The Mangled Mobster (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 7)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I quietly pulled my hand out of his, got out of bed, and reached for my trousers and shirt. They both smelled smoky but I didn't really care. I pulled them on and walked out into the hallway and next door to the bathroom.

  As I stood there relieving myself, I could remember everything that had happened but I didn't feel the grief of it. It was as if something about it had lightened up. I didn't know how to think about what I was feeling. I just felt cleansed.

  I couldn't remember crying like that since I had been a small child. And, to be honest, it felt good. It was like something very old and very decrepit had left me. I felt lighter, somehow. Not happier. Just not as oppressed.

  I pulled the chain on the toilet and listened to the pipes groan slightly. Even so, I was amazed that the plumbing up on the third floor was still functional.

  I walked over to the mirror and looked at myself. My hair was all over the place. I hadn't washed my face from earlier and there was soot and grime all over it. I looked at my chocolate milk eyes and wondered, for the thousandth time, what it would be like if they were green like Henry's.

  My dimple was still there, however. I could remember my mother saying, at some time or another, that if I didn't behave, my dimple would disappear. So, every time I looked in the mirror, the first thing I looked for was to see whether it was still there. And, it was.

  I heard a quiet knock on the door. "Nick?" It was Carter.

  I opened the door and watched as my husband, in just his BVDs, ran the eight or so feet to the toilet. As he relieved himself, I closed the door and locked it. Turning to the bathtub, I started running the hot and cold water to see what would happen. There was some more groaning, and the first bit of water was rusty, but it came out and the hot water was hotter than I expected. I pulled the shower curtain into place and pulled the plug on the shower. More slight groaning, but it worked.

  I dropped my clothes in a pile and stepped into the large tub. It was not the big iron Edwardian claw-foot that we'd had in our house when we bought it. In keeping with the rest of the bathroom, with its square chrome fixtures, this was rectangular and had the usual Art Deco styling.

  Carter dropped his BVDs and stepped in behind me. As usual, he reached over my head and moved the shower head up to aim it at his face. That's when we discovered that time had been passing on the third floor, even though it seemed otherwise. The shower head broke off and we both started laughing and didn't stop for a while.

  Chapter 7

  Union Square

  Saturday, June 19, 1954

  Around 2 in the afternoon

  We sat in the park across from the I. Magnin store and enjoyed the warm sunshine. My coat was slung over Carter's. We both had our sleeves rolled up. I was fanning myself with my hat.

  A man selling ice cream from a cart moved in our general direction. I elbowed Carter and he stood up, walked over, got us each an Eskimo Pie, and returned with a pile of paper napkins. Once those were gone, I stood up and stretched.

  The park was full of busy shoppers on their way from one store to another. There was also a handful of folks like us, just sitting on the benches taking in the warmth of the day. But there didn't appear to be anyone out of place. As far as we could tell, no one was tailing us.

  I looked around for a quick moment and then down at Carter. I said, "I think we have enough clothes to last a couple of weeks, don't you?"

  He nodded and smiled. Looking off in the distance, he said, "I never knew shopping was this much work."

  I reached over for my coat. "Me, neither. Let's go, Chief."

  He stood up, looked around casually, and grabbed his coat. As he swung it over his shoulder, I quietly asked, "See anyone?"

  "Nope. Cable car?"

  I nodded and we walked over to Powell Street to grab the next one going up the hill.

  . . .

  We jumped off at California Street. We made our way to my father's house by walking west along California and then crossing through Huntington Park. Instead of going through the front door, we walked around to the side and knocked on the kitchen door.

  The cook, Mrs. Young, answered. As we walked up the steps into the little entryway, she smiled and asked, "Find anything you liked?"

  As we walked in, I said, "Carter said it best. Shopping is hard work."

  She smiled and asked, "It is, at that. Would either of you like a sandwich?"

  I said, "Not me."

  Carter said, "I'm fine, thanks."

  Nodding and leading the way into the kitchen, she said, "I've been told to expect a large party tonight. We'll be having a buffet in the dining room and then it's seat yourself."

  I asked, "A party?"

  Mrs. Young was just past 50 and had a stout but solid figure. She'd come to the house with Zelda, so she'd been around for quite a while. She was a sweet woman but not too bright. She was the only person, other than Zelda, that I'd had any patience for when I was a teenager. I had never heard if there ever was a Mr. Young. She'd been single when she came to work for my father and had never dated, as far as I knew.

  As soon as I asked, I wished I hadn't said anything. She put her hand on her mouth and said, "Oh, Mr. Nick, I think it was to be a surprise."

  Carter said, "That's fine, Mrs. Young. We won't give it away."

  Looking up at him, she smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Carter. I'd appreciate that."

  As we walked through the large kitchen, I could see that there were a couple of girls who were helping out. They had probably been hired for the day. I looked around and asked, "Are deviled eggs on the menu?"

  Mrs. Young looked up, panicked. "We'll be sure to make some."

  I smiled and said, "Don't worry. Our neighbor Diane will probably be bringing a platter or two of them. I wanted to mention it because they're the best you've ever had so be sure to leave some for the rest of us."

  Mrs. Young laughed while the two girls giggled.

  . . .

  As we were passing through the sitting room, Mike was coming down the stairs.

  "Feeling better, Nick?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. What's the latest?"

  Mike said, "Come upstairs with me. I was hoping I'd see you. I wanna fill you in."

  We walked with him up to the third floor. He was camped out in the Sapphire Room and it was definitely blue in there. The layout and all the furniture was exactly the same as our room. Everything was blue instead of green. I had a vague memory that this room had been used for sewing and making clothes before my mother had renovated everything.

  Mike sat down on the bed while Carter and I pulled over two plush sapphire chairs.

  "What's up?" Carter asked.

  "I don't know what happened to Lieutenant Holland, but now he's my best friend. I guess he's grateful I called him about the fire since Eureka Valley is in the Mission District. But there's something else going on with him and I don't know what it is."

  I nodded. Carter asked, "Do you trust him?"

  Mike made a face. "Yes and no. I trust him to do what he says he's gonna do but there's something fishy there. I can't put my finger on it."

  "What else?" I asked.

  "Holland told me they canvassed your block of Hartford and no one saw anything."

  I looked at Carter. "What time did the fire get called in?"

  He replied, "The call came in around 2 in the morning."

  Mike said, "Yeah, but that Lysander Blythe who lives on the south side of you told the cops that he was sure he heard breaking glass around 1:30."

  "Did he call that in?"

  Mike shook his head. "How well do you know them?"

  "Lysander and Vivienne? Just to talk to. They moved in around January of last year. Quiet couple. He writes for a living. Never read anything by him."

  Mike exchanged looks with Carter.

  "What?" I asked.

  Carter said, "You really are the worst when it comes to neighbors, Nick. Lysander Blythe is one of the biggest playwrights in the country. Right now one of his plays is so
ld out for months on Broadway."

  "Really?" I asked. "Is it a musical?"

  Carter shook his head. "No. It's Southern Gothic. It's called The Voice She Heard."

  I shrugged. "That's why. You know I only like musicals. And I hate stories about oversexed southern women. What's this have to do with anything? And why don't they live in New York?"

  Mike said, "They did. But they left. Something about trouble with one of the actresses."

  Carter put in, "Not just any actress. The star of the show. Kim Taylor. And that isn't the first time it's happened."

  "Again," I asked a little impatiently, "Why Eureka Valley and how does this involve us?"

  Mike leaned over. "Blythe is writing a new play. There was a thing about it in Herb Caen last week." He was a snappy, witty daily columnist who once had a radio show back in the 30s that Mrs. Young used to love to listen to. He was now published by the Examiner.

  "So?"

  Carter laughed and said to Mike. "He really doesn't read the papers anymore. And I hadn't gotten around to telling him with all the excitement going on."

  "Goddam it, you two! What the hell is going on?"

  Mike said, "The play is about you. Herb Caen said the working title was Notorious Nick. Of course, you could sue him if he used that title."

  I just rolled my eyes. "So, you're saying that Elliott moved in next door in order to write a play about me?"

  Mike shook his head. "No. I went over and talked to the guy myself."

  Carter sat back. "Does he know who you are in relation to Nick?"

  Mike shrugged. "I might be another cop, for all he knows."

  I said, "Damn it, Mike!"

  He put his hand out. "I know. Look. Here's the story. They came out west but didn't want to live the Park Avenue life on Nob Hill so they bought a nice cozy bungalow and, it turns out, happened to buy right next to you. I don't know when he figured out who you were but, once he did, that got the creative juices flowing."

  "Why would he set the fire?" I asked.

  Mike replied with a confused look. "Who said anything about that?"

  "This whole little trip down the gay white way started when I asked what time the fire started."

  "Right." He shrugged apologetically. "So, he was sitting at his typewriter and heard breaking glass. I got him to admit that he didn't call the cops because he wanted to see what might happen. He thought it was a burglary or something. Said he figured you and Carter could handle things. Didn't know you weren't there. Of course, once the fire was going, he realized the mistake he'd made and called it in. And that was around 2."

  I just shook my head. "For crying out loud, what an idiot."

  Carter laughed. "Yeah." Looking at Mike, he asked, "You gonna tell Holland all about what you found out?"

  Mike pressed his lips together and said, "Yeah. Have to."

  I looked up at him. "Have you figured out how you're gonna explain the way you got your foot in the door?"

  Mike shrugged. "Truth is, that's small potatoes compared to the big news I have for him."

  "What?" I asked.

  "Sam says the fire wasn't set by Abati or any of his gang."

  Carter and I exchanged looks. He asked, "Sam? How does he know?"

  Mike grinned at me and yanked on his tie to loosen it. "What we didn't know about Sam is a whole hell of a lot. He has mob connections."

  I'm pretty sure my mouth dropped open.

  "What connections?" That was Carter. He was immediately suspicious.

  "Sam used to run around with some of the muscle. He says that Sugar Joe's is a place where some of the beefier wiseguys do their weights and boxing." Sugar Joe's was a gymnasium on Mission that Carter used to frequent. That was also where Ike first met Sam the year before. "Sam told me this group of muscle was known as 'The Frutti Tutti.' They're all queer. And, all the guys are older. They're Sam's age. They date back to Lanza, when he was running things."

  Carter whistled. "Queer mob muscle."

  Mike nodded and continued, "A couple have retired to Mexico. The other one still works for the mob. Sam never did any jobs with these guys, but he knows them. Anyway, he made some inquiries yesterday and, come to find out, Abati doesn't have a hit out on any of us. From what he can figure out, rubbing out Johnny Russell was an inside job."

  Carter asked, "Inside job? What does that mean?"

  Mike replied, "It means it was only about the mob. Russell didn't deliver on something he promised. That it happened at your building, Nick, is a coincidence. Just happened to be a convenient place to do the job and what better place to dump the body, right?"

  I frowned. "Right." There was something off about this. "Seems sloppy for the mob, though."

  Mike cocked his head and looked at me for a moment. Before he could say anything, Carter asked, "So, who called Henry and who torched our house?"

  Mike pressed his lips together. "That's the sixty-four dollar question, ain't it?"

  I asked, "When are you gonna report all this to Holland?"

  "I was headed over to Central when I ran into you guys."

  Carter leaned in and asked, "Mike, do you have any suspicion at all about who it might have been? Any guesses?"

  Mike shook his head. "None. There's plenty of people in this town who don't like Nick but I can't see any of them hiring a firebug."

  Carter looked thoughtful. "This wasn't a firebug. Whoever did it was a pro. Or knew what he was doing."

  Mike said, "Yeah. It was too clean."

  Carter nodded and said, "We both kept our eyes opened when we went down to Union Square and neither of us saw anyone tailing us. This explains that." He crossed his arms and leaned back. "Have you told Henry, yet?"

  "Whoa." Mike put up his hands like a cop directing traffic.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I have a bone to pick with you guys."

  "What?" That was Carter.

  "You should've called Andy and Dawson to go with you."

  I shrugged.

  Carter looked at me and then back at Mike. He nodded. "You're right, Mike. We should have." He looked at me again.

  I shrugged again.

  Mike looked put out. "I want you to take this seriously. One of these days your lone wolf move could get you killed."

  I rolled my eyes. He was right but my dander was up and I didn't want to admit it. I changed the subject. "So, what about Henry?"

  Mike shook his head. "At least listen to Carter."

  Carter punched me playfully in the arm. "Yeah. Listen to your husband. Pipsqueak."

  Mike grinned, "Small fry."

  "For cryin' out loud, you two." I sighed. "Now. Henry. Did you tell him?"

  Mike smirked and said, "I did. He moved back over to Robert's place. They'll be here for the party tonight."

  "What about you?" I asked.

  "Ray's gonna take me home after the party."

  I said, "In spite of everything, thanks for taking such good care of us, Mike."

  Carter nodded, reached over, and squeezed Mike's arm. "Yeah. Thanks."

  Mike smiled. "That's what we do at Consolidated Security."

  Chapter 8

  1198 Sacramento Street

  Saturday, June 19, 1954

  Later in the afternoon

  Some of what we'd bought at Union Square had already been delivered by the time we got back to the house. We were in our room unpacking the boxes and putting things away in the wardrobe and the bureau when someone knocked on the door.

  Carter said, "Come on in."

  "Hello." It was my father.

  "How are you?" I asked.

  "Fine, fine." He pulled on his pipe and looked around. "You get what you were looking for?"

  I nodded as I closed the drawer in the bureau that I'd been packing with brand-new garters and rolled-up socks. "Enough to get started."

  "Good, good." He seemed to want to say something. So, I turned around, leaned against the bureau, and waited.

  "I have something I want to say
to you both."

  Carter had been hanging up shirts in the wardrobe. He stopped what he was doing and turned around.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "Lettie and I wanted to do this before we got married but it didn't make sense then."

  We both waited.

  "You see, neither of us wants to live here." He fiddled with his pipe as he said this.

  I was surprised. I looked over at Carter who had crossed his arms and was avoiding my gaze.

  "And, since you're in need of a home, we'd like for you to move in."

  I didn't know what to say, so I asked the obvious question, "Where will you two go?"

  "Not far. I've already rented an apartment on the fourth floor of 1055 California." That was the building across the street from the Pacific Union Club. I could see it from the window of the room we were in. "It's already been remodeled and furnished. I was going to sub-lease it for the time being, but..." He looked at his pipe. "We can move in a week."

  "Are you sure about this?" asked Carter. His voice was doubtful. But it was also hopeful, which surprised me even more than what my father was saying.

  My father nodded. Looking at me, he said, "I want you two to think about it. The upkeep on a house like this isn't the same as a bungalow in Eureka Valley." He looked down at the emerald green carpeting and kicked at it with his shoe, something I'd never seen him do before. "But you know that."

  I was dumbfounded. This solved all sorts of problems. But, I didn't want to leave Eureka Valley with its ladies who play mah-jong and its families who took long strolls on Sunday after Mass. I would miss being neighbors with Pam and Diane. Not to mention Evelyn down the street and Marnie a few blocks away. I liked the neighborhood. It was quaint and sweet. And it's where we lived.

  I took a deep breath and said, "We'll talk about it and let you know."

  My father said, "Fair enough."

  As he turned to leave, one important thought crossed my mind. "What about Zelda?"

  My father stopped and turned back. His eyes were crinkled in amusement. "Let's just say that Lettie tolerates Zelda. As long as they're willing, Zelda and the other staff come with the house. Lettie will be more than happy to hire her own housekeeper." He looked at Carter and then at me. "What about your housekeeper?"