"Joe! You know it's so rude to talk about money and politics at a party, and here you're doing both!" This was the petite blonde.
"Alice, I'm not talking about either, as Mr. Williams will tell you. I'm talking about something much more fundamental." He turned to me and said, "George Hearst thinks you want to protect your wealth, doesn't he?"
I nodded. I didn't know if it was second sight or if he was just a good psychologist, but he was right on the money, so to speak.
"Well, he doesn't know who he's dealing with." He pulled on his pipe again. "At all," he said with emphasis.
"You mustn't mind Joe. He's a professor down in Tallahassee and his mind is always in the clouds." This was Alice again.
I smiled but shook my head. "He's right. I've never cared about the money." I gazed up at Carter and smiled. "And all this big guy worried about was whether I could live on a fireman's salary." Carter smiled back at me and then reached over and kissed me full on the lips. The group laughed amid a smattering of applause.
. . .
John and Carter were standing in the library, leaning against the fireplace and talking about the old days, while I sat in a big leather chair watching them and thinking about how much they looked alike. A couple of women were on the big leather sofa listening to the conversation while one of them held the other in her arms. Every now and then, one of them would correct John or Carter. They had all been at school together, it turned out.
The library was just to the right of the big front door. I heard the door slam open and a voice call out, "John Parker, where the hell are you?"
I watched John's face melt into a big smile as a short blond man ran up and jumped into his arms. They stood there, with John holding the man in mid-air, and kissed deeply. Carter looked over at me and smiled his sweet, southern smile. I heard one of the women sigh. Love was definitely in the air.
Once they had finished cleaning each other's tonsils, the blond man slid out of John's arms and looked around. When he saw me, he walked over and stuck out his hand. "Roger Johnson. You must be Nick."
I stood up, shook, and said, "Yep. Nice to meet you."
"Same here, bud. Say, we're almost related, you and me." He had a quick smile and bright green eyes.
"How so?"
"Well, Carter is your husband and John's my husband, so I guess that makes us cousins-in-law, or somethin' like that!"
Everyone in the room laughed.
. . .
A couple of hours later, Carter and I were sitting in the kitchen at an immense table. Henrietta was there. She had joined us just after Roger arrived. John, Roger, Joe the professor, and the other Nick rounded out the group. We were all drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.
Carter and I had been recounting some of our adventures in Ensenada and Washington when Nick asked, "Do you feel free when you're home in San Francisco?"
I turned to Carter. I wanted to hear what he said. "Well, yes and no. There's the money. These days that keeps us insulated." This wasn't what I thought he would say. He went on, "But mostly it's the City itself. It seems to protect us. Sure, there's plenty of folks who don't like us or, at least, they don't like the idea of us. But, I'll tell you... That night that Nick, my Nick, went off on George Hearst, you wouldn't believe how many people were right there with him. I think more people hate the Examiner than worry about 'The Homosexual Problem,' as they call it."
I nodded. I was already leaning against Carter. I leaned in closer.
The other Nick said, "Well, here, you know, we have to be careful. When we have our little parties, it's all very hush-hush. We even have code words. Out here in the country, we're on a party line and I feel certain the neighbors are listening in to all my calls, so I've let everyone know how to talk about our parties. I tell them to say that Uncle so-and-so is on the way. Or that little cousin Nellie is coming in from the country. That sort of thing."
Roger said, "All the neighbors must be wonderin' how many dang relatives you really have!"
We all laughed.
I asked, "So, Roger. Are you from Albany?"
"No, sir. I'm from Dawson. That's thirty miles northeast of Albany on the way to Columbus. But I'm part of the Johnson clan that owns half of Albany."
"Really?" I asked.
John pulled Roger in close and said, "He sure is."
"So, does that include George Johnson who owns the Buick dealership?"
Everyone at the table laughed.
I asked, "What's so funny?"
John reached over and pulled on my arm. "Son, you got gypped."
Roger shook his head. "Yeah, George is a second cousin of mine. And he's goin' all over town talkin' about the rube who paid--"
I interrupted him. "A thousand over list. I know."
Henrietta smiled at me. "Don't worry, hon. No one quite knows what to make of you."
The other Nick added, "Keep 'em guessing! That's what I say."
Carter said, "That's just Nick being Nick."
I rolled my eyes.
Joe, the professor, said, "Not to change the subject--"
"Oh, brother!" That was Roger. John gave him a sharp elbow.
With mock haughtiness, the other Nick said, "Some people don't respect intelligence. Do go ahead, Joseph."
Joe smiled and continued. "What I was going to say is that I hope now that idiot McCarthy is getting some TV coverage, that he'll eventually make a fool of himself. He's a national disgrace."
The other Nick smiled and asked, "And that lawyer of his. What's his name? Cohn?"
"Queer as a three-dollar bill and everyone in Washington knows it." Joe said this while trying to light his pipe.
Roger asked, "Joe, why do you smoke that darn thing if you always have to keep lighting it?"
Joe leaned over and said, "Keeps my hands busy." He reached across John and ran his hand through Roger's blond hair. "That way I'm not always feeling up cute things like yourself. Keeps me outta trouble that way."
As everyone laughed, John said, "Yeah. And keeps me outta trouble, too. I'd hate to be brought in on assault after breakin' both your hands, Joe!"
. . .
John took the wheel on the drive back to Albany. He'd been drinking all night, but I couldn't tell. Roger rode next to him in the front seat. Carter and I spent the drive necking in the backseat. It was fun.
When we got to town, John drove to his house so we could drop the two of them off before going back to the hotel. By the time we got to the hotel, it was just past 2 in the morning.
I parked in the lot behind the building and then we walked around the side of the hotel to the front door. Being so late, it was locked. I rang the bell and, after about ten minutes, the same Negro kid who'd parked the car for us when we first arrived and who I now knew was Ronnie Waskom opened the door for us.
"Where'd you leave your car, Mr. Williams?"
"Back behind the hotel in the parking lot."
"You think you two be goin' out in the morning before the funeral?"
Carter said, "We'll probably have breakfast here and then leave around 11."
"All right. I'll make sure it's washed and ready for you by then. I wanna make sure you show up lookin' proud for your daddy's funeral."
Carter took a long look and asked, "Aren't you Earl Waskom's kid?"
"Yes, sir." He smiled.
"Let's see." Carter thought for a moment. "You must be 21 by now. Is that right?"
"Yes, sir."
"How's your daddy doin' these days?"
"He's fine. Well, good as can be expected."
Carter nodded. I wondered what the history was that Uncle Leroy had referred to.
"We saw him at the cemetery this afternoon."
The kid's eyes flashed briefly. "I told him not to go up there."
Carter shook his head and put his hand on the kid's shoulder. "I hope I'll see him before I leave but, if I don't, please tell him how sorry I am for everything."
The kid smiled and said, "I will. And, if y
ou don't mind me sayin' so, Mr. Jones, you did right by leavin' town. You might have ended up where my brother did, otherwise."
Carter nodded and didn't reply.
. . .
When we got up to the room, I opened a couple of windows and turned on the air conditioning unit.
"What was all that about?" I asked as I sat down on the sofa next to Carter and took his hand in mine.
"Sorry. I guess I never told you. That was Ronnie Waskom. I guess his father now has a taxi company." Waskom's had been the name that Bert had used at the airport. "He used to work for my daddy at the paper mill. One day, Mr. Waskom said something too smart for the old man who pushed him down and proceeded to kick the livin' daylights out of him." Carter took a deep breath.
"Put him in the hospital with a concussion and two fractured ribs. Of course, Mr. Waskom was fired for insubordination and Daddy walked around like a rooster in a hen house for a couple of weeks after that. Have a Camel for me, son?"
I had bought a fresh pack at Hank's. I stood up and walked over to where I'd left my coat. I pulled took the pack out of the right pocket as I walked back over to the sofa. Tapping out the next willing one, I lit it and handed it to Carter, who took a big drag. I then leaned down and lit another one for myself off the one in his mouth. We hadn't done that in a while. Carter smiled at me in a very distracting way and then continued with his story.
"One night not long after that, Johnny, Ronnie's much older brother, came to our house and called my daddy out to fight. He was too smart to come into the house, so he stood out on the street and just yelled. This was maybe a month before Henry and I left. We already had the plan, we just needed a little bit more money." Carter inhaled deeply and then quickly blew out the smoke. "I saw the whole thing from my bedroom upstairs. Anyway, the police came and took Johnny away." Carter stopped again to remove a piece of tobacco from his mouth. "Next day, word came that Johnny died at the police station from 'injuries sustained while resisting arrest'. That was the official story, at least." He took another deep pull on the cigarette and then stubbed out the half he didn't smoke. "That's one too many for me today."
He stood up and smiled at me again. I stubbed mine out in the ashtray and followed him into one of the bedrooms where we made our way out of our clothes and into the double bed for the night.
Chapter 7
New Albany Hotel
Saturday, July 18, 1953
Just past 9 in the morning
We headed down for breakfast the next morning. Captain Morris and his wife Christine got on the elevator on the floor below ours. The New Albany was modern and had buttons in their elevator instead of an operator.
"Good morning," I said.
The captain's eyes were red and his face was sallow. Christine said quietly, "Yes. I'm sure it is."
Carter asked in a quiet voice, "Honky-tonkin'?"
Christine said, "Is that what you call it?"
"Sure. But, from the look of things, I'd say moonshine was possibly involved."
I added, "What's the cure for that, Chief?"
Carter looked over at me with a smile on his face. I hadn't used that nickname in a while and never before in public.
"I'm afraid the only cure is the hair of the dog."
The elevator door opened and as we all spilled out into the lobby, I heard the captain whisper, "Oh dear God, no."
. . .
We all sat together for breakfast. Carter managed to convince the captain and Christine to each start off with a Bloody Mary drink. I suggested to the waitress that the bartender include either Tabasco sauce or horseradish. "One or the other will wake you up."
Carter and I both had fresh orange juice along with coffee. Once the drinks arrived, we gingerly toasted to better days. Apparently, the bartender added both horseradish and Tabasco, because when the captain took a big drink from the glass, his eyes opened wide and he sputtered and coughed. "Damn!"
Christine said, "It'll put hair on your chest, hon." With that, they both chugged their drinks. Like a small miracle, I watched as they came to life. But they did ask for a pitcher of cold water.
Carter gave them an abbreviated overview of our adventures from the day before, putting emphasis on the fried chicken, downplaying our trip to the honky-tonk, and leaving out the house party at Belle Terre altogether.
As the waitress was clearing our plates, Christine asked, "What time is the funeral?"
Carter said, "It's today at 2. We're going to the church early for visitation and dinner served by the Ladies' Auxiliary."
I turned and asked, "We are?"
"It's mandatory. Even if my mama isn't speaking to me, we have to go. Everyone in town will be there."
Christine asked, "What church?"
"First Baptist, ma'am."
She replied, "We'll be there for the funeral."
"Oh, no. You don't--"
She put her hand on his. "Of course, we do. Besides. You might need a few friends, right?"
I smiled at her, and she winked.
. . .
Upstairs, we put on our black suits which were fortunately made of silk and not nearly as hot as the so-called light wool we'd worn the day before.
"Don't forget we have to pick up our new clothes after the funeral." I felt a slight twinge of something when I said that.
Carter replied, "Sure thing, Boss."
"Boss?"
"Chief?" Carter was pulling up his socks and fastening the garters.
"I had a dream about you last night, and you were wearing a Fire Chief hat. I'd almost forgotten about that name."
"And I thought we agreed you wouldn't say it in public."
I smiled as I pulled on my shirt and began to button it. "Wasn't that because you were afraid someone you worked with would hear me? No one around here will care."
Carter stood up and looked at me intently. "No, Nick, the reason we agreed not to use that word in public is because of the reaction I have to it." He looked downward. I noticed he was having that very reaction.
To counter this, I asked, "Are you ever gonna stop smiling at me like you do when we're around other people?"
"No."
"Fine. Now I have something to use on you just like you have on me."
He stood there for a moment. "You remember me talkin' about how stubborn my mama is?"
I tried not to laugh. I knew where this was going. "Sure."
"Well, tonight, son."
"Promises. You deliver and then we'll talk."
He crossed his arms and tried to look tough. I couldn't help it. I started laughing and didn't stop for almost five minutes. Of course, I would have stopped sooner if he hadn't started tickling me on the floor.
. . .
"Do we need to drive?" I asked this as we were walking through the lobby.
"Yes. The church is only down the street, but we'll be going to the cemetery for the graveside service. And I'd rather we had our own car."
I looked over at the front desk and said, "Messages."
"Right."
We walked over to the desk. Eileen was there. She smiled cooly. "Yes?"
"Any messages?"
"One moment." She turned around to look at the keyhole for our room and grabbed a couple of small notes from the box.
"Here you are."
"Thanks."
"Have a good day." She paused. "Gentlemen." I looked at her in the eye for a couple of beats. She was angry.
We turned and walked to the door. As we did, I saw that one was from Mike. He was my best friend, my first lover, and the president of our new company, Consolidated Security. All it said was, "Just checking in. Some news. Nothing urgent. Good luck."
The other was from Robert. "Offer accepted. Will call on Monday with details."
I said to Carter as we walked out the door. "Looks like I'm about to own my first office building."
"Congratulations and what the hell was that about?"
"I don't know, but she was angry."
H
e nodded as Ronnie Waskom walked up. "Ready to go, Mr. Jones?"
"Yes. And thanks for taking such good care of us. By the way, did you go to college after all?"
Ronnie nodded. "I did a couple of semesters up at Morehouse in Atlanta, but I had to come home early."
Carter nodded and asked, "You wanna go back and finish?"
"Sure, but with my pop, you know--"
"Sure."
Carter took the key from Ronnie as he followed us to the car which was parked as close as it could be. I handed Ronnie a folded twenty and said, "Thanks."
He opened the door for Carter as I walked around to the passenger side. "My pleasure, Mr. Williams."
He shut the door for Carter who started the ignition. "Mr. Jones?"
Carter looked up at the kid through the open window.
"I'm real sorry for your loss."
"Thanks. And I'm more sorry that I can ever say for yours."
Ronnie nodded and stepped back as Carter put the car into gear and we drove off.
Carter said, "I've gotta find a way to get that kid back in school at Morehouse, or wherever he wants to go. That's the least I could do."
"That's the least we could do."
"No, this is between him and me."
"Carter Jones! What would you say to me if I said what you just said?"
I watched him as he grinned. "Whoa, cowboy."
"Exactly. What's yours is mine. That includes all the awful past. For chrissakes, you fuckin' babysat my evil father at my sister's funeral. If that doesn't mean we're married, I don't know what does."
Carter put his hand on my thigh and squeezed it.
. . .
The kind ladies of the First Baptist Ladies' Auxiliary really didn't know what to do with me. Was I a friend of the family? Carter's roommate? That I could be more was beyond the pale, so we just stuck with "friend of the family."
Before we sat down to eat lunch, which everyone was calling dinner, we stood in the church hall and spoke to the ladies who came forward to speak to us. Carter, of course, was surrounded by well-wishers. I, on the other hand, mostly stood alone.
The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4) Page 6
