The Childish Churl (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 15)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  He grinned, leaned down, and kissed me deeply for a long moment.

  After a moment, I laughed.

  "What?" asked Carter.

  I let go of his tie and put my right arm around his waist. I reached out and grabbed Mike with my left arm and pulled him in close. Mike grabbed Greg and did the same thing. I walked the four of us over to the window and looked at the buildings across the street.

  We all stood there for a long moment, each holding on to the others. Above my head, Carter leaned over and kissed Mike.

  I said, "There you go, you goddam peeping tom. And I want five copies, at least."

  We all laughed at that.

  Chapter 13

  Sky-Brau Restaurant

  Thursday, October 13, 1955

  Half past 11 in the morning

  "Here you are, Mr. Williams."

  Peter, our waiter, put down my plate. It was stacked with carved roast beef and new potatoes. That was really gonna hit the spot.

  "And, for you, Mr. Jones."

  Carter's plate had sliced turkey and mashed potatoes, all covered with gravy.

  Peter said, "I'll be back in a moment with your cauliflower and parsnips."

  "Thanks, Peter," said Carter.

  "And some horseradish sauce," I added.

  Peter nodded, "Yes, sir, Mr. Williams."

  Our table was in the very far corner of the restaurant. We were next to a window with the wall that separated the dining room from the kitchen behind us. About half of the tables were full and the rest would soon be taken.

  After consulting with the fire marshal, Henry and Bill, the owner of the restaurant, had decided to put the line for the restaurant down in the lobby, in front of the express elevator that came to the twentieth floor. Bill had hired a gal to handle things down there. Henry had installed an intercom system so Bill and his gal could communicate about when to send up the next batch. It seemed to be working out better.

  I took a bite of roast beef. It was good. Not as good as what we could get at home, but solid and filling. Looking at Carter, I asked, "How is it?"

  He nodded as he finished chewing a bite. Once he'd swallowed, he said, "Good. Not as good as at home, but good."

  I smiled. "I was just thinking the same thing."

  Carter put his fork down and wiped his mouth.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I don't know what to do, but we have to do something different."

  I took another bite of roast beef and waited. I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, but I wasn't certain.

  Turning his eyes to the wall above me, he said, "Remember how you said we're equal?"

  I nodded. I'd said that back during the summer, when we'd been down in L.A. "Sure. Why?"

  "Do you still think that's true?"

  I took a sip of coffee and thought about it for a moment.

  As I did, Peter walked up with the vegetables, the horseradish sauce, and a small basket of rolls. After he'd put them all on the table, he asked, "Anything else?"

  I shook my head. "Thanks, Peter."

  He nodded and moved to another table.

  I helped myself to the parsnips. They were cubed and covered in butter and parsley. I handed the spoon to Carter and then said, "For the most part, yes."

  He helped himself to parsnips and then cauliflower. As he returned the spoon to the bowl, he asked, "Everything you said about me is right."

  I shook my head as I reached for the horseradish. "I don't—"

  "No, Nick. It's right. Last night, Henry pointed out to me that it's how I've been compensating for the imbalance in our financial relationship."

  I grinned. "Spoken like an engineer."

  He shrugged. "Yeah, well, he's right. When Greg said that I was playing both ends against the middle, that was another way I've been doing the same thing."

  "But I rely on you for that. And I don't agree with what he said. You're just naturally curious. And, if you weren't, I don't know where I'd be. Besides," I said as I helped myself to a roll, "I know I was a real son-of-a-bitch to you yesterday, but I don't dislike the way you shelter me and take care of me."

  Carter sighed and poked some parsnips with his fork. "Sometimes I wonder if what we do in bed..." He put the fork in his mouth and looked at me.

  I shook my head. "We've been through that. I don't think we do that at all."

  He frowned slightly.

  I continued, "We knew some couples like that. Remember Reg and Billy?"

  Carter nodded thoughtfully.

  "How Billy was always lighting Reg's cigarettes and carrying an ashtray around so Reg could flick his ash whenever he wanted? You know. Back when we spent all our time at the Black Cat in the old days."

  "Old days," grinned Carter. "Five or six years ago."

  I nodded. "Sure. But it seems like a lifetime. So much has changed. Besides, what we do in bed is mostly what I want. Because you always ask me. It's mutual and equal, in its way. So..."

  Carter took a roll and tore it in half. He offered me one piece, which I took, and kept the other. He was trying to cut back on the amount of bread he was eating. It had something to do with his legs. He'd explained it to me, but his bodybuilding ideas never interested me much. The results of his ideas, however, were something I was always happy to explore.

  "Lots of things have changed. You keep getting richer and richer—"

  "We keep getting richer."

  Carter nodded.

  "OK," I said, "Let's start there. Just because we don't have a marriage certificate doesn't mean anything. Besides, most of our wealth has happened since we met. Or that's what Kenneth told me."

  Carter stirred his mashed potatoes around. "Maybe that's what I'm trying to compensate for. Maybe I'm trying to control you, and keep you in line, because I'm afraid of losing control."

  I snorted. "What's that saying? 'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.' Maybe, Dr. Jones, before you start diagnosing your manias, you might look at the man sitting across the table from you and realize how much he loves you."

  He smiled and took a bite of his mashed potatoes. After he washed it down with some coffee, he looked at his watch. "When do we have to be at the airport?"

  "No later than 4:30."

  Carter nodded. "It's almost noon. If we jump into my car—"

  "Which we need to get back to the house, anyway—"

  He nodded. "We can be home in thirty minutes. Do you have anything pressing to do?"

  I thought for a moment. "Nope. Mike and Frankie are following up with Lieutenant Thomas about Grossman."

  Carter nodded "You really need to call Mrs. Grossman and check on her." He thought for a moment. "You could do that while I call Henry about checking in with his guys at Bechtel."

  I sat back in my chair and folded my arms. "So, you really want to do this?"

  "What?"

  "Run your own case?"

  "I've been doing that."

  I shook my head. "No, you haven't. You've been following my lead."

  Carter frowned. "What do you mean?"

  I looked out the window. The view from where I sat was the same as the one from Carter's office. Union Square was off in the distance, although I couldn't quite see it. "Let's say it's like you're moving from apprentice to journeyman and now it's your turn to be in charge of a case." I took a drink of coffee. "If we still have one."

  He looked at me for a long moment. With a simmering grin, he asked, "Journeyman, huh?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. I'll let you know when you've graduated."

  Carter's grin broke into a smile. "I think I'm gonna like this new arrangement."

  . . .

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Grossman? This is Nick Williams."

  There was a silence on the line. "How much do I owe you?"

  "That's not what I'm calling you about. I assume—"

  The line went dead.

  I carefully placed the receiver on its cradle and looked down at my desk. Obviously, the body had been identified.
Obviously, someone from the Mission District station had called her. Obviously, I was the last person she wanted to talk to.

  As I leaned back in my chair, I wondered about that. Her daughter had dragged her into the office. She'd never been—

  I called out, "Marnie?"

  "Yeah, Nick?" She walked through the door.

  "Can you find someone for me?"

  She nodded. "Who?"

  "Her name is Alicia Grossman. I'm pretty sure she lives in the dorms at Cal." I looked up. "Are there women's dorms at Cal? There have to be."

  She shrugged.

  "She should be easy to find because she's the only gal in the Engineering Department."

  Marnie nodded. "Sure, Nick. I'll find her." She turned to leave.

  "Wait."

  She turned back with a quizzical expression on her face.

  "Are you sure about what you said this morning? About being a secretary?"

  Marnie nodded. Her lip began to quiver.

  I stood and jogged around the desk. Putting my arm around her shoulder, I asked, "What is it, doll?"

  She sniffed. "I dunno." I took out my handkerchief and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes and handed it back to me. "Every time I think about not being your secretary, it makes me tear up." She quietly laughed. "It's silly. I know."

  I turned to face her. "No, it's not." I could feel my own tears trying to escape. "I feel the same way. But you know that I think that a gal can do anything she wants. Just so long as you're happy, that's all that matters to me."

  She put her arms around me and said, "I'll always be happy workin' with you, Nick."

  I hugged her back and said, "Me, too, doll. Me, too."

  . . .

  I walked into Carter's office. He was just hanging up the phone when I did. "Anything from Henry?" I asked.

  "Yes and no. Someone from the Bechtel security team went down to Mission District station and positively identified the body this morning. They had his photograph on file and used that." Carter, who had been fiddling with his pencil, looked up at me.

  If I'd have been kindling, I would have gone up in flames. His green eyes were like two burning emeralds. I suddenly laughed out loud at that notion.

  "What?" he asked with a lopsided grin.

  There was a warm feeling filling up my body and it was distracting. "Uh, nothing, really. So, um, then what happened?"

  He was breathing heavy. "Uh, well, they were told to butt out by Thomas. The story goes that the two Bechtel guys were, more or less, thrown out of the, uh, police station."

  I nodded and looked at my watch. It was almost 1 o'clock. "What else do we need to do?"

  "You have to get out of here so I can calm down. Why don't you go check with Walter and see if he's found anything else about what Grossman was working on?"

  I nodded, adjusted myself, and breathlessly said, "I'll do that."

  . . .

  "Um, are you OK, Mr. Williams?" That was Walter.

  I was standing inside the office he and Maria shared on the eighteenth floor. It was stacked to overflowing with books and magazines of all sorts.

  "Sure, Walter. I'm fine."

  Maria asked, "You look a little flushed. Do you have a fever?"

  I laughed. "You could say that. But it's not contagious."

  Marie nodded with a grin and exchanged a look with Walter, who turned beet red.

  "So, have you two come up with anything about Mr. Grossman which might shed some light on who that man was at the airport?"

  Walter cleared his throat. "Yes, well, um, the project is very controversial. They're, uh, building a dam on the Zambezi River, as you know. And a lot of the locals will have to be evacuated. And, uh, it seems like Mr. Grossman might have been involved in suggesting the project be moved to, uh, the Kafue River in Northern Rhodesia."

  Maria added, "One of Sam's contacts told us the F.B.I. discovered a spy floating around town. He was Portuguese. They interviewed him and then put him on a plane for Johannesburg."

  "That's in South Africa, right?" I asked.

  Maria nodded.

  "Why there?"

  "Because he's going to Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. And the fastest way to do that is through Johannesburg."

  My head was spinning. I needed to see a map. I hadn't heard of most of those places.

  Walter said, "Maputo is about three hundred miles east of Johannesburg. Mozambique is a Portuguese colony."

  I nodded. "So, you two think there's a connection?"

  Maria said, "Yes. He left this morning. And he was picked up yesterday evening, around 8 p.m."

  "And, uh, well, we already knew something about this Andrew Zinger fellow. He's, uh, supposed to be some sort of South African agent. According to what I found out, he works for an import-export firm based in Johannesburg. He's from South Africa. But he's lived in New York since 1949."

  I nodded. "So, when you heard about this Portuguese fella..."

  Maria nodded. "Yes. It's obvious the two things are connected."

  "Why would some place like...?"

  "Mozambique," prompted Walter.

  I nodded. "Why would they care about this dam?"

  Maria said, "Because if it's built on the Kafue River, it makes it harder for the Portuguese in Mozambique to build their own dam on the Zambezi downstream. I don't pretend to understand how or why that works, but it seems like a lot of people need that dam to be built where it's scheduled to be built. And Grossman didn't want that to happen."

  I looked around their office. I noticed they had drapes on their windows.

  "Why would his opinion matter?" I asked.

  Walter replied, "Because he was in London to meet with a government commission. His meeting was supposed to have been on Monday. But they had to delay the, uh, meeting for a few weeks. From what we can piece together, he decided to fly back here on his own dime. That was going to, um, be a surprise for his wife."

  "And then there's the bomb on flight 35." That was Maria.

  "Yeah?"

  She sighed. "It should have gone off mid-flight but it didn't. T.W.A. is trying to keep it quiet. That's why it's not been in the papers."

  "Who was the target?" I asked.

  Walter said, "Mr. Grossman."

  "How do you know?"

  Maria crossed her arms. "It could have been for Mr. Zinger."

  Walter shook his head. "We've been over this, Mrs. Vasco."

  Maria rolled her eyes. "No one knew that Grossman was going to be on that flight. He was supposed to have left London a day earlier, but he was delayed because of fog."

  Walter huffed. "Plenty of people would have been able to figure out he would be on that flight."

  Maria shook her head. "Well, that may be—"

  "Why not both of them?" I asked.

  They turned and looked at me. "What are you saying?" asked Maria.

  I shrugged. "What was Zinger's position on the dam?"

  Walter nodded. "He didn't have one, as far as we know."

  Maria said, "But he's been part of an effort by the South African government to sell the kind of racial segregation they practice in South Africa to different states here in the U.S. He's been meeting with the governors in places like Georgia and Mississippi. He's tried to convince them to adopt the so-called 'scientific approach' they're using in South Africa."

  "How do you know that?" I asked.

  Maria picked up a stack of magazines. "Lots and lots of articles. Time, Newsweek, you name it."

  "Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me."

  Maria and Walter both nodded. Walter added, "And it's now officially unconstitutional thanks to that case out of Kansas."

  I ran my hand over my face. "OK. So, where does this leave us?"

  Walter frowned. "Well, um, what else is there, uh, for us to do?"

  I looked down at the carpeted floor. "I guess nothing." I thought for a moment longer. "Do you think the man who met Grossman at the airport was the guy from Moza-whatever?"


  Walter said, "Mozambique. And, yes."

  Maria added, "We don't agree about the bomb, but we both agree the Portuguese spy is who probably killed Mr. Grossman."

  "Based on what?" I asked.

  Walter said, "Based on nothing other than it's the only thing that makes sense considering what we know."

  . . .

  I walked into Mike's office. His secretary, a Miss Hoffer, had figured out to just let me waltz in without needing to be announced.

  He was on the phone when I walked in and his scary monster face was in full effect.

  "I don't care what you think about any of us over here, Lieutenant. You don't seem to care that we have—"

  He shook his head as he pulled the receiver away from his ear. I couldn't understand all the words, but I could hear Lieutenant Thomas's southern accent.

  Mike put the receiver back to his ear. After a moment, he slammed it on the cradle and said, "What an ass!"

  I nodded. "He sure the hell is."

  Mike stood and stretched. "I can't figure out what the fuck he's doing down there. I tried to tell him about the F.B.I. and this Portuguese spy when he started asking me if I like Portuguese sausage as if we were all 14 and snickering in the boy's bathroom in school."

  "He's twisted. I'd say it's because he's latent, but I hope not."

  Mike shook his head. "He's just an ass. That's all."

  I said, "Well, I was coming to see if you'd made that phone call and obviously you have."

  "For whatever good it's done."

  I shrugged. "Maybe he's territorial and doesn't want us horning in on his case."

  Mike nodded. "Could be." He looked at me. "Are we good?"

  I walked around his desk. He opened his arms and I walked into them. "Of course," I said.

  He held me for a long moment. "Good."

  . . .

  I met Carter in the hallway as I was headed to my office. He said, "It's half past 1."

  I nodded. "I know. I just need to check with Marnie."

  He groaned under his breath as we came around the corner and into view of Marnie's desk outside my office.

  She was on the phone. "I see. Do you have any way of knowing whether she was in class yesterday?" She glanced up. Based on her expression, it didn't look good. After a moment, she said, "I understand. You see, Mr. Williams is a private investigator hired by Mrs. Grossman, Alicia's mother. And, we're—" She nodded to whomever was on the other end of the line. "Yes, I understand. Thank you."