The Sodden Sailor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 11)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "Why was Mai on the mainland?"

  O'Reilly's face went dark. "My dad and her ma died in Hong Kong during the occupation. After the invasion, and before they passed, they made me take her upriver and leave her and the baby with relatives in a Communist camp. I left her there and didn't hear from her again until after the war when she sent me a letter from Shanghai. We stayed in touch with me sending her a few dollars now and then until the revolution. Then I didn't hear anything." He sighed and wiped a couple of tears off his face with the back of his hand. "Not until a few days ago when Pete showed up. He told me she and Jerry had somehow made their way south and were holed up in a refugee camp near the Hong Kong border and here we are."

  I looked up at Carter who nodded. I asked, "How does Thomas know where she is?"

  "Seems like everyone in Hong Kong has heard of Mai. She's tried to cross over a couple of times, legally, since she is a British citizen. But the Chinese won't let her go. It's a bit of a diplomatic tussle."

  Carter asked, "Wouldn't doing what you're proposing to do make that worse?"

  The captain shrugged. "It might. She's a talented doctor. They need her in Hong Kong."

  Playing the devil's advocate, I said, "They need her in China."

  O'Reilly nodded slowly. "They do. But her heart is in Hong Kong. All her letters said that, even when she was studying to be a doctor in Shanghai." I could understand that.

  Carter asked, "Where's Captain Thomas staying while he's here?"

  "With me."

  Carter huffed. "That must be a lotta fun."

  O'Reilly shrugged. "He's OK." Looking over at me, he stared for a long moment.

  I sighed and asked the obvious question, "How long does he have left?"

  "The doctor says six months if he stops drinking now. Which he won't."

  I nodded.

  . . .

  Once they were gone, Carter and I made our way upstairs. We were alone in the house, which was strange since, for as long as I could remember, there had always been someone running up and down the stairs or doing something somewhere that made noise. I'd grown up in that big pile of rocks. My father kicked me out in '39 when I was 17. Mike had taken me in and I'd lived with him until I'd enlisted a couple of days after Pearl Harbor.

  I brushed my teeth while Carter built a fire for the night. Our bedroom had a massive fireplace. Even on cold winter nights, we would open the windows, build a fire, and snuggle in the big bed my grandfather had built.

  After I was done, I turned off the bathroom light, walked into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. I was in my BVDs as was Carter. I admired his muscled back as he stoked the fire until it was roaring. He stood and made his way to sit next to me on the bed.

  "How's your jaw?"

  "Fine." The swelling was down but there was a nice purple and yellow bruise on the left side of my face.

  "What do you wanna do?" He put his left arm around my shoulders and pulled me close.

  "Help O'Reilly, of course."

  "What about Captain Thomas?"

  "He's beyond help."

  Carter nodded but said nothing in reply. We sat there for a while. Even though Carter's body was warm and the fire was putting off a nice heat, my legs began to get cold.

  I said, "Let's get under the covers."

  He stood and grinned down at me. I shook my head as he lifted me up, carried me over to his side, and threw me onto the bed. I have to admit that it was always a great way to start a night of lovemaking.

  . . .

  I woke up at dawn. I realized Carter wasn't in bed. Sitting up, I saw that the fire had been built up again and was roaring like it had been when I'd contentedly drifted off to sleep.

  I jumped out of bed and went to the bathroom to relieve myself. Once that was taken care of, I brushed my hair down and took a swig of mouthwash to get the night's flavors out of my mouth. I walked back into the bedroom and pulled on my trousers from the day before. Opening the wardrobe on the wall by the door, I found my favorite fleece pullover and slipped it on.

  I opened the bedroom door. I could hear Carter's voice coming up from the ground floor. It sounded like he was on the phone. I padded down the rug-covered staircase in my bare feet. When they hit the cold marble floor, I made a dash for the office with its variety of woven rugs that might be a bit warmer on my toes.

  Carter was sitting at his desk and listening to whoever was on the phone. I sat down in my chair and watched him. He was wearing an old sweater and his hair was pointing in several directions.

  He smiled at me and winked. In a loud and clearly enunciated voice, he said, "Yes. That's right."

  Based on how he was talking, he had to be calling overseas.

  "Can you spell that?" He wrote down a name on a notepad. I stood up, walked around, and looked down. He'd written, "Bondi Beach."

  He dropped the pencil and put his right arm around my waist, pulling me in close. I leaned over and tried to get his hair to lay down. It didn't respond in any meaningful way, so I let my left hand drift down around his neck and under his sweater so it could swirl around in his thick chest hair. Over the phone, I could hear a man's voice talking in an Australian accent. My interest in Carter's chest hair made it difficult to understand the man's thick accent.

  Finally, Carter said, "Thanks, Dick. I'll send you a telegram when I know our plans." There was a slight pause. "Sorry for calling so late." Another pause as the man said something. "Good night." With that, he put the phone receiver back on the hook and stood up. Looking down at me, he said, "That was Dick Masters. He lives in Sydney."

  I nodded as he kissed me.

  "I got his name and number from Big John down in Santa Cruz. I didn't realize it was midnight over there when I called but he was real friendly. He suggested I check out Bondi Beach"—Carter pronounced the first word as if was saying bond and eye—"and he gave me a suggestion of where to stay."

  "Where to stay?"

  "Yeah. A place in Sydney called The Australia." He kissed me on the forehead. "I told him we were flying there in a few days."

  I laughed. "You did?"

  Pulling me in close. "I did, Boss. We need some summer."

  As I felt the cold numbness in my feet, I said, "We sure the hell do."

  Chapter 2

  Offices of Consolidated Security, Inc.

  600 Market Street, 19th Floor

  Monday, February 7, 1955

  A quarter until 11 in the morning

  "Uh, Nick?"

  I looked up from my pile of mail. Marnie stood in the doorway with a pencil in her mouth. She was nibbling on the eraser.

  "Yeah?"

  "They're on their way up."

  "Did they have an appointment?"

  She laughed. "Of course not."

  I shrugged. "Any idea what this is about?"

  She shook her head.

  "What are you afraid of?"

  She laughed. "Nothing, I guess."

  "How're things with you and Alex?"

  Marnie smiled. "Good. But I think they're here for you."

  "How do you know they're on the way?"

  "One of the guards calls me when he sees them coming through the lobby."

  Right then, I heard the elevator door open outside of her office. I could hear several voices all talking at once. I could also hear office doors closing as other people began to realize what was about to happen. "They're here," I said with a grin.

  She said, "Gotta get coffee," and was gone in a flash.

  . . .

  I looked up when I heard a gloved hand knock on my office door. Standing up, I walked around my desk and said, "Good morning, ladies."

  I'd started calling them the Four Terrors back before Christmas. The head of the gang was Marnie's mother and my stepmother, Mrs. Leticia Williams. She was wearing a ridiculously large hat reminiscent of some that I had seen in Paris a couple of weeks ago when Carter and I had been there. She walked up, took my hand, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Nicholas, m
y boy. How are you?"

  I nodded. "Better for seeing you lovely ladies."

  They all laughed as I said that. Lettie put her gloved hand against my cheek, turned my face slightly, and asked, "What happened to your jaw?"

  I smiled, "I fell against someone's fist."

  She laughed and looked at me more closely. "Apart from that, I do believe you finally look rested after your trip to Mexico and France."

  Her second in command, one Mrs. Geneva Watkins, walked over and stood next to Lettie. Geneva was a Negro, tall with piercing black eyes and beautiful dark mocha skin that always made it impossible for me to guess her age. She smiled at me and said, "As you might guess, Nick, we're here on a mission." She kissed my cheek and then followed Lettie over to the sofa at the far end of my office where they both had a seat.

  The rearguard consisted of Mrs. Louise Jones, Carter's mother, and Mrs. Velma Roscoe, her sister and Carter's aunt. Mrs. Jones gave me a quick hug while Aunt Velma stopped and asked, "How was Paris?"

  I smiled. "Some of it was beautiful. Did you and Roscoe ever visit?"

  She shook her head. "Before the war we were just making ends meet. After the war Roscoe never wanted to leave Georgia, much less the country." Her husband had passed the summer before. She dabbed her left eye with a dainty handkerchief she pulled out of her purse, smiled at me, and then followed her sister over to where Lettie and Geneva had made their nest and followed suit.

  Right then, Marnie came in with a tray. It included a big carafe of coffee, five cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a creamer. Once she'd set the tray on the low coffee table in front of the sofa, she allowed herself to be kissed by the ladies, and then excused herself. "Nick has several calls he needs me to make." That was a lie but I couldn't blame her.

  Mrs. Jones was pouring coffee for everyone and asked, "Nick?"

  I shook my head as I sat down in one of the chairs by the sofa. "No, thanks." I'd never once figured out what name to use for the woman. She was Carter's mother so I could've called her, "Mom," or, "Mother." But I couldn't even bring myself to use either name for Lettie. My mother was long-gone but I figured it would be a while before I could use any name that reminded me of her.

  Lettie, who was always very perceptive, piped up. "Louise, don't you think it's time we figured out what name Nicholas should use when he addresses you?"

  Mrs. Jones nodded as she handed a cup to Geneva. "I suppose so." Lettie knew she was possibly walking into a minefield. Mrs. Jones was, from what I could see, happy to have me as a son-in-law, of sorts, but not that thrilled to have a son with a husband. Before the summer of '53, she and Carter had been estranged. Then her husband, Carter's father, was murdered and they'd made a kind of peace in the aftermath. She and Aunt Velma had recently moved to the City and they shared a nice apartment in the same building on California Street where my father and Lettie lived, just across Huntington Park from our house.

  Mrs. Jones took the fourth cup and stirred in a sugar cube. Aunt Velma asked, "How about Lulu?"

  Geneva and Lettie both laughed. I looked at Mrs. Jones who was smiling like the Sphinx and looking into her cup of coffee. After a long moment, she turned to me and said, "That'd be just fine, Nick."

  I smiled in return and asked, "Is there a story?"

  Before she could say anything, Aunt Velma spoke up. "It's the name used by an old flame. Before Louise married Carter's father,"—I'd noticed that no one in their family ever said the man's name, Wilson, out loud—"she was doing an awful lotta porch sitting with Ronald J. Kennesaw."

  Mrs. Jones laughed at that. She picked up the story. "I haven't thought about Ronnie in years." She sighed happily. "He was a good man. When he came back from the war, the first one, I was married and he left town. I heard he married some little flighty thing down in Miami."

  Now it was Velma's turn to laugh. "Louise, you know full well that he married Miami's most desirable debutante." She looked at me. "Mr. and Mrs. Kennesaw are doing quite well, thank you very much. They own most of South Florida, from all I've heard. They have about ten kids and a whole brood of grandkids. Flighty isn't a word I would use to describe Delilah Kennesaw. Determined is more like it. Ronnie was always smart but she's the real brains behind their operation." She sipped her coffee and turned to her sister who smiled like the Sphinx again.

  "Well?" asked Lettie. Her question was directed at me.

  "Well, what?" I replied.

  "Is it Lulu or isn't it?"

  "That's too good a name to pass up but I have a favor, Lulu." As soon as the word came out of my mouth, I wondered if it was going to stick.

  Carter's mother giggled, something I wasn't sure I'd ever heard her do. "What's that, Nick?"

  "Carter will be in here at any moment. Please let me use that name without explaining it."

  All the ladies laughed and were still laughing when I heard Carter ask, "What's so funny?"

  I turned in my chair and said, "Lulu was just telling us about the man she dated before she met your father."

  Carter's mouth dropped open for a brief moment. Shaking his head, he walked towards us, grabbing a chair on his way. "Lulu?"

  I nodded. "I've been given a special dispensation to use that name." Glancing over at Mrs. Jones, I realized she had stiffened a bit. Maybe using that name wasn't such a good idea. In fact, having said it twice, I wasn't sure I would use it again.

  Carter put his chair down next to me and then walked over to where his mother was sitting. "Mama?" he asked from behind her.

  "Yes, son?" She didn't turn around.

  "May I have a cup of coffee with a little cream?"

  She nodded and began to pour. The temperature in the room had dropped about five degrees. No one spoke while Mrs. Jones poured the coffee.

  Breaking the silence, Geneva leaned forward and looked at me. "Nick, I have a favor to ask of you."

  "Anything."

  "Can you investigate what that man knows about my being a murderess?"

  I sat back in my chair. I'd almost forgotten about that incident a few weeks back. We'd come across a man, one Harvey Reynolds, who had been spying on us for some rogue F.B.I. agents and who, coincidentally or not, had also worked in the accounting department of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer down in Culver City. He'd had a lot of dirt on all of us.

  But Reynolds had come to us for help and so we did just that. Carter had managed to get him out of town. Mike had sent Walter, our resident brainiac, to interview the guy and had come back with a huge dossier of all sorts of things. I hadn't had a chance to look through it since we'd returned from Paris.

  One of the things Reynolds had told us was that Lettie was employing a murderess as a maid. Geneva had been Lettie's housekeeper for a while. Lettie had decided she wanted to start a foundation and, once she realized Geneva's skills extended far beyond housekeeping, she had asked Geneva to be her lieutenant. The foundation had a number of interests, but the two of them were mostly focused on prisoner's aid and prison reform.

  "Are you sure it was about you?" I asked. "I thought he was referring to the gal working for Lettie now."

  Lettie nodded. "I agree, Nicholas. I asked Rosemary about it and she said she didn't know what that man was talking about."

  Carter asked, "Why do you think he was talking about you, Geneva?"

  She pressed her lips together. "He was right."

  None of the other ladies responded to this except for Lettie, who put her gloved hand on Geneva's arm.

  "It goes back to—"

  I held up my hand. "Pardon me, Geneva, but I'd like to get Mike Robertson in here so he can hear this firsthand. Is that OK with you?"

  She nodded and took a sip of her coffee. I thought I saw her hand shaking slightly as she did.

  . . .

  Mike brought along two of his employees. Frankie and Maria Vasco were a couple Carter and I had met on the S.S. Hilo the previous summer. They'd both helped us track down a killer on the ship and Mike had hired them. Frankie was a retired sergea
nt. He'd worked for the N.Y.P.D and had retired early. He was a loyal friend and had a cop's nose for getting to the truth.

  Maria was quite the sleuth. She was working with Walter doing skip traces, which was a big part of our business, and had been out on the street more than a few times knocking on doors trying to locate folks who'd skipped on anything from furniture store credit deals to parole. She got results. She was our first female hire. And, before she'd moved to New York and married Frankie, her name had been Marvin.

  After introductions were made, Marnie brought in more cups and Mrs. Jones poured out a cup for Frankie and one for Maria. Mike passed. I looked around my office on the nineteenth floor with its wall-to-wall carpet and floor-to-ceiling windows. Even with nine people, it was hardly full.

  "Can you start from the beginning, Mrs. Watkins?" That was Mike.

  She smiled. "Geneva."

  "And I'm Mike."

  "Thank you, Mike." She smoothed out her light purple dress with her gloved hands. "It all began when I was a child in Los Angeles. My father died while working the Signal Hill oil field in Long Beach. I had to quit school to bring in money for my mother and sister." She looked around the room. "It's a very usual story. Nothing particularly significant happened until I was 17 and met a man by the name of Thomas A. Parker. Mr. Parker called himself an agent but he was actually something closer to a procurer of young black girls for whomever had the money." She paused and took a sip of her coffee.

  I looked over at Mrs. Jones and Aunt Velma. Both looked sad but not shocked. I figured they had heard the story already and knew what was coming.

  "I was introduced to Mr. Parker by a cousin, an older woman by the name of Inez Garter. She was one of the light-skinned people from my father's family and lived in Burbank. She brought Mr. Parker to meet me at my mother's house on East 108th Street in Mudtown in what was then the small city of Watts. On the sixth of June in 1924, I was asked by Mr. Parker to meet him that evening at an all-night diner in Los Angeles near the City Hall construction site. He told me that a scout was looking for black girls to cast in new films for Famous Players-Lasky"—they were one of the early movie companies that became known as Paramount—"that were to be produced specifically for a black audience. Being only 17, and having been introduced to Mr. Parker by a family member, I got on board the Red Car and made my way downtown that evening. I was met by Mr. Parker at the diner. He informed me that the gentleman from Famous Players-Lasky had been delayed but that we would be meeting an associate of his at a nearby hotel. We walked the few blocks over and made our way to the fifth floor. While we waited, Mr. Parker called down for sandwiches and milk." She paused again and sat perfectly still.