The Mangled Mobster (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 7)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I had my old favorite: navy bean soup and a turkey sandwich. It tasted just as good as I remembered. Mike had the daily special: ham steak, potatoes au gratin, green beans, and a pineapple upside-down cake. We both drank coffee.

  "When was the last time you were here?" That was Mike. In between bites of ham.

  "Had to be '50, at the latest. I stopped coming once Mack died." Mack McKnight had been a close friend. We'd been lovers on the ship that brought us back stateside after the war. We'd become close friends once we were back in San Francisco. He'd re-enlisted when things heated up in Korea and died when his ship hit a landmine.

  "So, how are things with you and Ray?" I asked.

  Mike shrugged. "Good. I guess." He took a bite of ham.

  As I took a sip of my coffee, I looked at him.

  "What gives?"

  Mike swallowed and wiped his mouth. "I dunno. I'm sure it's nothing. Just seems like he's not as interested as he was."

  "How long has it been?"

  "Six months."

  I nodded. This was not going well. "Wanna talk about it?" I asked.

  He shook his head and had another bite of ham. I could feel a melancholy settle over me. I didn't know if it was the memory of Mack, the obvious end of Mike's relationship, or something else.

  I looked up to see Mike's striking blue eyes piercing me. He asked, "How about you and Carter?"

  I moved my spoon around in the soup bowl. "Good."

  "What's wrong, Nick?"

  "Who said anything was wrong?"

  "Your face. You look unhappy."

  I sighed. The truth was more complicated than that. On the previous Christmas day, I'd learned what really happened to my mother and why she had abruptly left my sister and me back in '29. That was also the day my father announced his plan to marry Leticia Wilson, the mother of my secretary, Marnie. She was a woman I adored and was also a little afraid of. Their wedding in April almost didn't happen but then it did and the two lovebirds had spent a month in Europe on their honeymoon.

  The biggest question of my life had been answered. I'd reconciled with my father who'd been a bastard most of my life and who was now like a purring cat living the high life in his big house on Sacramento Street. Marnie was dating a nice man from San Mateo and it was looking like they might be getting married at some point. Business was never better. I was making more money than anyone, including myself, could believe. Life should have been wonderful. But, it wasn't.

  I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a package of Camels and my old beat-up Zippo lighter. I offered one to Mike, who took it. After I lit his cigarette, I lit my own, and leaned back while I took in a big drag. That always made me feel a little more relaxed. As I exhaled to the side, I took another sip of coffee.

  Mike put his elbows on the table, held the cigarette between his big hands, and looked at me.

  After a moment of this, I said, "I know that technique, Mike."

  He took another drag off the Camel and just smiled at me. Finally, he asked, "Well?"

  Taking another puff, I breathed out and said, "I should be happy but I ain't. I don't know what else to say." I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray on the table and stood up.

  I wanted out of this place. It was like a tomb. There were too many bad memories. I felt like I was in a swirl. I could almost hear Mack, as if he was at a nearby table laughing and talking. I wanted out. But I just stood there and stared off in the distance.

  Mike stood up and said, "Gimme your keys."

  "What?"

  "Gimme your keys. I don't know what's happening inside of you but it looks like it's all about to come out. Come on." He reached out his hand. "Hand 'em over."

  Without thinking much more about it, I pulled my keys out of my pocket and gave them to Mike.

  . . .

  By the time Mike pulled the Buick into the driveway, I was shivering. I wasn't sick. I wasn't even cold. But I was shivering.

  We walked up the steps and he unlocked the door. I followed him inside and pulled the door closed behind me. I followed his lead, as if I couldn't seem to think for myself, and put my hat on the rack in the hallway.

  He said, "Sit down, Nick." So, leaving on my coat, I sat down on the sofa in the sitting room. I watched him walk over to the little bar by the phone alcove and build a couple of drinks. When he was done, he walked over to where I was sitting. He handed my a glass with a double shot of whiskey and said, "Drink." So, I did.

  I could feel the warm liquid going down my throat and into my belly. It felt good. I watched as Mike stood in front of me. He took off his coat, dropped it on a chair, and loosened his tie. He sat down right next to me, squeezing in tight. He reached around me, took the empty glass out of my hand, and put it on the coffee table. He put his hand under my chin and turned it up. He slowly kissed me right on the lips. I felt like I should pull away, but then I remembered that I'd done the same thing for Henry earlier in the day.

  Pulling me to his chest, I felt Mike's big hand on the back of my neck. It felt good there. We'd sat like this before, night after night, back when I was 20 and going through a real rough patch. I could remember it all, just like I felt like Mack had followed us home and was now sitting in the armchair that faced the front door. So many memories. I began to cry and couldn't stop.

  . . .

  At some point, I fell asleep and had a dream.

  I was on the train. It was The City of San Francisco, the train that Carter and I had taken to Chicago back in '47. I was in the private car we'd rented and it was empty. I looked in all the compartments for Carter, but he was wasn't there. I walked through the connecting door into the next car and it was empty, too. I ran through the train and it was empty until I got to the car just behind the locomotive.

  This was a Pullman car and each of the bedrooms was full and the doors were all closed. I could hear voices but I couldn't understand what any of them said. Surely Carter was in one of these rooms. I knocked on the door of the first room and a woman's voice said, "Come in."

  I opened the door and there was my mother. Only, instead of the room being a small, modern Pullman bedroom, it was an ornate bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, just like I remembered from the summer of '29. Her light brown eyes were shining and her long brown hair was gathered loose over her left shoulder. Her beauty was breathtaking.

  She smiled at me and I asked, "What are you doing here?" She didn't answer. I said, "I'm looking for Carter. Have you seen him?" She smiled. I knew she was happy, which was a relief, somehow. She pointed to her left and I knew she meant to try the next room, so I did.

  When I opened that door, I was surprised and happy. The lower bed had been made and, sitting on it, in his tan uniform was Captain Ignacio Esparza, who liked to be called Nacho. I walked over and sat down next to him. I put my hand on his face and looked at his big mustache for a long moment and thought about kissing it. Looking up, I could see the light in his brown eyes and felt so happy to see him and be next to him. I took in a deep breath and remembered his aroma, which was sweet and spicy. He pulled me in a big squeeze and whispered, "Not here. Next door, I think." I nodded and found myself in another room.

  This was the cramped room I'd shared with Mack on the ship back to San Francisco at the end of the war. I crawled up to the top bunk and there was Mack, looking just like he had in '45. He was in his BVDs, reading a magazine, and lying on top of a scratchy wool blanket. Somehow, I squeezed in next to him and asked, "Have you seen Carter?" He reached his arm around me and pulled me in tightly. I heard someone calling my name and, before I knew it, I was awake on the couch next to Mike.

  Chapter 4

  137 Hartford Street

  Wednesday, June 16, 1954

  Sometime that evening

  Mike had kicked off his shoes while I'd been asleep and had propped his socked feet up on the coffee table. He had a book in his left hand and his right arm around me. It was one of the pulp novels that he liked so much. I stayed right where I was,
with my head on his chest, and felt the rise and fall of his breath.

  "How long was I asleep?" I asked.

  He pulled me in closer and said, "About an hour, or so."

  I pulled back and said, "Have you been sitting there all this time?"

  He laughed. "No." He looked at me sideways. "That must have been some dream."

  I nodded. It was vivid. I could see it like I could see any other memory.

  "Wanna tell me about it?"

  "I was looking for Carter."

  "Did you find him?"

  "No. I was on a train."

  Mike laughed.

  "What?"

  "Was it going faster and faster?"

  I laughed. "No. It was one of those dreams where you're looking for something and never find it."

  I sat there for a moment. "My mother, Nacho, and Mack."

  "How'd they look?" Releasing his grip on my shoulder, Mike leaned over and put the book on the table. He put his feet on the floor, stood up, and stretched.

  "Alive."

  He turned and looked down at me. "How'd that make you feel?"

  "Happy."

  He nodded and padded into the kitchen. I heard him open the icebox door. Then I heard him get a couple of glasses from the cabinet. "That Mrs. Kopek is some housekeeper. I've never seen this place so clean. You could eat off the floor."

  I replied, "She's the best."

  "How's Ike doing?" That was her son. Back at Christmas, we'd helped Ike when he'd been charged with a murder he didn't commit. His father had died in the process and his mother now worked as our housekeeper. She came in every day for a few hours and made everything shine.

  "He's good. Carter and I are still dropping by over at Joe's Number 2 when we can." After the dust had cleared, we'd helped get Ike set up in his own business. He was the owner and manager of a gymnasium in North Beach and was doing well. So far.

  "There's some sort of meat pie in the oven. You want me to heat it up?"

  My stomach growled in reply. "Yeah." I stood up, took off my coat and tie, and walked into the kitchen. As I did so, I noticed I had stopped shivering.

  Mike said, "That's a good idea, Nick. I didn't know you two were being that conscientious. He's smart, that kid. I hope he stays on..." Mike paused. He grinned at me and said, "The right side of the law."

  "You were gonna say, 'the straight and narrow,' right?"

  He laughed. "As if that was even possible."

  . . .

  We sat at the kitchen table and consumed the entire pie by ourselves. Mrs. Kopek had also left a couple of bottles of Bohemian pilsner in the icebox. It was a home brew that a Czech friend of hers made and it was just about the best thing I'd ever tasted. We decided to split one bottle between us.

  Mike took the last gulp from his glass, burped, and pushed his plate back. "That woman sure knows how to cook. She's almost as good as you." He smiled at me as he said that.

  "Better. I don't know what some of the flavors are and she's slowly getting Carter used to garlic. It's a small miracle."

  Mike pulled out a package of Lucky Strikes and offered me one. I shook my head. Using his own Zippo, he lit up and then looked at me.

  "Why were you looking for Carter in the dream?"

  I stood up and began to gather the plates and silverware. "I dunno. When he's not around, I miss him."

  Right then, the phone rang. I looked up at the clock. It was 9:15.

  Mike said, "Maybe that's him."

  As I walked over to the phone, I said, "Maybe." I picked up the receiver and said, "Yeah?"

  "Nick? It's Henry." His voice was shaking.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I just got a phone call."

  "Who from?" I waved at Mike. He stood up and walked over to the alcove. I moved the phone out so he could hear.

  "I don't know."

  "What was it about?"

  "It was some man. And it was about the dead guy."

  "What'd he say?"

  "He said that I should stay away from doing any investigating on my own. And that you should, too."

  Mike took the phone out of my hand and said, "Henry. It's Mike."

  I could hear Henry say, "What are you doing there?" It was oddly accusatory.

  Mike just said, "Did you recognize the voice?"

  "No. It sounded muffled."

  "Can you repeat exactly what it said?"

  "Um..." He was quiet for a moment. "It was something like, 'If you're smart, you won't investigate that little accident today. And you'll tell your buddy Williams the same thing. Got that?' And then whoever it was hung up."

  "Is Robert there?" Mike asked.

  "Yes."

  "Put him on the phone."

  "Sure." Henry sounded annoyed but he did what Mike asked.

  "Hi, Mike. That was creepy."

  "Look. I want you to help Henry pack a bag. He needs enough clothes for a few days and then you two head over to your place. Got that? And don't waste time. Get packed and get going. OK?"

  "Sure, Mike. But--"

  "No questions. Get packed and get out."

  "Sure."

  Mike put the receiver back in its cradle and looked down at me. "You and me, we're going upstairs and packing a bag for you and one for Carter. You're moving to the Mark Hopkins for a few days."

  I didn't like the idea but I knew he was right.

  . . .

  Back in '47, a Chicago wise guy by the name of Nick DeJohn was rubbed out by a small group of local mobsters. One of them was the current boss, whose name was Michael Abati.

  San Francisco wasn't Chicago or New York, that was for sure. The cops had, for many years, kept the local wise guys in their place and made sure no one from out of town moved in. Just like down in L.A. But that didn't mean Abati didn't have muscle. Mike's response to all of this meant he suspected Abati had just squeezed one of his own, Johnny Russell, the guy who was pushed off the top of my office building.

  He could have been wrong but Mike was a level-headed Joe. Always had been. So, if he said move, I moved. And that's what I did.

  By midnight, I was in a two-bedroom suite at the Mark Hopkins. My revolver was loaded and by the bed as I stretched out to make some calls.

  The first one was to Marnie. After eight rings, she picked up.

  "Sorry to call you so late, doll."

  "No problem, Nick." I could hear her yawn. Then I heard a male voice followed by the sound of her hand covering the phone's mouthpiece. I smiled. I was glad she was with this new guy, who's name I never could remember.

  Finally, she asked, "What's up?"

  "I had to go buy some bread." That was an old code we'd come up with a while ago. It meant I was hiding out. The night manager had agreed, after a good talking-to by Mike, to let me register under an assumed name. As far as the registration book said, I was, "Robert Parnell." I'd used that name before.

  "Go buy some... Oh. Gotcha. Will I see you tomorrow?"

  "Probably. Just wanted to let you know. Sleep tight." I couldn't resist. "Don't let the bed bug bite. Unless you want him to."

  She hung up on me.

  My next call was long distance to Santa Paula. The gal at the front desk of the little motel down there wasn't happy about getting a switchboard call but she put me through anyway.

  "Hiya, Chief."

  "Hi, Nick. What's up?" Carter's voice was muffled.

  "I wanted to call and tell you that I had to go to the store and get some bread."

  "What?" I'd told him the code a while ago and I hoped he remembered.

  "The store. I had to leave and go to the store. You know. For bread."

  There was a long pause. "Oh, right." Another pause. "Are you OK?" Now he was awake.

  "Yeah. I'm fine. I'll meet you at the office tomorrow. When do you think you'll be back?"

  "Might be 7."

  "If I'm not in the office, I'll be down at the Hangover."

  "Got it. Should I be worried?"

  "Nope. Just drive safe a
nd get home because you know how I'm feeling right now."

  There was a long silence. "I know. Me, too."

  "Night, Chief."

  "G'night, Boss."

  With that, the line went dead. I waited to hear what happened. About two seconds later, I heard a second click. I was assuming it was the desk clerk at the motel. Or, at least that's what I was hoping.

  . . .

  As I lay there in the darkness of the room, the lights of the City illuminated the ceiling. I couldn't sleep, so I stood up, walked over to the tall window, and looked out over this place that I loved and where I felt at home.

  It had its problems. No place was perfect. But there was no place quite like the City. I was part of it and, even though I didn't understand it, I felt like I had to live in San Francisco. My fate was tied up with its own. This was all ridiculous, of course. I smiled at my high-flying thoughts. I wondered what Carter would make of all my musings. He probably would have laughed and kissed me to get me to stop, more than anything.

  Then I thought about Michael Abati and realized I was probably in his sights now. I wondered what that would mean to the cops. This would be a perfect deal for them. Let Abati take care of me and my little gang of queers. The City would be saved from our perversion and everyone would be happy. It was a morbid thought and, even though I'd seen plenty of death in my life, I didn't dwell on the what-might-happen unless I needed to. And worrying about the penny-ante mobsters of San Francisco wasn't high on my list of concerns, truth be told.

  The construction on the building would continue. I was worth more to the mob alive than dead. This wasn't gonna be my last construction project. There would be more payoffs to come. They didn't ask for much and I had more than enough.

  I walked back over to the bed, picked up my pack of Camels on the night table, and shook out the next available cigarette. I flicked my Zippo open like I'd learned to do in the Navy and quickly lit up. As I flipped the lid closed, I thought I heard a sound in the hallway.