The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Chapter 16

  On the way to Monumental Studios

  Tuesday, July 12, 1955

  A quarter past 10 in the morning

  Pulling out of Freddie and Roz's driveway, Carter made a left on Beverly. Neither of us said anything for a moment. Finally, I asked, "Well, what do you think?"

  Carter shook his head. "I feel like I just got hit by a truck."

  "Me, too."

  "Was this your idea, Nick?"

  I looked at him. "What?"

  "This is right up your alley. Matchmaking and all that lovey-dovey shit."

  I laughed. "No. I had no idea. Ed's one sneaky bastard."

  Carter huffed. "He sure the hell is but he's no match for my mother. She's twice as sneaky."

  I sighed. "Are you angry?"

  Carter slowed the car to a stop for the red light at Santa Monica Boulevard. He didn't say anything for a moment. When the light turned green, he drove forward. Crossing Santa Monica, we entered the commercial part of Beverly Hills. The morning shoppers were busy and the sidewalks were crowded. Finally, he said, "Yeah and I don't know why."

  I didn't say anything. I just waited. I knew he would tell me. After making a left on Wilshire Boulevard, I wondered why we were going east when Monumental was in Culver City and that was south and west from Beverly Hills. I asked, "Do you know how to get there?"

  Carter jerked the car across to the far right lane, earning a fierce honk from a car behind us, and pulled into a small parking lot in front of a beauty salon. He put the car in park and, in his dangerous voice, said, "You can always take a cab, Nick."

  I didn't reply. We sat there for a long moment with the engine running. Neither of us said anything. Finally, Carter put the car in drive and made his way back onto the road. We drove in silence. At Robertson, he made a right. We continued south for a couple of blocks. As we crossed Olympic, Carter said, "The man at the dealership showed me how to get there from Santa Monica Boulevard. So, yes, Nick, I know where we're going." He pointed at the glove box. "And there's a Thomas Brothers in there."

  I pulled on the box's chrome handle and removed the thick book of maps. I looked at the index page and followed our route. I could see why making a left on Wilshire made sense. If we'd gone south on Beverly, we would have ended up in a neighborhood and had to make our way through it to get to Culver Boulevard. Robertson, on the other hand, turned into Culver, more or less. Then it was a straight shot to Sepulveda. Monumental was in the big square empty space on the southeast corner of Culver and Sepulveda.

  "Satisfied?" asked Carter.

  I didn't reply. I just put the map back in the glove box. I was beginning to get angry. I knew we were both exhausted but it wasn't my fault that a bomb had just been dropped into our lives. I loved Carter but his question about us becoming brothers had made my skin crawl, even though we had all laughed about it. It wasn't the implication of incest that bothered me, it was the idea of Ed making love to both my mother and Carter's. That was the part that was bothering me. And, as much as I tried, I couldn't seem to shake it.

  "Are you going to say anything?" asked Carter.

  I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say. We had so much to do. I was... we were... about to sign up for what would likely become a very big business venture. And we were late to our first meeting. Then we needed to go buy more goddam clothes so we could attend a gala event that no one had fucking bothered to tell us about. In the meantime, Carlo Martinelli was sitting in jail downtown and we were slowly creeping in the direction of solving the case that the police and district attorney had no interest in investigating. Oh, and we had bought a new house in the meantime. And Carter had been up that morning watching Howie swim in our pool in the buff.

  "Nick Williams, say something, damn it."

  The only thing I could think of to say was probably the worst thing I could have said, "How does he look when he's swimming around naked?"

  Carter slowly pulled the car into another small parking lot. He reached across me and opened my door. "Get out."

  I didn't say anything. I carefully stepped out of the car and then very carefully slammed the door closed as hard as I could. Carter pulled out back onto Robertson. As he did, a big green produce truck honked, slammed on its brakes, and didn't stop in time. It hit the rear end of Carter's brand-new car.

  As I watched, I could hear the sickening sound of the crash of glass and metal. With my heart in my throat, I ran up to the car. Carter jumped out and dashed around the front while the truck driver started screaming obscenities from his cab.

  We met on the curb. He picked me up and held me tightly, covering my face with kisses. "I'm sorry, Nick."

  I shook my head as the truck driver began to scream louder and traffic on Robertson in both directions came to a halt. "No, Carter. I'm sorry. I love you. It's you and me. You know that."

  He nodded and kissed me deeply while cars began to honk their horns and other drivers screamed at us. He pulled back and put me down. Together we walked over to the truck driver, who was still behind the wheel in the cab. He was purple with rage. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack.

  "You two goddam faggots! What's the matter with you?"

  I examined the front of his truck. His bumper had crashed through the trunk of the car and that had broken the rear window, which had then collapsed into the backseat. But, in the impact, the Mercedes had been pushed forward. The truck's bumper had a slight blue paint streak on it, but that was all the damage there was to see.

  I looked up at Carter. He had his arms crossed and was looking directly at the driver with as mean an expression on his face as I'd ever seen. I started smiling. I walked around to where he was standing. The driver saw me through the open passenger door window and started screaming a whole new litany of obscenities.

  Right then, a police car pulled into the parking lot in a small cloud of dust and gravel. Two patrol officers from the L.A.P.D. stepped out of the car and put their hats on. The older one, a blond man with a bit of a belly, asked, "What happened here?"

  Carter turned and said, "I pulled out in front of this truck. It was my fault, Officer."

  The younger one, lanky with dark hair, walked around me and looked at the truck's bumper and then the rear end of the car. The older one asked, "What's it look like, Charlie?"

  The younger one pushed his hat back and smiled. "Slight blue paint streak on the truck's bumper. But the car is smashed in pretty bad."

  The older one reached up and opened the passenger door of the truck's cab. "You hurt?"

  The driver, whose face had improved from purple to red, shook his head. "Nah. But those faggots started kissing in the middle of the street, Officer."

  The older cop turned and looked at me and then at Carter. "That true?"

  I shrugged. "I was just relieved he wasn't hurt."

  Looking at Carter, he asked, "What about you?"

  "I was just shook up. We're practically brothers."

  "That so?"

  "Sure," I added. "His mother is going to marry my father. They just told us this morning."

  The older one pushed his cap back and scratched his forehead. He smiled. "Well, congratulations to everyone."

  The younger one walked up and offered to shake my hand. As we shook, he said, "That's great, pal. I hope they'll be real happy."

  I said, "Thanks. I think they will be."

  The truck driver said, "They were kissing and there wasn't anything brotherly about it."

  The older one said, "Look, buddy. You're fine. Your truck is fine. And you're blocking the road. Just get going."

  "Wait, Officer," said Carter.

  "Yeah?"

  "I want to give this man my name and phone number."

  The older one nodded thoughtfully. "OK. Sure." He reached into his front shirt pocket and pulled out a notepad and a pencil.

  "My name is Carter Jones. I work for Consolidated Security in San Francisco. The number there is Prospect 7-7777."

 
The cop was scribbling. He looked at Carter. "So, you want this guy to contact you?"

  Carter nodded. "Sure. Do you mind?"

  The cop shrugged. "No." He tore off the piece of paper and handed it up to the truck driver who reluctantly took it.

  Looking into the cab, Carter said, "Give that number a call and tell them what happened. We'll take care of getting your truck repainted and make up whatever time you've lost on the job here."

  The truck driver blinked in confusion.

  The older cop closed the passenger door and said, "You can't do any better than that, buster. Now, get your truck off my road and be on your way."

  The truck driver nodded without saying anything. He backed up a few feet and then made his way around the Mercedes and was gone.

  The older cop asked, "Can you get that thing off the road?"

  Carter nodded, ran over, jumped in, and drove the Mercedes into the next little parking lot. As he did, I could hear some metal-on-metal scraping on the rear axle.

  The older cop turned to me. "We can call in for a tow truck. One'll be here in a few minutes and get your car to whatever kind of garage that works on cars like that."

  I nodded and said, "Thanks."

  Carter ran back over and said, "Thanks, Officer."

  The older man nodded. "That was real smart what you just did. For that, I'm just gonna give you a warning."

  Carter smiled. "That's very generous of you, Officer."

  . . .

  "Where the hell are you, Nick?" That was Ben. He sounded frustrated. I was calling him from inside a drugstore a block down from where we'd left the car. Carter was in the booth next to mine talking to Marnie to let her know to expect a call from a possibly angry truck driver.

  "Calling from a payphone on Robertson. We had a little fender-bender. Is Jessup still there?"

  "Yes. He's fuming."

  "Well, tell him we'll be there as soon as we can."

  "So you're not backing out?"

  "No, Ben. We were just in an accident. Actually, we're both exhausted." I sighed. "You probably are, too."

  "Yes. The cast and crew are all coming back to work tomorrow. Jessup and I have been plotting the first script."

  "Good." That gave me an idea. "Look, something else has come up. Do you have enough to get started with a new movie? Can we move this meeting back to tomorrow?"

  Ben sighed. "I guess."

  "Good. We're still in. We just need to take care of the car and do some other things. By the way, what are you doing tonight?"

  "Going to bed as early as I can."

  "Do you have a black tie tuxedo?"

  "Of course. Why?"

  "We're hosting a gala fundraiser tonight at the Ambassador Hotel. Well, not us. It's the Williams-Jones Foundation. Should be a real shindig. Or that's what Roz says."

  "Oh."

  "You and Jessup should come. Also, you can meet Carter's mother and my stepfather. They're both here."

  "Really? You have a stepfather?"

  I laughed. "Sorry. I guess you don't know that story. Yeah, I do. Look, the dinner is at 7. Just be there. We'll all talk then. OK?"

  Ben sighed. "Yeah. That's fine."

  "Good."

  "Nick?"

  "Yeah?"

  "How's the investigation going?"

  "We're making some progress. I'll fill you in tonight." I thought of something. "Say, do you know who Pola Negri is?"

  "Of course. She's amazing."

  "Was she in a movie during the war?"

  "Yes. Hi Diddle Diddle. Why?"

  "I need to meet her. Could you arrange that?"

  "Well, I probably can't. But Billy could. He knows her from the San Simeon days." That was the huge estate up the coast where William Randolph Hearst and Marion Davies used to host big parties, mostly in the 20s and 30s. Billy had told me back in January that he used to go up there all the time.

  "Even better. Ask him to call her and invite her to come tonight. Tell him to tell her that I specifically want her to come. And invite him, too." I paused. "He's probably already on the guest list."

  "Why, Nick?"

  "Has to do with Martinelli."

  "Oh." He thought for a moment and then said, "How?"

  "I'll explain later. Just take care of all that for me, would you?"

  "Sure. Anything for Carlo."

  "We're gonna get him out, I promise."

  Ben sighed. "I know you will, Nick. Thanks."

  "You're welcome. See you tonight."

  Chapter 17

  Hollywood Mercedes-Benz

  9019 Santa Monica Blvd.

  West Hollywood, Cal.

  Tuesday, July 12, 1955

  Just before noon

  We rode with the tow truck driver in his cab. The dealer that Carter had bought the car from was just up Robertson, so once we were on our way, it only took ten minutes to get there. The trick had been convincing the driver that he could tow the car. He was worried about scraping the undercarriage. Carter finally told him that all that mattered was to get it back to the dealer. With that, the mattered was settled and we were on our way.

  Tony, the driver, dropped us off on the sidewalk before pulling the car into the garage. We walked into the showroom. It was impressive and very stylish. It also looked out of place on that block of Santa Monica. To the right was an auto body repair shop and to the left was a small factory of some sort.

  There were a variety of Jaguars and Mercedes on display. What was unusual, besides the shapes of the cars, was the fact that they were up on either large pedestals or sitting on ramps that left them tilted at strangle angles. I noticed it was easy to see inside and underneath which, if I'd been a car enthusiast, would have been a good sales technique.

  A man from the back walked into the sales showroom. He was about 50 or so. He stood 5'9", was trim and very neatly dressed, and sported a thin mustache. "Mr. Jones! Have you brought us a friend to buy a car?" He smiled and looked from Carter to me and back.

  Carter sighed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Schultz. I already wrecked the car I bought yesterday." Pointing through the back windows that allowed us to see the garage, he said, "That's my car they're looking at." There were two mechanics in blue overalls squatting at the rear end of the car. The one I could see was pointing to something in the area of the trunk and frowning.

  Mr. Schultz sighed. "Well, these things do happen." He laughed. "Did you let your wife drive your car?"

  Carter stiffened and I said, "No. He got hit by a produce truck."

  Mr. Schultz frowned slightly. Then he extended his hand. "Heinrich Schultz."

  I shook. "Nick Williams."

  Tilting his head slightly, he looked at me for a long moment. A light bulb of recognition went off and a mild look of revulsion passed over his face. He pulled out his handkerchief and began to wipe his hands. He tried to make it look like he was afraid they were too sweaty, but I knew exactly what he was doing.

  Carter said, "Mr. Schultz?"

  "Yes, Mr. Jones?" The man looked up and tried to smile, but it wasn't taking.

  "You can keep your goddam car."

  The man frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me. You can keep your goddam car." He then stalked out without waiting for me.

  I sighed. "Don't worry, the check will clear."

  Mr. Schultz shook his head. "I don't understand."

  I crossed my arms. "Neither Mr. Jones nor myself want to buy your cars, Mr. Schultz. And we could have easily bought all the cars in your showroom. You can keep the car we brought in. We don't want it back. We're going to go buy a Buick or a Mercury or a Renault."

  He looked at me defiantly for a moment. I saw a couple of other men coming into the showroom from the garage. One of them was the mechanic who'd been pointing at the trunk and frowning. Schultz finally dropped the innocent act. "That is fine with me, Mr. Williams."

  I started to leave but I saw the mechanic looking at me and smiling. He walked up and said, "Pardon me." His accent was
thicker than that of his boss. He had dark hair, black eyes, and a full black beard. He stood about my height with a wiry build.

  I replied, "Yes?"

  "This your car?" He pointed at the garage.

  I nodded.

  Before the mechanic could say anything, Mr. Schultz said something furious in what I guessed was German.

  The mechanic looked outraged. I turned to walk away. As I did, I heard the mechanic bark a couple of words. I'd had enough and didn't care. As I was pulling the door open, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I swung around and got ready to give him a right hook. But, before I could pull back, I saw that he was smiling. I relaxed and asked, "What?"

  He gestured at the door. "Please. Let us go outside."

  I nodded and let him open the door. He followed me to where Carter was standing out on the sidewalk along Santa Monica. He was watching the cars go by. As I walked up, Carter turned around and looked at me. "Let's go home."

  I nodded and said, "Wait."

  He looked down at the mechanic who was standing next to me.

  The bearded man said, "My name is Gerhard Richter. This is my shop."

  "Yours?" That was Carter. "I thought Mr. Schultz was the owner."

  Richter shook his head. "No. He is the manager of the sales. But I am the owner. I bring the first Mercedes to California after the war." He stroked his beard with his left hand and grinned up at Carter. "You like my cars?"

  Carter nodded and let a grin slowly creep across his face. "Sure. They don't seem to like me, though."

  Richter waved his hand in dismissal. "They are different than the big American cars, are they not?"

  Carter put his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. I can't figure out how to accelerate smoothly."

  "Yes. You try to slowly press the pedal, no?"

  Carter nodded. "I don't want to flood the engine."