The Mangled Mobster (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 7)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  The kitchen floor above us was buckled in several places. I poked my head up the stairwell and asked, "Do you think it's safe?"

  Carter came and stood next to me. Then he looked under the stairs. "Might be. I'll give it a try."

  I pushed back on him. "I'm fifty pounds lighter, let me go first."

  He grunted in assent as I cautiously put my foot on the first step. As I ascended, I tested each piece of wood before putting my full weight on it. When I got to the top step, I turned the knob on the door that led to the kitchen and then pushed. There was a grinding sound and I could feel the weight of whatever was in the way. I said, "There's something blocking the door."

  Carter called up. "Let me see if I can move it."

  I walked back down and said, "Have at it, big guy."

  He grinned, walked gingerly up the stairs, and stopped at the top. He pushed hard on whatever it was and I could hear some movement but he was only able to open the door about three inches. It was enough for daylight to come through but not much else.

  He came back down the stairs and wiped his hands with his handkerchief. "There's a crossbeam or two that's blocking the door."

  I sighed. I'd really hoped we'd be able to poke around upstairs. We walked over to the back of the room. Carter said, "Let's see if we can get the safe open."

  It had been behind the washing machine. Carter had obviously moved it the last time he was trying to open it up. We both pulled on the mechanism and were able to open the secret panel that hid the safe. I paused for a moment, remembering the combination. Once I was sure I had it, I rotated the dials until I heard the familiar click. Turning the handle, I pulled on the door to reveal the interior.

  Carter's immediate response was, "What the hell?"

  It was empty.

  We stood there for a moment and looked at each other and then back at the safe. I reached in and felt around, thinking for a moment that maybe the inside was larger than what I remembered.

  "How much was in there?" Carter asked.

  I shook my head. "It was all cash. Half a million. That's all that would fit in stacks of hundreds. There was also fifty thousand in thousand-dollar bills."

  Carter took off his hat and regarded it for a moment. He sighed dramatically and bit down on the brim.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I told you in October that if anyone found this safe that I would eat my hat. Have any salt?"

  . . .

  Carter was munching on some toast. As he smeared it with some apple butter, I saw him suddenly stop. I looked up at his face and there was a tear coming down his left cheek.

  "What?" I softly asked.

  He banged the table with his fist, which caused some commotion at the nearby tables. We were having breakfast among the tourists at the Mark Hopkins. "I don't care about the money but that bastard who torched our house destroyed the last jar of my mother's red plum jam."

  "I already sent in my check to the Dougherty County Hospital Board. Your Aunt Velma told me that the next batch should be ready in a couple of weeks. She said the blossoms were thick back in the spring and how that's a good sign." We'd been receiving a case or two of Mrs. Jones's red plum jam for a few years. Her sister, Carter's Aunt Velma, would send it to us in exchange for a nice donation to the hospital. I had called Aunt Velma a few weeks earlier because I wasn't sure our little scheme would continue now that Mrs. Jones knew about it. Fortunately, she had reassured me it would. Carter and his mother had mostly reconciled the summer before after his father was murdered, but they weren't speaking to each other very often. At least they were talking, and that was an improvement.

  Carter made a growling noise. "Well, when I find the man, I'm gonna kick his ass. No one, but no one, messes with my mama's red plum jam and lives to tell the tale."

  I grinned at him and said, "I wouldn't want to be in those shoes."

  He relaxed, smiled a little, and took a sip of coffee. He sighed and said, "I wonder how long this will keep going on?"

  "What?"

  "I just remembered something else that's gone."

  "We'll be in our seventies, sitting on a porch in rocking chairs, saying, 'You remember that thingamabob that got burnt up in the fire?'"

  Carter smiled at me. "Are you plannin' on having a southern accent by the time you're 70?"

  "That's just old-timer talk."

  "Will we be old timers if we're living on Mars?"

  "Sure. Mars will have the best old age homes, just you wait and see." I took a drink of my coffee. "What'd you remember?"

  "Your trophies."

  After I'd bought a Lockheed Super Constellation the previous summer, Carter had set up what he called a "trophy wall" in our bedroom. He'd first installed a model ship that somewhat resembled The Flirtatious Captain, our yacht that was docked in a marina over on the bay. He'd also installed a model Constellation and, then in February, he'd added a model DC-7 when I'd bought one of those. He'd said it was better than having a trophy wall full of moose and deer heads.

  I asked, "Where you gonna put the trophy wall in the new house?"

  "Our office, of course."

  "Our office?"

  "Sure. The one with the big safe in the floor."

  I nodded and said, "I see. How's that gonna work? You can't hang anything on those walls." The entire room had been designed for my grandfather. The walls and the ceiling were beautifully paneled in a number of inlaid woods. The whole room was really a work of art.

  "I'll get one of those trophy cases and set it up along the wall next to the desk." For some reason, his Georgia accent was getting stronger.

  I smiled. "Well, I got dibs on the desk that's already in there. You'd better start looking for one of your own."

  Carter rubbed his finger along the rim of his coffee cup, which I always liked to watch, for some reason. In a thick husky voice, he said, "Oh, I will."

  I laughed. "Are we really having this kind of conversation about desks and trophy cases?"

  Carter smiled his slow, southern smile and replied, "You bet, son."

  I looked around for the waiter and said, "I'm ready to go back, now. Right now."

  Carter just stared at me.

  . . .

  Once we'd taken another shower and were getting dressed again, I said, "We need to call Mike about the money in the safe."

  Carter, who was putting on his tie, nodded and said, "You go call him. I want to talk to your father about something."

  I stood up and put on my coat. Then I noticed something. "Hey. You're not bending over." For once, he was using a mirror that was long enough that he could see himself without stooping. For some reason, we'd never changed out the mirror in the bedroom or the bathroom in the house on Hartford.

  Carter said, "Ain't it grand? This is like..." He grinned at me. "Hell, it's like livin' on goddam Nob Hill, son."

  . . .

  Ray answered the phone.

  "Hi, it's Nick. Is Mike around?"

  "Sure." His voice was short. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said something.

  Mike said, "Hi, Nick."

  "How are you?"

  "Good." He didn't sound good, but he also didn't sound like chatting.

  "Wanted to let you know we went over to the house and opened the safe this morning. It was empty."

  "What? Had it been tampered with?"

  "Not that I could see."

  "Interesting."

  "Yeah. One thing you oughta know and tell your new boyfriend Holland--"

  "Don't start with me."

  "Sorry." I waited for a moment. "What I was gonna say is that there were fifty thousand-dollar bills. I had to order them special through Bank of America. That was in January. I bet they have the serial numbers."

  "That's all you had?"

  "No. There was close to half a million, all in hundreds, except for the thousands."

  "Did you get that all at once?"

  "Most of it. Back in March of '51. They'd have most of the serial numbers.
I gave some of that stash to you guys back in May of last year. And I replaced that in July. So they should have a record of that, too."

  "How much last year?"

  "Ten thousand on the nose."

  "OK. I'll give Holland a call."

  "Mike?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You wanna come over for dinner tonight? Just you, Carter, and me?"

  He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. I sure would."

  "How about meet us at Grant and California? We'll go to the Far East Cafe."

  "Yeah. I'd like that."

  "See you at 7?"

  "Thanks, Nick."

  . . .

  Just as I was hanging up the phone, Carter and my father were coming down the stairs.

  "I don't care. Do what you want." That was my father.

  "Nick?" That was Carter.

  "What's going on?" I asked.

  My father looked annoyed. He pointed his pipe at Carter. "HE wants to go rummaging up in the attic. You know, Nicholas, I'm giving YOU this house, not HIM."

  I looked over at Carter who shrugged.

  "So he wants to go up in the attic. What's wrong with that?"

  My father's dark eyes flashed with anger. "What is this? The pre-sale inspection?"

  I crossed my arms. "No. Carter is probably curious. Just like me. I'd like to go up there, too."

  "Fine! Go right ahead. You go right ahead." He didn't raise his voice, but he sounded angry and hurt at the same time. "Leticia and I will pack a bag and move into the Huntington Hotel. Then you two perverts can have the run of the whole goddam house." With that, he turned on his heel and walked up the stairs.

  Carter and I just stared at him as he disappeared. "What happened?" I asked.

  "I knocked on the door. He was all smiles until I asked about going up in the attic."

  I heard a discreet cough. I turned and saw Zelda standing near the dining room. She nodded her head towards the kitchen. We followed her in there.

  Mrs. Young was pealing potatoes and listening to the radio, which was turned down low.

  Zelda sat down at the table and motioned us to do the same, so we did. In a low voice, she said, "All of your mother's things are in the attic."

  I looked at Zelda. For once, her emotions were on display. She looked stricken.

  "A lot has happened here very quickly. We're all reeling, Mr. Nick. When the dust settles, it will all be for the best, I'm sure. Miss Leticia will be much happier in a small home. Dr. Williams will be happy because she's happy." She stopped and looked down at the table, wiping away some non-existent crumbs. "But, I imagine that your father is very upset about having to go through all of the things that have been packed away. It might be better if you wait until they're gone before you look around."

  She took a lace handkerchief from under her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. "I'll be happy to come back for two or three days and show Mrs. Kopek where everything is."

  I smiled and said, "Thank you, Zelda."

  Chapter 10

  Far East Cafe

  631 Grant Avenue

  Sunday, June 20, 1954

  Just past 7 in the evening

  The Far East Cafe was a favorite spot for all of us. We were seated at a small booth in the middle of the restaurant. Mike and I had gone there a lot for dinner when we were living together before the war. And this was where I'd brought a reluctant Carter back in '47 to introduce him to Chinese food. He'd lived in San Francisco for eight years and had never had any until then.

  Carter and I had walked down California Street and met Mike at the corner of Grant. The weather was warm and the sky was clear, which was nice.

  Carter had, of course, ordered chop suey. Mike had ordered a crab dish, his favorite. I put in for my usual, which was pork and vegetables in a spicy sauce. My dish wasn't on the menu but I had learned how to order it a long time ago.

  We were also sharing dumplings and I was slurping down their spicy soup that I loved so much.

  Only Mike could use chop sticks. I had tried and could never figure it out. Carter claimed his fingers were too big. But Mike could eat individual grains of rice using the long wooden sticks, which was always impressive to watch. And his fingers were just as big as Carter's.

  "So, your old man blew a gasket, huh?" I could tell that Mike wasn't as won over by my father's change of heart in the last few months as Carter was. Of course, Carter hadn't been the subject of a steady stream of insults like Mike had been back in '40. I was still pretty steamed about that event and it had been fourteen years since it had happened.

  I nodded. "Zelda thinks he doesn't wanna have to go through my mother's stuff."

  Carter said, "She's right. I should've thought about what I was asking."

  Mike shook his head. "You can't win with that man. I admire you for trying, though."

  Carter stabbed a dumpling with his fork and looked at Mike. "I know you still want to protect Nick from all those years ago, but I've spent a lot of time with Dr. Williams in the last year. I wish you'd lay off him. This is a tough time. For all of us." Carter's voice was heated, which was rare.

  Mike looked at me and then looked back at Carter. "Carter, man, I'm sorry. I'm still burnt about what he did back then. And, yeah, I've never given him a chance since." He deftly grabbed a dumpling and put it on the little plate in front of him. "He's your father-in-law... Or, whatever. Not mine. And, like I said, I admire you for spending time with him and all that."

  I reached down and put my hand on Carter's thigh. He sighed. "Well, the important thing is to help them both get moved and then we can start building a new home for ourselves."

  Mike nodded and looked off in the distance.

  "So, what's happening with you?" I asked.

  He shook his head. He put down his chop sticks and ran his hand over his face. "I'm beginning to think maybe I'm screwed up or something."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because I feel so paranoid about Ray. I don't know what it is. And I feel the same way about Holland." He sighed heavily as his face began to take on its monster look. "I feel like Ray is trying to make me. But I don't know why. And I can't imagine what he would gain from it."

  Right then, our dishes arrived. Once we got the table organized and began to dig in on the main course, I said, "This is gonna sound a little nuts, but maybe you're not wrong."

  "What do you mean?" asked Mike.

  "Remember what happened at Halloween? That kid that Robert was going with was a plant by the F.B.I."

  Mike shook his head. "I thought of that already. Ray's never been arrested."

  Carter asked, "But he was married. Maybe he got caught in a raid and, to protect himself, he made a deal, so they never booked him."

  Mike shook his head again. "No. I poked around for just that thing. If it happened, it was way off the books. Besides, those were rogue agents. It wasn't the local Bureau office. It was just a couple of guys. In the end, they were probably reprimanded for working without authority." He picked up a piece of asparagus. "Of course, the Bureau was lucky to miss the bad publicity since the S.F.P.D. got to take credit for breaking up a cocaine ring." He shook his head. "No, that's not it." He took a drink of his hot tea.

  "What about Holland?" I asked.

  "I don't know. It just doesn't feel right. But I can't pinpoint any one thing."

  Suddenly, I remembered the conversation I'd had with the lieutenant during the fire. I told Carter and Mike what he'd said and how he'd shaken my shoulders.

  "He called you by your first name?" That seemed to surprise Carter more than anything.

  "Yeah. And he was personally concerned. For someone who doesn't like queers, he didn't act like it."

  Mike shrugged. "Maybe he really was glad you and Carter didn't get hurt."

  I shook my head. "No. It was..." I looked for the right word. "It was intimate." I looked at Mike. "It was the kind of thing you would have done. But I was in shock because of everything happening and all I could do was nod and point."
>
  Mike looked at a crab leg and grabbed it with his chop sticks. He lifted it up in the air and examined it.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I was just thinking. Putting Ray to the side for a moment. Maybe Holland is really one of us."

  Carter said, "That's been my assumption all along."

  I turned and looked at him. "Like how you're convinced Errol Flynn is?"

  Mike, whose mouth was full of crab, guffawed and dropped his chop sticks to grab his napkin.

  Carter said evenly, "No, Nick. I'll admit I've got a crush on Errol Flynn. OK?" He turned towards me. "He does look like you, after all."

  I'd never heard that before. I looked at Mike for confirmation. He turned his hand from side to side as if to say, "more or less." I just shook my head and turned back to Carter.

  He continued, "Holland is just a little too by the book. All those firemen I worked with, Ray included... That was always one of my clues. You know the type. Always clean. Always on time. Those so-called normal guys are all slobs."

  Mike said, "Hey! I'm a slob. And I ain't so-called normal. I'm a perfect Kinsey 6!"

  Carter shook his head. "I've seen photos of you on your bike when you were on motorcycle patrol, Mike. That thing was spotless. And those leathers..."

  I laughed. "He's got you to rights on that, Mike. That Indian was your goddam baby. And you're not a slob. You just have a lotta shit. Like books."

  Mike smiled, meticulously ate three grains of rice, and said, "Fine. So, your case for Holland is that he's too perfect?"

  Carter said, "Sure. He's too perfect. And now he's your best friend. You must have done something to get him to trust you."

  Mike pointed at Carter with his chop stick. Someone once told me that was rude. "Yeah. I did, in fact."

  "What?" I asked.

  "I did what he asked me to do. I haven't bothered him about case updates. I've called him as soon as I had new information. I've answered his questions but not asked any of my own. Maybe that's all it is. Maybe he's treating me differently because he trusts me."