnson."
"Call me Whitey, son."
"Fine. I'm Nick."
"I know your name." He grinned, took a deep drag on his Pall Mall, and started coughing again.
. . .
Carter had called for two taxis which we needed, after all was said and done. I called the hotel to make sure the crew could check in without me being there. The clerk said he would take of them and get our luggage up to our rooms and that we could check in later, no matter how late it was.
Once we got Captain Morris, Christine, Captain Obregon, and all the luggage into the two taxis, we walked across the U-shaped drive in front of the terminal building to his car, which was parked along the curb. To my surprise, Whitey's "broke-down" Hudson was a gleaming white '52 Hornet Sedan that was shined to a glow. I sat up front with Whitey while Carter and Dawson piled into the backseat.
After he started the car, Whitey told us to roll our windows down. He said, "I don't like air conditioning. Ain't natural." He pushed in the clutch, put the car in gear, and smoothly pulled away from the curb. He said, "Y'all sit back and relax. At this time of night, it's gonna take a while to get over there. Even on a Tuesday night, the town's hopping."
Whitey made a left on the street that ran in front of the terminal. We followed that road for a couple of miles. It was a broad two-lane road that was dark and without street lights Eventually, we jogged to the right. The street narrowed a bit and street lights appeared. I was able to catch a glance of a street sign. We were driving down Avenue S. This was where we first ran into some traffic. For a few blocks, we were slowed to a crawl. I couldn't see any reason for it, and eventually, the cars ahead of us all started turning down a side street while we moved forward.
At 39th Street, Whitey turned left. We followed this for several blocks until he came to a divided boulevard called Broadway. After that, I lost track since he seemed to zig and zag a lot, turning this way and that at almost every corner. I asked, "Are you being tailed?"
He turned and gave me a quick grin. "Not anymore I'm not."
"Who's after you?"
"You name it. Could be an ex-husband who's angry I caught him cheating. Got at least three of those I could name. Might be the mob. I know they're probably wondering who the hell you are."
He quickly lit another cigarette. Putting his lighter back in his shirt pocket. "When a bird like yours lands at the airport, people are bound to get curious."
I nodded. "Where are we going?"
"To see your Mildred, that's where."
. . .
Whitey parked in a space by the curb on Market Street. He turned off the ignition and turned in his seat. "See that?" I turned around, as did Carter and Dawson. He pointed to a white frame building with no sign but that was buzzing. We were on the other side of the island. The tropical breeze was gone. The air was thicker and seemed almost stagnant. From inside the building, I could hear a jukebox playing western swing music. I didn't recognize the song.
A beefy man was checking customers as they walked up the four steps to the ground floor of the establishment. The second floor appeared t
o have four bedrooms. The windows were open to catch the breeze and thin curtains billowed in and out of the window frames. In the second window from the left, I could see a man with his back to the street who was taking off his coat. He moved away from the window and a blonde woman took his place. I saw her extend her hand and take something from the man. She raised her hand in the air and shook it, as if she was signaling someone. Once that was done, she slowly walked away from the window. I guessed a lookout on the street was watching to make sure the John had paid. That was clever and a very subtle way of advertising.
"That's The Rio Grande Club. The husband, Johnny, is working the dice tables. All the gambling is on the ground floor. They have a bar, of a sort. I've heard the dice are fixed. I did a little research and lost about a hundred. That'll be in my expenses."
I didn't say anything and just watched. Now I understood what the term "wide-open town" meant. No one could not know what was going on here. And, as we'd driven over, we'd passed several more places that had similar set-ups.
I turned back to Whitey and asked, "Where's Mildred?"
Whitey pointed to the right. We were parked in front of a wood-frame house that even in the dark appeared to need a paint job. "That's where she and the husband live."
I looked at my watch. It was right at 9. I pulled out the stem and moved it ahead two hours to 11. "Will she be awake?"
Whitey nodded. "Probably. I seen her walk over to the club at midnight every night this week."
From the backseat, Dawson said, "Sounds like you've been busy."
Whitey grinned at me. "Y'all is my only client. I'm turnin' everyone else away."
I nodded and opened my door. Standing up, I quietly closed the door and walked around the front of the car. By that time, Carter was up and out, as well. Dawson stayed in the car with Whitey, a fate I was sorry to leave him to.
We walked up five steps to the front porch of the house. It was devoid of any furniture at all. And, like the rest of the building, it needed new paint.
I could hear the radio playing, but it sounded faint as if it was coming from the back. I knocked soundly on the screen door a few times and waited. After a moment, I heard the click-clack of women's shoes on wood, or maybe linoleum.
The outside light came on and the front door opened. From behind the screen, I could see Mildred's face peering at us. At first she didn't recognize us. But then suddenly she did. She began to shake her head as if she didn't believe it was us. Finally, she put her hand over her mouth, unlatched the screen, pulled me inside with Carter right behind, and slammed the door closed behind. She locked the door, turned off the porch light and, in the dark of the hallway quietly said, "Well, aren't y'all a sight for sore eyes?"
The Iniquitous Investigator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 8) Page 17
