The Amorous Attorney (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 2)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I smiled back. "But none greater or better than present company. I love you, Carter."

  "I bet you tell all your boyfriends that."

  He was wrong.

  . . .

  I remembered that there was a Hertz garage on Post near Union Square, so we drove over there and dropped off the car. The clerk looked at my paperwork and pressed his thin lips together. "I'm sorry Mr. Williams, but this one-way delivery will cost an additional twenty-five dollars. And I simply can't waive that fee. Also, you exceeded our two hundred mile daily limit, so that will be an additional five dollars, plus the mileage. If you want to avoid these expensive fees in the future, please advise us at the time of your rental." He then looked up at me and a wave of recognition passed over his face. He looked down at the paper again and whispered, "Nicholas Williams."

  I smiled at him and said, "You must read the Examiner, kid." The man, who was probably older than me, but not much, preened when I used that last word. "No, Mr. Williams, I certainly do not. But, my friend..." He looked at Carter significantly. "He told me about your experience at the Top of the Mark on Friday." He brought his left hand to the top of his chest and shuddered.

  I said, "It was very satisfying."

  He shook his head. "I just don't know what I would say to a man like George Hearst. Such a blight on this city."

  I nodded. "Oh, I have a feeling you wouldn't be at a loss for words." I winked.

  The man had the decency to blush. "Oh, Mr. Williams!"

  Carter tugged at my arm. "Mr. Williams? I'm starving."

  "Oh, please! I am so sorry. Please don't let me hold you up. I hope you gentlemen will have a very good evening." He smiled professionally and turned his attention to the married couple and their three kids who had just walked in the door.

  With our valises in hand, we grabbed a cab and went home.

  Chapter 6

  137 Hartford Street

  Tuesday, May 19, 1953

  Early evening

  Once we were home, I took our bags upstairs because Carter wanted to show me the thing he'd bought on Monday morning, which was only yesterday, but now felt like it was weeks ago

  I unpacked both of the bags. As I was pulling out Carter's shirt from yesterday, I caught a whiff of what he really smelt like. I put the shirt to my face and took a big breath. There was something about this that almost felt like a high, something I'd experienced when I was 18 and had taken a line of cocaine powder, part of a cadillac of coke that a friend had procured. Everything felt so right, so immediate. And then it didn't as the high came down. But being around Carter, listening to his southern drawl, feeling the big presence of his body, and, even now, listening to the scrape of his cane as he hobbled around. This all made me feel the same way the white powder had done. Only there was never a let-down after.

  I heard music. I put his shirt, socks, and the rest in the hamper. I could feel the music coming up through the floor as much as I could hear it. It was like being at the theater as the orchestra in the pit was playing. I walked over to the door as the sound suddenly came up in volume. I stopped, stunned. It was the overture to South Pacific.

  It was like being back in the Majestic Theater in New York. All the wonderful memories rushed back, like a beautiful tidal wave of light and sound.

  When we first met in late '47, I didn't immediately tell Carter about my trust. This was while the final lawsuit was before the California State Supreme Court and I was, frankly, tired of thinking about it.

  But, as we got to know each other, and as we were finally willing to admit that we were going together, I realized that the fewer secrets we had between us, the better.

  So, one night, I'd picked him up at that awful apartment in the Tenderloin that he was sharing with his best friend and former lover Henry. I took him to dinner at a tiny place on North Beach that was shuttered sometime in 1951. It was on Columbus and a little Italian hole-in-the-wall where the original owner, an older mama who reigned supreme with an iron fist, cooked the sauce herself, never sharing the recipe. The name of the place was never really clear to me. I just thought of it as "that place on Columbus."

  The food that night was just as good as always. I had the ravioli. Carter had been in San Francisco for eight years by this point and was still a little suspicious of what he called "Eye-Talian Food," using way too many syllables when he did.

  I suggested he try the spaghetti with mama's big meatballs. He wasn't quite sure what to do with the long noodles, so I cut his food for him, and started to feed him. We were in the back in a booth (I was no fool), so it was very private, just like in the old days when a good "Eye-Talian" restaurant would drape their booths with a curtain.

  Mama's oldest son, Alberto, certainly one of us, made sure to tuck a big white napkin over Carter's shirt and tie, just like in the old country, or so he said. There was a lot of fiddling on his part with both our napkins. Carter, as always, got more of the attention than me, but I could not have cared less. I only had eyes for Carter whenever we were together. We could have been in a big earthquake and I would not have known.

  After we had made a big saucy mess of our napkins, Alberto took away the debris and suggested the dessert they were known for: zuppa inglese. It was a rich cake soaked in a red and pungent liqueur, sitting on custard, and covered with whipped cream and almonds. It was, as Alberto had claimed, magnifico.

  In the dim light, we fed each other and laughed. After the meal was over, we sat and talked about so many things. Although he'd hinted at it before, that night he told me in more detail, but at first reluctantly, of his childhood in the heat and under the Spanish moss of south Georgia. He told me about the gruesome lynchings that his father seemed to revel in and how this was the reason he would never return. He spoke about finding a couple of old truck tires and floating down the river that ran through town with Henry until they'd come across the town's sewer pipe. It seemed like there was a lot of these bittersweet memories in his childhood.

  Better than just bitter, I supposed. I tried to talk down the horrors of my childhood and the terror of living with my father and how I was always trying to protect Janet, my sister.

  Finally, I got around to the reason I'd brought him there. I mentioned Uncle Paul and told him two or three of the best stories I'd managed to piece together over the years. I looked at him and watched his reaction as I mentioned how Uncle Paul had been in competition with Lilian Coit, the woman whose bequest had enabled the city to erect the fireman's monument known as Coit Tower. They had, according to the diary that Uncle Paul had included in his papers that I received with my inheritance, kept a running count of the number of firemen they slept with.

  He had laughed and then told me about the old photos at his firehouse. Those firemen were worth chasing, he'd said.

  I told him about how Uncle Paul had kept an eye on me, without me knowing about it, and that he knew I was different. For some reason, I was shy about telling Carter the fact of the trust. When I'd received the first news of it, it was '43 and I was on a hospital ship in the south Pacific. I mentioned the matter to my Commander, because I liked the guy and wanted his opinion on what to do next. He'd been a good Joe and referred me to the son of a family friend, a young and hungry attorney back in San Francisco, namely Jeffery Klein, Esquire. But that was the only person I'd ever told about the trust who wasn't family or connected to the courts, until that night, with Carter.

  Finally, I just blurted out, "I'm really rich, Carter."

  He narrowed his eyes and asked, with more than a touch of doubt, "Really?"

  I nodded. "Uncle Paul left me millions. Loads."

  "You're joshing me, aren't you?"

  I shook my head.

  "I knew your family lived on Nob Hill, so I just guessed you had an allowance or something like that, not that anyone would know. You don't throw your money around."

  "I'm embarrassed about the whole thing." I explained about the lawsuits and where things stood at the moment.

 
"So, if things don't go your way, it could all disappear?"

  Now my eyes narrowed. "Sure. Why do you ask?"

  He smiled that slow Georgia smile. "I just wanted to make sure you could live on a fireman's salary. I do OK, but I'm not a moneybags."

  I laughed. "Sure. But I have my own job, you know."

  Carter reached his hand across the table and I gave him mine. "I know. You work at the city hospital. Are you going to empty bedpans for the rest of your life?"

  "No. I'm working with someone Jeffery knows to get my license. Didn't I tell you?"

  "License for what? Setting fires?"

  "No. Private investigator." I looked at him and gave him my best deadpan face. "I know you love that fire hose joke. But really, Carter, it's got whiskers on it, it's so old."

  He squeezed my hand. "And yet you take it."

  I nodded. "Gladly. However I can get it. That never gets old."

  We were in love and so the dinner talk continued in that way until mama kicked us out, handing us a box of her famous lace cookies for the road, with a very tired but happy look on her face. Alberto was a lucky guy to have such a mother.

  I remembered how, after I'd bought this house in the summer of '49 and we'd spent August and September cleaning it up and moving in slowly, that I decided I wanted to spend some more of my big pile. And I wanted to test myself to find out how much I was willing to spend. Jeffery sent me to his buddy, Ralph Kelso, who was one of us, and a pretty solid travel agent. He helped me plan a trip to New York City and back based around Carter's two-week vacation in late October.

  Ralph found a private Pullman car that could be hooked up to the back of the City of San Francisco train, which took us to Chicago. We had our own butler, who came with the car, and who learned very quickly to knock and wait before coming into the back bedroom we'd claimed (out of the four available).

  We spent a couple of days in Chicago at the swank Palmer House in a suite on the top floor, before taking the Twentieth Century Limited to New York. After a couple of days in Chicago, we realized we didn't like the heights so much, so I wired Ralph to cancel the suite at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York and put us somewhere less exalted. We ended up in a hotel near the theater district whose name long ago disappeared from memory but which had two small twin beds on the third floor and was perfect.

  What I most remembered about that trip was seeing South Pacific. Now, having spent six months in New Guinea, I recognized the spirit of the time and the place that the play got right. Of course, there's no way to describe how the sand got into everything short of sprinkling it from the ceiling during the performance which probably would have dampened ticket sales.

  We saw it the first night we arrived. That night, crammed together in the twin that was against the wall, we tried to remember the songs and sing them to each other.

  Somehow Ralph knew someone who got us tickets for the next night. And then the following Sunday matinee. We would have gone again, but our luck ran out.

  That first night, when the French plantation owner sang "Some Enchanted Evening" to Mary Martin, Carter had grabbed my hand. That was a song that someone who knew us had written. We had met just like that.

  It had been at a place on Pacific Street that was still around called "La Vie Parisian." Jeffery had a client who was performing, the performers being men dressed as women who were called "illusionists." It was a fun spot. Nothing terribly amazing, but a fun crowd. We'd walked in and I saw a tall, lanky sandy blonde man leaning against the bar talking to a shorter dark-haired fellow who Jeffery immediately noticed because, as he later told me, the dark-haired gent, whom I now knew as Henry, resembled me.

  This was at the very end of the on-again, off-again dalliance I'd been having with my attorney. Not a good idea. Jeffery and I were not fated to be together, but we both gave it what we could. That night, however, across a crowded room, I felt that I wanted to run to his side as soon as I'd laid eyes on him. I'd spent as much time as possible after that with the tall, lanky (now more and more covered in muscles), sandy blonde fireman from Georgia named Carter Jones.

  The scrape of Carter's cane broke my reverie. He came around the corner of the landing and asked, "What do you think?"

  I smiled at him, reached out for his hand, and pulled him into the bedroom. Fortunately, the new hi-fi, as I discovered it was called, had an automatic device to mechanically remove the arm of the record player when the record was done.

  Chapter 7

  137 Hartford Street

  Wednesday, May 20, 1953

  A little after sunrise

  The next morning, I was up early and went down to the kitchen. I turned on the hi-fi and fiddled with the knobs until I discovered the startling sound of our favorite classical station. We had been accustomed to listen on the RCA cabinet radio on the AM setting, which was fine. But now I could clearly hear the violins and timpani on the FM dial. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard. It was so... real. Actually it was better than real. The warmth of the sound filled the room. I kept the volume low so as to not wake the sleeping giant upstairs.

  We'd gone at it last night. And more than once. I would start to reminisce about the early days when he would sleep over at my apartment. Then he would say something about those days and I was ready for another roll. And on it went until we both collapsed, exhausted from the long trip down to L.A. and back, and our own exertions.

  Needless to say, we never had dinner the night before and it was my hunger that woke me up in the morning.

  I was padding around in an old shirt and my BVDs hoping I wouldn't get caught again by an early-morning visit from Diane, who was our neighborly neighbor next door. She'd been by last Friday around 8:30 in the morning when I was wearing basically the same clothes and so, like a lout, I'd sat at the kitchen table without getting up when she came in.

  She was one half of a "lady couple," as Carter referred to them. Her other half was Pam who was a construction worker and a member of the union who preferred men's clothes to women's. They would, on occasion, join us for events when we needed dates. I'd even paid for Pam to be fitted in an actual dress and that included hazard pay for Diane since I knew it was going to be a monumental task.

  They owned two poodles, Mitzi and Trixie, and I had very little interest in either of them. Carter adored them both and they returned his affection in abundance while wisely ignoring me.

  I filled the percolator with water, put some coffee in the top reservoir, and plugged it in.

  We took the Chronicle in the morning and, as the coffee perked, I managed to snatch it off the front porch without startling any of the neighborhood ladies in my indecent attire.

  Ten minutes later, I was reading the paper, drinking a cup of coffee, and feeling grim.

  Life Imitates Cinema:

  Stars To Marry For Real

  At the tender age of 12, Rhonda Starling promised herself that she would marry a movie star. Well, dreams do come true! A movie star in her own right with successful Metro features such as The Anonymous Letter, We Had It All, and the 1952 thriller-sensation, Who Was It? to her credit, Miss Starling stood in front of a crowd of reporters and well-wishers on Tuesday after-noon with her co-star Taylor Wells, the swoon-worthy All-American boy who has made many hearts flutter across the nation in That Day At Saratoga and Tomato Flats, USA to make a joyful announcement.

  They will wed on July 22nd at a location to be announced. Miss Starling, seen left, showed off her engagement ring which has been especially designed for the blushing bride-to-be by Harry Winston, personally.

  Out loud I said, "Shit," took another sip of coffee, and stood up to go get on the phone.

  I called Jeffery's home number. It rang twelve times before I hung up. I tried the office. It was only 7:30, so I figured the service would answer and they did.

  "Law Firm," was the efficient answer.

  "I need to find Mr. Klein. This is Nick Williams. It's urgent."

  "I'm sorry Mr. Williams. This is the answeri
ng service. The office is closed until 9. And I can't give you Mr. Klein's home number."

  "I know all that. I tried his home number and there's no answer. Do you have anyone else's home number on file for the firm?"

  "Ye-es," was the dubious reply.

  "Well, I don't want it. Just call whoever it is and tell them two things: read page A-3 of this morning's Chronicle and then have them call me. Tell me when you're ready for my number."

  There was a pause and then a crisp, "Go ahead, please."

  "Underhill 2334. Nick Williams."

  "Yes, Mr. Williams. I'll relay the message."

  I dropped the receiver back on the cradle.

  I realized that Carter was up and hobbling around. I heard the water start and then a big boom came from the basement.

  I yelled, "TURN OFF THE WATER!" and ran down the stairs.

  Not at all to my surprise, there was a small river of water that was running from the base of the water heater and, so far, effortlessly moving through the drain hole we had been smart enough to install at the lowest point in the basement when we moved in. But who knew what sort of crap was down there. We should have had it snaked every year but I don't think we ever had.

  I shut off the hot water pipe that fed into the blasted beast. The flow of the water at the bottom began to lessen. I then turned off the gas line to make sure it didn't explode later.

  I heard a hobbling giant coming down the steps. "Damn, son."

  "I know. Looks like we're getting a new water heater."

  I turned to look at him and laughed. He stood at the edge of the basement without any clothes on. And, I noticed that home plumbing emergencies seemed to be stimulating to his system. Or maybe he was just happy to see me.

  . . .

  Half an hour later, we both took quick cold showers, which were becoming a regular thing, but not for long now.