"So, you walked Nick all the way up here from Brannan Street?"
Mike nodded.
"And that's when all hell broke loose!" Mrs. Young was obviously getting tipsy from the beer.
"I had to go through Nick's pockets to find his key."
Carter grinned. I shook my head.
Mike continued, "We walk in here and I guess I woke up Mrs. Young."
"You were banging around like a bunch of monkeys. I knew it wasn't burglars from the noise. But I found my baseball bat and was surprised as all get out to find a gigantic cop standing in my kitchen." She giggled and finished the last of her beer.
"What happened?" asked Carter.
"His nibs got thrown out, that's what." Mrs. Young looked like she was going to go for another beer.
Mike stood up and said, "Mrs. Young, can I help you downstairs? I've always wondered about the sound of the floor up here."
"Sure, you can. I know you well enough to know I'm perfectly safe."
She tottered across the kitchen to the back stairs with Mike holding her arm.
Once they were gone, Carter asked, "What happened?"
"Mike and I were making out in here is what happened. Mrs. Young came in about the same time as my father and that was the end of my misbegotten youth. He threw me out on my ass and Mike took me home. I don't know why Parnell didn't call the Mission Station and report Mike, but he didn't. Of course--"
Right then, Lettie poked her head around the kitchen door. "Oh, good. I wanted to make sure you had some dinner."
I stood up, feeling like I'd been caught again. "Mrs. Young made sandwiches for us."
She looked at me and then at Carter. "And I suppose Mr. Robertson is helping her to bed?"
I nodded.
She sighed. "She does like her Lucky."
. . .
The third floor was more narrow than the rest of the house. It was a row of four large rooms that ran the length of the Sacramento Street side of the house. The rooms were connected by a long hallway. Each room faced south. From the bedrooms, you could see the park across the street and the Huntington Hotel beyond that. The old Flood Mansion, now the Pacific Union Club, was just to the left.
Carter and I were in the Emerald Room. This was the one at the end of the hall. The large bathroom was between us and the Sapphire Room where Mike was camping out. The Rose Room at the top of the stairs was where Henry and Robert were sleeping.
We had both stripped down to our BVDs and I was feeling antsy. Carter was in bed, reading the privately published book he'd given my father at Christmas. It was about the Gold Rush and included a chapter on my great-grandfather. The chrome lamp next to him was the only light in the room
I walked over and looked out the windows to see the view and to also check if there was anyone watching the house. I stood behind the long silk curtains and couldn't see anything suspicious outside.
The room was the height of Art Deco style. The satin bedspread had diamond patterns stitched into it. The furniture was all dark wood, square in shape, and had the usual Art Deco touches.
An eight-foot tall wardrobe with a mother-of-pearl diamond-shaped inlay across the doors was the centerpiece of the room. The wood was probably mahogany. And the contrast of the dark wood with the white and creamy color of the inlay was beautiful.
I turned around and crossed over to the bed. I sat down on my side and pulled my feet up.
"What's wrong?"
I looked over at Carter. He was propped up against the dark headboard. His bare chest was ruddy in the glow of the chrome lamp. The warmth of the light showed off the bits of red in his otherwise blonde chest hair.
I said, "This is the first time I've slept in this house since 19 fucking 39. That's fifteen goddam years. Almost half my life."
Carter closed the book and put it on the table. He reached over and pulled me close. He lifted up the covers to invite me to slide into the bed next to him, which I did. Once I was in the crook of his arm, he reached over and turned out the light. The dim lights of Huntington Park cast shadows in the room.
Running his hand up and down my arm, Carter said, "I think you're nervous because this is the first time you've slept with me while your father is under the same roof."
Of course, he was right.
Chapter 6
1198 Sacramento Street
Friday, June 18, 1954
Early morning
I awoke from a dream with a start. The house was quiet. I looked around the big bedroom and everything was where it was supposed to be. Carter was on his stomach and his right arm was flung across my chest.
I gently lifted it and slid off the bed.
"What?" was his sleepy question.
"I'm gonna call the service." I walked over to pull on my trousers and put on my shirt.
"Wait and I'll go with you."
I finished buttoning my trousers and started doing the same to my shirt. I didn't need shoes just to go downstairs. "No, you sleep. I'll be back in five."
"M'kay."
I quietly opened the door and walked down the long, dark hallway to the top of the stairs. The staircase wrapped around the side of the semi-circle wall. I followed the steps down to the first floor and crossed over to the alcove where the phone sat.
I dialed the office number. The service picked up.
"Consolidated Security."
"This is Nick Williams. Any messages?"
"Oh, my goodness, Mr. Williams! I'm so glad you called."
"Why?"
"Your house is on fire."
. . .
I let Mike do the driving. He nearly tore off the front grille of the Buick as the car bounced against the pavement while we headed down California Street at nearly sixty miles per hour. He ran the light making a left at Van Ness and did the same at Market as he turned right.
As we turned on 17th Street, I could see flashing red lights. We drove down Hartford and the scene unfolded. There were three trucks set up in front of the house. A team of firemen were holding two hoses on it. Several sets of neighbors were standing in small clusters, watching in fascinated horror, and pointing here and there.
There was something strange about the fire. Only our house was burning. Every room, it seemed to me, was on fire. It was oddly symmetrical. Neither house on either side of us was lit up. I was grateful for that.
Carter rolled down the window, leaned out, and took a deep breath while Mike looked for a place to park. Before he could even come to a stop, Carter was out the passenger door. I was sitting behind him and did the same thing. We ran across Hartford and, as we got closer, I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
We moved as close to the house as the firemen would let us. Diane came running up out of the dark. She was bundled in a robe and her thick hair was tied back in a scarf. Pam was was right behind her and was wearing a white t-shirt and dungarees. Standing next to Pam was Evelyn Key, our good friend who lived on the other side of Pam and Diane. She was wrapped in a green kimono.
"Oh, Nick. I can't believe it." That was Diane. She hugged me and I tried to hug her back but I couldn't take my eyes off what was happening. She seemed to understand and stepped back.
I put my hand in Carter's and he squeezed it. "Do you smell that?" he asked. He leaned down so I could hear. The sound of the blaze combined with the sound of the hoses was almost deafening.
All I could smell was smoke. But Carter had a keen sense of smell. It was one of the things that made him such a good arson investigator. I replied, "No."
Into my ear, he said, "Gasoline." He pointed up at the house. "Look at how every room is on fire at the same time. Someone broke in and dowsed the place, no question."
Mike walked up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. I reached up and touched it. Carter's old fire captain strolled over, shaking his head and looking worried. Mike pulled his hand back.
Yelling to be heard, the captain said, "Sorry about this, Jones. You can see and smell what happened. Any ideas?"
<
br /> Carter nodded. "Thanks, Captain. I know exactly who did it."
Mike put his hand on Carter's shoulder, leaned in, and said, "Don't." Or, at least, that's what I think he said. I couldn't hear clearly.
The captain looked at Carter. "Who?"
Carter shook his head and didn't say anything.
Mike looked at the captain and said, "We'll take it up with the police. In fact..." He turned and walked over to Evelyn. After he said something to her, she nodded and they walked down to her house. I guessed he was going to call Lieutenant Holland.
. . .
About twenty minutes later, most of the blaze was extinguished but the firemen were still pouring water over the house to cool it down. I watched and realized that I'd never once seen Carter do this kind of work in the first five years we were together. He'd been a fireman for fourteen years in total when he was fired. Although he was wisely letting the other firemen do their job, I could see that he was tensed up and having to hold himself back from grabbing the hose and jumping in.
As I was watching him silhouetted against the firetruck, Marnie walked up. She looked like she had gotten dressed in a hurry and then run over. She lived three blocks away on Collingwood.
I pulled her away from the house and down closer to Evelyn's so we wouldn't have to yell over the sound of the two fire hoses.
"Hi, doll."
"Oh, Nick." She hugged me and I hugged her back.
"Who called you?" I asked.
"One of the ladies over here. Then I called mother. They'll be over as soon as they can."
I nodded. We had grabbed Mike and run out of the house without waking anyone else up.
I was in shock. I didn't know what to say. I looked down at my clothes and realized this and a handful of other things in the car and in the house on Sacramento were all that I had left. It didn't matter but, then again, it did.
. . .
About the time my father pulled up in his new Cadillac, Lieutenant Holland was also arriving in his own car, a DeSoto. He looked annoyed to be roused out of bed again. I agreed with him. I hadn't had a good night's sleep in a couple of days.
My father walked up and stood next to me for a moment. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he said, "I'm sorry, Nicholas." I nodded and let him hug me. For some reason, I couldn't feel it. But I went through the motions.
He walked off in search of Carter as Lettie came up. "Dear boy. I'm sorry about this." She put her hand on my arm, stood with me for a moment, and then walked away. She seemed to understand I wasn't all there.
Lieutenant Holland ambled over. "Tough break, Williams. Looks like a total loss."
I nodded.
"I'm glad you weren't here."
That seemed to snap something inside of me. "I don't know, Lieutenant." I blinked a few times feeling the emotions that were finally rising to the surface. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and said, "If we'd been here, this wouldn't have happened. If we hadn't been too cowardly to stand our ground, we'd have still have a home."
I had turned to look at the house as I was talking. The lieutenant came around and got in my face. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. It wasn't rough but it wasn't gentle. "Snap out of it, Nick. You'd both be dead if you'd been here. There's only so much you can do. You hear me?"
It was an oddly tender moment. He was obviously concerned about me. Not just my role in his case, but me. I stood there and looked at him for a moment, wondering about him and what he'd said. He looked back at me, searching my eyes. Once he was satisfied that he'd seen what he was looking for, he released my shoulders and asked, "Is Jones here?"
I nodded and pointed to where Carter stood next to one of the engines.
The lieutenant smiled at me and said, "Like I said, I'm glad you weren't here." With that, he walked away.
. . .
The lieutenant was right. It was a total loss. As the sun rose, that much was obvious. The two houses on either side had minor damage but it was mostly cosmetic.
The main structure of the house was intact but the interior was gutted. The windows were all blown out. The captain said that was from the heat.
The trucks left just before dawn. We'd thanked each of the firemen personally before they left. Station 3, where Carter used to work, had been called out on the third alarm. It was nice to see Carter's old work buddies being so sympathetic. A few of them even stopped and spoke with me.
The captain told Carter that he was welcome to join the arson team later in the afternoon. As he was leaving, the captain said to me, "I'm sorry for your loss here, Mr. Williams. It's hard to see one of our own have to deal with a fire."
I said, "Thank you, Captain. That means a lot. And thanks for asking Carter to join the investigation."
The captain shook his head. "He's the best I've ever seen. That nose of his." I smiled wanly and nodded. "Well, it's too bad that the City lost a valuable man."
I said, "Yeah."
He touched his hat, walked over to the engine, and jumped on as it pulled away.
. . .
We were all at the dining table having breakfast when the doorbell rang. Henry and Robert had slept through the ordeal which they were both miffed about. When Henry had complained about that, I had simply said, "Count your blessings," because I was dead tired.
Zelda, the wonderful housekeeper who'd worked for my father since just after my mother had died, walked into the dining room. She handed me a Western Union telegram.
I said, "Thanks." She nodded, smiled, and walked into the kitchen.
I opened the envelope and read the message. Oddly enough, it was from Jeffery and it said, "Sorry about house. Assuming right address. Let me know if help needed." I was too tired to think about what this meant. I handed it over to Carter and stood up. I looked around the table and said, "I'm going to bed." And I did.
. . .
It was dark when I woke up. I was alone in the big bed in the big room and felt deeply alone for the first time in a long time. I wondered where Carter was. And, as I lay there and thought about the house, I began to cry.
I wasn't crying for the things. Those could be replaced. I was crying for everything. My sister Janet, who'd died in the hospital right in front of Carter and me. My mother, who I barely knew. Mack, my friend who sailed away and never came back. Jeffery, my lover who wasn't dead but might as well have been. Nacho, the police captain in Mexico who'd asked Carter for a kiss before he died in my arms. Even poor Mr. Kopek, Ike's old man, who'd had a heart attack after trying to kill a man and died on the floor of the hospital.
The more I remembered, the more I cried. And this wasn't just a few tears. This was sobbing and heaving. The kind that leaves you gasping for breath. The kind that makes you wonder whether it will ever end. The kind that seems like it's going to engulf you and swallow you whole.
Eventually, though, the tears did stop and everything was quiet. I lay in bed and listened for the sounds of the house and there were none. No voices from downstairs were being echoed by the marble floor in front of the staircase like I remembered from years ago. No water was running telling me that dinner or lunch or breakfast was being prepared. No footsteps were coming down the hall to check on me, to sit down next to me, to hold me, to rock me.
No one was there.
I was all alone in this big pile of rocks and everyone was gone. It was eerie. I couldn't remember a time when that house hadn't been full of sound, even in the worst times. Someone, at least, was always working to clean, to polish, to peal, to cook.
Even during the long evening when the radio was forbidden and my father sat in his office, smoking his cigar, and doing nothing but staring into space, I had never felt this alone.
Even when Janet and I would play some game she made up, in her room and in total silence to keep from getting into trouble, someone was walking around tending to the fires.
Even when I lay in my bed and looked out the window at the stars or the fog, I could hear the scrape of shoe leather from th
e passersby on Sacramento or the reassuring clang of a bell on a passing cable car over on California.
The house, my home, had never been quiet like it was right then.
The emptiness of that thought threatened to overwhelm me, but I pushed it away. I was tired of being sad and lonely. I'd never had much patience for the deep-running emotions. It just wasn't in my nature.
I took a deep breath and thought about a cigarette, but that seemed like too much trouble. I wondered what time it was, but I didn't care enough to look at my watch. I turned over on my stomach, and fell back to sleep.
. . .
The next time I woke up, Carter was in bed next to me. He was sitting up and reading more of the history book that he'd given my father.
"Hi there," I said, feeling groggy.
Carter closed the book, slid down in the bed, and turned to face me.
I touched his face. There was a trace of soot right at his hairline. I licked my finger, reached over, and rubbed it off. "Did you go look at the house with the arson team?"
He nodded. As he did, I watched a tear roll out of his left eye and onto the light green sheet that covered the mattress. I kissed him very gently on the lips and put my hand under his chin. Another tear fell onto the sheet. And then another.
I smiled and motioned at him. He turned to face the other direction. I wanted to pull him in close, but it was hard to embrace Carter. He was so much wider than me. So, I slipped my arm under his and squeezed on his chest. His neck was in my face and I kissed it lightly while tasting the remnants of soot and sweat. In the light of the chrome lamp, I held him while he cried and sobbed just as I had done earlier, whenever that was. I kept whispering, "Sweet baby," over and over again. I had no idea why.
. . .
I woke up as the light of dawn began to make its way through the big windows of the bedroom. We were in exactly the same position we'd been when we'd fallen asleep. Carter was in front of me. I had my left arm under his and wrapped around his chest. He was holding my hand in his. My face was resting on his neck. I had slept on my right arm and, as I moved, I could feel the pins and needles in my hand.
The Mangled Mobster (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 7) Page 6