The Mangled Mobster (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 7)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I nodded. "When Colt made the gun for my Uncle Paul, they included a gross of silver bullets. He didn't buy the gun to use it. And, I'm sure he knew that silver bullets are for show, as well. I figure he gave away a couple of boxes here and there so that, by the time they came to me, there was only one box left."

  Holland said, "Your uncle must have been quite a character."

  Mike snorted and I laughed. "You have no idea."

  "So, that means the murderer is the same person who set the fire."

  I nodded. "We were just talking about that. And, before I forget, let me give you another angle." I filled him in on what Troyer had said about Vernon Keller.

  After I was done, the lieutenant sat back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully. "So, it could be this Keller who did everything?"

  I nodded. "Marnie? What'd did you find out about the guy who built the mechanism?"

  She stood up and walked into the doorway. I said, "Lieutenant Greg Holland, this is my secretary, Marnie Wilson." He turned and nodded politely.

  She smiled and then looked at me. "Remember that guy? He was kinda crazy?"

  I thought for a moment and then it came to me. "Sure. Thin as a rail. Had a nervous tic. Real egghead."

  "That's the one. His name is, get this, Randolph Keller."

  The lieutenant started in his chair. "Coincidence?" he asked.

  Marnie said, "Nope. According to Polk's, he and a Vernon Keller both live at the same address out in the avenues." She handed the lieutenant a piece of paper.

  He looked impressed.

  Chapter 12

  564 33rd Avenue

  Monday, June 21, 1954

  A little before noon

  The lieutenant pulled his car into a space a couple of houses north of where the Keller brothers lived. He drove a forest green '49 Chrysler Windsor coupe. He'd invited Mike and me to go with him to see what we could find out. The two of them had sat in the front while I'd slipped in behind Mike. I tried not to read too much into it, but it was interesting when Holland threw his arm across the back of the front seat. For a guy who supposedly didn't like queers, he had certainly taken a shine to Mike. They'd joked with each other the entire time it took to drive down Geary to the Outer Richmond.

  We piled out of his car. Mike and I followed in Holland's wake as he walked up to the house. All the houses on this block, between Anza and Geary, were basically the same. Two stories. Garage on the ground floor. Sitting room window above that and overlooking the street. This house was painted a faded blue. Unlike most of the others, there were weeds growing between the cracks in the pavement out front.

  The lieutenant walked up to the front gate and pressed the buzzer. Getting no answer, he pressed the buzzer again. I moved out towards the street and casually looked around. I was pretty sure I saw someone move behind lace curtains covering the bay of sitting room windows. Holland pressed the buzzer a third time.

  There wasn't much we could do at this point, so Holland pointed to the car and we silently followed him. Once we were packed in, he said, "Let's find a phone. I got a trick up my sleeve."

  Driving up to Geary, Holland turned right. Pulling in front of a fire plug at the corner of 32nd Avenue and leaving the keys in the ignition, he jumped out and walked into the phone booth on the corner.

  As we waited, I said, "Parking in front of a fire plug. Carter would be throwing a fit right now if he was here."

  "And, he'd be right," said Mike.

  "You're not gonna stick up for your boyfriend?"

  "Nick, I swear."

  "Did you see how he put his arm over the back of the seat?"

  "No. I was facing forward and minding my own business."

  Holland opened the door, jumped back in, and asked, "Minding your own business about what?" He was grinning. Again.

  Mike replied, "Nick's being annoying."

  Holland looked at me over the back of the seat. "I can see how he could get that way." He grinned at me and winked. I just shook my head. This guy was being mighty flirty. That was no lie.

  "What's next?" I asked.

  "We wait."

  "Next to a fire plug?"

  "Sure. Do it all the time."

  "You better not let my husband catch you doing that." Mike shook his head when he heard me use that word.

  "Husband?" asked Holland. I couldn't tell if he was offended or not.

  "Well, we might as well be married. So, yeah. Husband." I wasn't gonna back down.

  "Huh." It was an oddly noncommittal response.

  We sat there in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment before Mike asked about the Brooklyn Dodgers. They started talking baseball. I nodded off.

  I was awakened by the Lieutenant's voice. "There we go."

  When I opened my eyes, he was pointing at something. I followed his finger and saw a Pacific Telephone maintenance truck pull up on 32nd Avenue. The driver parked at the curb, hopped out, and made his way over to the phone booth. Holland got out and walked over to where the other man was standing.

  As they talked, Mike turned around and looked at me. He had that scary monster look on his face. "You did that on purpose."

  I stretched my arms and asked, "Did what on purpose?"

  "That crack about Carter being your husband."

  I smiled and shook my head. "Not, really. It just popped out. But, did you hear how he replied?"

  "You sound like a teenage girl, Nick." He was not happy.

  "That man is a homosexual, Mike. And he likes you." He was right. I did sound like a teenage girl.

  Mike turned around in his seat and let out a big sigh. "Fine. You're right."

  I reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "When he gets fired--"

  "No. Not a good idea."

  "What's not a good idea?" Holland was making a habit of coming in at the worst possible moments. Or best possible, depending on your perspective.

  I couldn't help myself. "We were just talking about a prospective new hire."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah," I continued. "We pick up cops and firemen when they get caught in raids and the City cans them."

  This made Holland visibly uncomfortable. "Sure." He cleared his throat. "So, this installer is someone who's helped me out before. Do either of you have any spare cash? I can reimburse you once I fill out an expense report."

  I pulled out a hundred and passed it over the seat.

  "That's a little too rich for the City, Nick."

  I said, "That's the smallest I have. It's on me this time." I watched the telephone man as he dialed a number in the phone booth. "So, what's he gonna do?"

  "He'll call the house and tell them he's checking on some trouble on their line."

  Mike asked, "People buy that?"

  "Sure. Doesn't seem to work in an apartment building, for some reason. But in a single-family house, people believe it. Particularly out here where folks are so trusting." He grinned at Mike, who reddened slightly.

  "So, what does he do?" I asked.

  "He goes in, checks things out, comes back, and reports on what he found. If he finds anything I can get a warrant on, I have a judge who'll usually play ball."

  We waited for about fifteen minutes. Holland and Mike talked more baseball. I managed to stay awake this time. I wasn't interested in sports of any stripe. I was, however, interested to note that Holland seemed to know a lot about Joe DiMaggio's marriage to Marilyn Monroe and how it probably wouldn't last.

  Just as he was talking about Jane Russell and the infamous gymnasium scene in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, there was a knock on Mike's window. It was the phone installer. Mike rolled down the window as the guy leaned in.

  "Sorry, Lieutenant. Place was neat and clean. One guy there. Didn't believe me. Very suspicious."

  I asked, "What'd he look like?"

  "Tall. Thin. Slimy fella. Had a thin mustache."

  "Did he have a nervous tic?"

  "This guy? No. He was smooth as a snake, if you know what I mean."

>   Holland reached over Mike and pushed the hundred in the installer's hand. "Thanks, Bill. Sure do appreciate your help."

  Bill looked surprised when he saw how much it was. But, he took it in stride. "Sure thing, Lieutenant. Let me know. Any time." He saluted Holland and walked back to his truck.

  . . .

  Holland dropped us off on his way to the Hall of Justice to see if he could get a warrant. He said we wouldn't be involved if he got one. That was fine by me. I prefer to let the experts do their jobs.

  When we walked into the office, my nose was hit by the smell of smoke. Carter was standing by my desk and next to a wooden crate that had traces of soot on its side. His face had smudges on it and his hands were dark.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "It's a goddam miracle, that's what it is. I found your Uncle Paul's diaries. They got trapped under the bookcase they were on. Somehow that created a pocket that even escaped getting wet. I found them on the first floor because the second floor had given way."

  I looked in the box and couldn't believe what I was seeing. I pulled out the first three volumes and held them close to my chest. The leather bindings were definitely smoky. But here they were.

  And then I started crying. And so did Carter. And Marnie, too.

  . . .

  Once we were all done with that, Carter showed me the other books he'd found. They'd all been together, which made sense, as they'd all been on the same shelf. I tended to keep my usual favorites all together. These were all books that Mike had given me, including Leaves of Grass, which I was happy to have.

  "Did you find your dwarves and dragon book?" I asked.

  Carter shook his head. "What's in that crate is all that I could salvage. Not counting the basement, of course. And some of the things in the kitchen. But no clothes. Nothing else. That's it."

  He sat down in the chair and blew his nose. He said, "But did you see that little black book?"

  I looked in the box. I found it under Moby Dick. "Look at that." It was the one I'd found after Taylor Wells had been murdered in Mexico the previous summer. "I guess I should go through this at some point."

  Carter shrugged. "Why was it on that shelf?"

  "Because I kept meaning to look through it. Should I toss it?"

  Carter shook his head. "Keep it. You never know..."

  I walked over to Marnie and said, "Can you put the diaries and that black book in the safe? I'll figure out what to do with them later."

  She nodded and said, "Going home?"

  "Yeah. I think we've done enough for one day, doll."

  She smiled.

  . . .

  As we drove the short distance back to Sacramento Street, Carter asked, "Do we need to be driving back and forth like this?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. When we need the car, we need it. Besides, we'll be moving down to Market Street before long."

  Carter pulled the car into the driveway that led down to the garage. In the keys that Zelda had given us was one that, when inserted and turned, opened the electric door to the garage. He parked in the usual spot. I noticed that my father's car was out.

  As we walked up to the stairs to the kitchen, I asked, "Do you wanna finally buy yourself a car?"

  Carter, who was coming up behind me with the box of books, said, "Yes. But I want to buy two."

  "Two? What do you need two for?"

  As I opened the kitchen door, I was surprised to see that it was empty. It was just past 3 in the afternoon and, normally, Mrs. Young and the kitchen maid would be cooking up a storm. As we moved inside, I found an envelope on the long wood table. It was addressed to us both.

  I opened it and read it out loud to Carter as he put the box on the table:

  Dearest Sons,

  Your father and I awoke early this morning to the realization that it is time to take our leave. We have decided to take a very slow drive down to Carmel and then onward to Big Sur and, perhaps, to Coronado Island. We will be gone for some time and don't precisely know when we shall return.

  Your father released all of the staff and paid them, quite rightly, a year's severance as you had promised. Their last act was to help us move all of our belongings into the middle guest room on the second floor to be called for later.

  Your father says to tell you that this 'big pile of rocks' is now yours. This will, of course, be formalized legally on our return.

  Enjoy your new home. We will telegram, from time to time, so you will know that we are well.

  With fondest love and affection,

  Your Lettie

  At the bottom, my father had scribbled his own note:

  I will take care of 'the mountain' later. Please don't bring one of your friends over to safe crack it, if you don't mind.

  I looked at Carter who looked at me. He knocked my hat off my head with one still slightly grimy hand and then lifted me in the air like he'd done on Saturday. Shifting me into the traditional bride carry, he walked through the dining room and into the great room, taking great loping strides, and opened the garden door. The wonderful thing about the garden was that it was completely secluded. There was no way to see into it as it backed up against a wall with no windows. We took advantage of that fact and enjoyed ourselves out in the fresh air for once.

  . . .

  Neither of us was comfortable using the bathroom in the master bedroom, so we went up to the third floor and got cleaned up. Once we were dressed, we walked down to the second floor. Before we could even start exploring the house, the phone rang. Since there was no Zelda to answer it, we both hopped down the long semi-circular staircase.

  I picked up the phone and said, "Yeah?"

  "Nick?" It was Marnie. "I was actually calling for Mother. Where's Zelda?"

  I explained where everyone was. When I was done, she said, "I wondered about that. Mother didn't tell me but she was acting fishy last night. So." She paused. "How does it feel?"

  I looked around and then up at Carter, who was grinning. "Empty. This is a huge house with no one in it."

  "Do you want me to call Mrs. Kopek and have her come over tomorrow?"

  I replied, "That would be swell, doll. I think I'm gonna cook a big dinner for my husband while I still have the chance."

  Marnie giggled. "Oh, Nick."

  . . .

  I looked through the cupboards and the icebox. It appeared that Mrs. Young had cleaned us out. I couldn't blame her. She probably thought it would otherwise go to waste. I had no idea what she thought Carter and I would be getting up to but I'm sure it didn't include anything as mundane as eating.

  Carter, who had been in the office, walked in and asked, "What's for dinner, Boss?"

  "Ernie's, I think. We're plumb out of everything and I don't wanna go to the market."

  Carter smiled and said, "Ernie's it is."

  . . .

  We ended up at the Top of the Mark. Ernie's was closed on Mondays.

  As we sat in the window and gazed out over the City, I said, "Now about those two cars. What do you need two for?"

  Carter, who was cutting into his large Porterhouse steak, said, "I figure I need something reliable. I'm thinking a Mercury. Or maybe a Pontiac."

  "Not a Buick?"

  Carter said, "We can't be an all-Buick couple."

  "Why not?"

  "It's un-American or something."

  I laughed. "What's the other one?"

  "Well, I want a car to play in. Something to drive up and down the coast. Some little European number. I'm thinking a Sunbeam."

  I nodded. We'd seen one at a house party we'd been to in Mexico. They were a little small for my taste.

  "You think you'll fit behind the wheel?" It was a legitimate question.

  Carter shrugged. "Won't know until I try."

  "Who sells them around here?"

  Carter shrugged again. "I'll find out."

  I smiled and looked out the window again. Somehow, I was thrilled and it wasn't the thing I was expecting. I couldn't believe that we woul
d be going back to my home, my house, the place where everything began and that it would be our home. Never, not once, in a million years would I have imagined this would happen. And, yet, it had.

  I put my hand next to my plate. It was as far as I dared reach. I wanted to lean over and pull Carter across the table. I wanted to push all the plates on the floor and have him take me right there, at the Top of the Mark, overlooking the City. I wanted to stand up and offer my hand and have him sweep me off my feet to the sounds of "You're The Top," the song coming from the fingers of the pianist. I wanted to dance all night until my feet ached. I wanted to kiss my husband in front of the maitre d', our waiter, the bartenders, and George fucking Hearst, who was steadfastly not looking at me from three tables over, and make a complete fool of myself.

  But, instead, I tapped my fingers on the table to the rhythm of the song and looked at my husband who was sawing into the overcooked piece of shoe leather that cost nearly five bucks. It was sheer heaven.

  Chapter 13

  Offices of Consolidated Security

  Tuesday, June 22, 1954

  Just past 9 in the morning

  Marnie was handing me a cup of coffee when the office door opened. Lieutenant Holland walked in and asked, "Is Mike Robertson here?"

  I said, "Come in Lieutenant. Have a seat."

  He nodded at me with a tight smile but didn't move. With his hat in his right hand, he instead said, "I just wanted to find Mike. Is he around?"

  I looked at Marnie, who said, "He's meeting with a client down in Livermore this morning. He'll be back around 3 or so, at the latest."

  Holland ran his free hand through his hair. For the first time, I noticed he was looking disheveled and rumpled. I wondered if he'd slept in his suit of clothes.

  I stood up and walked towards him. He backed up a step when I did, as if he was afraid of me. "Did you get that warrant yesterday?" I asked.

  Holland looked confused at first. Then he nodded. "Oh, sure. When we went to serve it, he'd skipped. And we didn't find anything. No money. No gun. Not even the silver bullets."