The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Richter laughed. "Exactly. The American car engine. It floods easily. Or it did. And this you are used to, no?"

  Carter and I both nodded. He was right. I was just as careful about smoothly accelerating.

  "So, in a Mercedes, if you want to go fast, you press the pedal and it will shoot off for you." He made a motion of a rocket launching with his right hand passing over his left. "Zoom!"

  We all laughed.

  Richter looked at me. "Please. Let me apologize for my idiot employee. He was very unkind and it is not necessary. I hope you are not too angry."

  I shook my head and sighed. "Thank you, Mr. Richter."

  He offered his hand and we shook. He and Carter did the same.

  "Now," said Richter. "What kind of car do you like to take while we work on yours?"

  Carter asked, "Can you fix it?"

  Richter smiled. "Oh, yes. Certainly." He frowned slightly. "It may take some time. Some parts must come from Germany." He held his right hand out and turned it from side to side. "Maybe two months."

  Carter nodded. "You know we live in San Francisco?"

  The man's face lit up. "Such a beautiful city. How lucky you are."

  I nodded. "Yeah. We are."

  "That is no problem. I give you the sports car. The gullwing." He looked Carter up and down. "I think you will like. The seat moves back far." With a twinkle in his eyes, he stretched his hands apart a couple of inches. Then a little more. Then a little bit more. He looked up and stretched them ever further with half a grin and a raised eyebrow aimed right at Carter.

  I looked up at Carter, feeling a little scandalized. I was certain Richter was a red-blooded German and all man. A Kinsey 1 at best. But I was certain he'd just been measuring Carter's anatomy and not how far back the seat went in the car. Carter seemed to be having similar thoughts because he turned beet red.

  Richter laughed and hit Carter as hard as he could on the back. "Come. Let us try out this car."

  . . .

  The car he was talking about was a little sports car. Just the thing I wasn't that interested in. It also had very odd doors that opened from the side. That was where the name 'gullwing' came from.

  Carter did try to get in. But the seats didn't move back much and he ended up with his knees in the steering wheel. Mr. Richter and I had to help pull him out to get him out. So, that was that.

  In the end, we took a silver version of the same car Carter had bought the day before. Richter drove around with us for a few minutes and showed Carter how to accelerate.

  As Carter pulled the car into the dealership, I had an idea. I asked Mr. Richter, "Do you know where we could get a slightly used Buick or Pontiac? Maybe a '51 or '52?"

  "Of course. The garage next door. He has one or two like that for sale. Many times."

  Carter parked the car and we piled out. Richter looked at me and asked, "Why such an old car?"

  I smiled. "This car really stands out and sometimes we need something that doesn't."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Well, I will ask. Please wait here."

  He walked over to the auto repair shop. While he was gone, I said to Carter, "What a fucking day this has been."

  He smiled and looked at his watch. "And it's only 1. I'm hungry, by the way."

  I nodded. "Me, too. Let's get this squared away and then we can find a drive-in somewhere and grab some hamburgers. How about that?"

  "Good. Then what's next?"

  "We gotta go get some penguin suits for tonight. Then, it's nap time."

  Carter smiled and said, "I have a few ideas about what to do before we take a nap."

  I looked up at him. "Yeah?"

  In a way that made me feel warm all over, he grinned and said, "Oh, yeah."

  Chapter 18

  717 North Cañon Drive

  Beverly Hills, Cal.

  Tuesday, July 12, 1955

  Just before 3 in the afternoon

  Carter pulled the Mercedes into the driveway and killed the engine. Mr. Richter hadn't been able to find a used car for us but he promised he would call. We'd had our hamburgers. We'd been fitted for tuxedos. They were due to be delivered no later than 5.

  As we piled out of the car, Howie came bounding down the stairs from his apartment. He did a double-take when he saw the car. He walked over and looked at it. "Didn't this used to be blue?"

  I laughed. "Yeah. We had a little fender-bender this morning. The blue is being repaired. We're borrowing this one while it's being fixed."

  Howie nodded. "Some cop came by earlier looking for you." He pulled a folded-over piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.

  I opened it. All it had was a phone number and the name Ruggles written on it. I looked at Howie and asked, "Did he say what he wanted?"

  "Nah. He wasn't Beverly Hills. And he wasn't in uniform."

  Carter asked, "How'd you know he was a cop?"

  "I can smell cops a mile away. They're always the same."

  I nodded thoughtfully. "Did he have red hair?"

  "Yep. And covered in muscles."

  I looked up at Carter. "From this morning."

  He nodded. "Yeah."

  I looked at Howie. "So, what's this about nude swimming in the middle of the night?"

  Howie blushed and said, "I have insomnia. It helps me get to sleep."

  "Did Mrs. DaCosta let you do that?" asked Carter.

  "Nah. She would have got onto me. To be honest, I kinda forgot you two were here. She's been gone so long that I didn't think about it until I was splashing around. Sorry I woke you up."

  I shrugged. "I don't care." I looked up at Carter.

  "Me, neither," he said. "But when we're here, just keep it quiet."

  "You two really gonna buy this place?"

  I nodded. "Yep. All we're waiting for is the paperwork."

  Howie put his hands in his pockets and looked at us both with an eager smile. "Wow."

  I grinned. "And, I'm sure there will be some reason to get Walter down here before too long. Or, you can come spend the weekend in the City if you want. We have a plane that goes back and forth from Burbank."

  Howie smiled. "That would be swell, Mr. Williams."

  "It's Nick. And cut the juvenile routine."

  Howie mock saluted me with a grin. "Yes, sir!"

  I shook my head. "You're obviously a real smart-ass."

  "Guilty as charged." With that, he turned and ran back up the stairs.

  . . .

  I was looking into Carter's eyes in a state of what could best be described as ecstasy when the phone rang. He rolled his eyes and then rolled over to his side of the bed.

  "Fuck." That was me.

  He reached over and picked up the phone. "This better be important."

  After a moment, he handed the receiver to me. "Ben."

  As he stood and walked down the hall to the bathroom, I sat up and said, "Yeah?"

  "Did I interrupt something?"

  I wasn't feeling charitable. "What's up?"

  Ben, for reasons best known to himself, started giggling. I pulled the phone away from my ear and waited.

  When he was done, he said, "Sorry, Nick." He paused. "You still there?"

  "Sure, kid. What's up?"

  "Well, I wanted to let you know that neither Billy nor Jimmie, you know, his partner... Well, neither of them were on the invitation list for some reason. Billy did manage to get in touch with and invite Pola Negri. She's coming as his date."

  I sighed. "Thanks, Ben. Sorry for earlier. You wouldn't believe how weird this day has been."

  "What happened?"

  I gave him a brief overview of the accident.

  "Was Carter OK?"

  "Yeah. The car is gonna take two months to repair. Something about parts having to come from Germany."

  "Wow. So, how are you getting around?"

  "The dealer gave us a similar car to use. This one is silver instead of blue."

  "Are you still going tonight?"

  "Sure.
Why not?"

  Ben paused for a moment. I waited. Finally, he said, "There's something fishy about Billy not being invited to this event. He's very generous, particularly with the March of Dimes, and tonight's event is a fundraiser for them. Why wouldn't he be invited?"

  "I don't know." I sat up and crossed my legs. I heard the toilet flush in the bathroom and the running of water in the sink. "Carter and I only found out about it today."

  "These gala events are like movie productions. They take months of planning. You don't just throw one together. Wasn't Roz involved?"

  "Yeah. I don't know who was planning it, though."

  "Well, I saw the invitation that Jessup got and the San Francisco R.S.V.P. name was Louise Jones with an address on California Street. Isn't that Carter's mother?"

  I could feel a knot forming in my stomach. I looked up as Carter walked back into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Who was the L.A. name?"

  "Hedda Hopper. That's why everyone who's anyone is attending."

  I nearly dropped the phone. "You're fucking kidding me."

  "No. I was surprised when I saw it. I know you don't like commies, but—"

  "I had nothing to do with this." I took a deep breath as Carter put his hand on my knee. "Sorry, Ben. I can't believe this has happened again."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's like what happened when Jeffery funded that so-called expert up in Marin County and then we ended up in jail because of his crack-pot theories."

  "Jeffery Klein, your ex-lawyer?"

  "And ex-lover. Yeah. That's him. He took charge of my first foundation and started spending money on all sorts of bullshit. Looks like the same thing is happening."

  "Well, it's not exactly the same," said Ben.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're not going to jail."

  "That's true. How's Greg?" I suddenly remembered Mike. Before Ben could answer, I blurted out, "What about Mike? Did he come down?"

  Ben laughed. "No. Micky called him after they got back from the hospital and apologized profusely. Or that's what Greg told me. He, meaning Greg, moved his stuff into the second bedroom. When I got home from the studio—"

  "You're not there right now?"

  "No. We're gonna start shooting some scenes bright and early tomorrow. I sent everyone home. What I was going to say is that when I got home, there was a note from Greg that he and Micky had gone out on surveillance."

  "Good. Anything else?"

  "No. See you tonight, I guess." He didn't sound particularly excited. I knew he had to be as tired as Carter and myself.

  "Yeah. You don't have to stay long, if you don't want to. I just thought—"

  "You thought what I think. This is a grade-A opportunity to hob and nob. It sure is." He yawned. "I just wish it was tomorrow night."

  "Me, too. Thanks, Ben."

  "You're welcome, Nick."

  I put the receiver back in its cradle and looked at Carter.

  "Who did what?" he asked.

  "This whole shindig is being organized by Hedda fucking Hopper."

  Carter whistled.

  "And your mother."

  Carter's eyes widened. "Mama?"

  "Yeah. The San Francisco R.S.V.P. address was hers."

  He stood up, buck naked, and began to pace the short length of the room. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at me as if he was going to say something. Since he was naked, I was having trouble keeping my sense of outrage. He caught me grinning and then relaxed. Walking slowly towards me, he whispered, "You're in so much trouble, Nicholas Williams."

  I pushed myself back against the headboard. "Me? What did I do?"

  He crawled onto the bed. As it creaked, he slowly moved towards me. "I don't know but I'm sure I'll think of something."

  I put up my hand. "I'm innocent. I swear."

  Carter was right up on me. Softly, he said, "Innocent or guilty, you're still gonna get it."

  I slid down on the bed and started laughing.

  . . .

  We were dressed and ready to go when I remembered the phone number that Howie had given me earlier. I'd left it on the kitchen counter, just below the phone extension hanging on the kitchen wall.

  I dialed the number. After five rings, a sleepy voice answered, "Yeah?"

  "Officer Ruggles?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "Nick Williams."

  "Oh, yeah." He yawned. "Pardon me, but you're interruptin' my beauty sleep. So that kid gave you my number?"

  "That's right."

  "Cute kid. Don't think he likes cops."

  "Right again."

  "You in a rush or somethin'?"

  "Yeah. What can I do for you?"

  "It's what I can do for you. Did you find out whose house it was where William Fraser was stabbed?"

  "Juan Zane."

  "Right. Bernard William Rogers is his real name and legal name, by the way. Now, did you know how he's supposed to be some big-shot narcotics distributor?"

  "Yeah." I waited. Ruggles seemed to have his own way of telling his story. It seemed to involve asking questions.

  "Did you know how he's chummy with the Beverly Hills police chief?"

  "Yeah."

  He laughed. "You got some good sources. Doesn't surprise me none. Did you know how he's not really a distributor?"

  "No."

  "He's not. He's a front. There's someone else doing all the work. They just use his house as a central point. But not for the actual distribution. Whoever is doing the distribution is using some sort of code. And it's out in public somehow."

  "How do you know all this."

  "William Fraser. He somehow stumbled onto it. And he told me about it. Asked me what to do. I told him to go straight to the F.B.I. and bypass the police and the D.A. He didn't want to because he'd had some sort of run-in with the Bureau. He wouldn't tell me what it was."

  "He was being used by some rogue agents up in San Francisco to try to bug my house. He also tried to blackmail me."

  "And you hired him?"

  "He is, or was, a good actor with a lot of promise. He was the latest in a long line of kids that these agents—"

  "Those were the ones murdered by The Kid back in March, right?" That was the nickname used in the papers for Ricky, my childhood friend, who'd turned out to be a hitman for hire.

  "Yeah." I tried to keep my tone neutral.

  "Hmm. Personal stake in all this, then?"

  "Yeah. Tell you about it some other time."

  I looked up at Carter who'd been leaning against the kitchen counter listening. He pointed to his watch. I nodded. "You got anything else?"

  "Nope. I'll keep my eyes and ears open. And, do me a favor will you?"

  "What's that?"

  "Give that man of yours a deep-tongue kiss for me, will you?"

  I laughed and hung up the phone.

  Carter stood up straight and made his way through the back door. "Come on, son, we gots to go."

  I said, "I know. I think I just found someone for Micky to date."

  Carter laughed. "I hope he knows how to clean house."

  Chapter 19

  Ambassador Hotel

  3400 Wilshire Boulevard

  Los Angeles, Cal.

  Tuesday, July 12, 1955

  The Mercedes got a few stares from the crowds waiting to see who pulled up and got out. There were photographers everywhere, flashbulbs popping. I counted three newsreel cameras. As we'd driven around, I'd seen a remote location truck for KRCA, Channel 4.

  One valet opened the door for me and another did the same for Carter. I got out and handed folded fives to both.

  No one doing interviews on the red carpet seemed to know who we were or wanted to talk to us, which was fine by me. So, we passed by several familiar faces and made our way inside the hotel lobby. Following the crowd of men in penguin suits and women in varying styles of evening gowns, all done up to the nines, we came to the entrance of the Palomar ballroom. Two men were asking to se
e invitations, which was holding up the flow of traffic. When our turn came, the man on the right asked me, "May I see your invitation?"

  I smiled. "I don't have one. I'm the host."

  He smiled politely. "No, sir. Miss Hopper is the hostess. I'm afraid this event is invitation only."

  I nodded. I looked at his counterpart. They appeared to be security guards of some sort even though they were dressed in black tie themselves. I thought of them as door wardens.

  The other warden was talking to Dick Powell and his wife, June Allyson. I said, "Be right back." I walked over and tapped the actor on his shoulder. "Excuse me, Mr. Powell?"

  He turned and frowned at me. "Do I know you?"

  "No, sir. May I see your invitation? I'll give it right back."

  He nodded suspiciously. I took it and walked back to where Carter was standing with our warden. I pointed to the top of the invitation. "Williams-Jones Foundation. That's us. I'm Mr. Williams." I pointed to Carter. "That's Mr. Jones." I handed the invitation back to Mr. Powell, who'd followed us over along with Miss Allyson.

  "I'm sorry, sir. But without an invitation, I can't let you in."

  Mr. Powell said, "Say, are you really Nick Williams?"

  I nodded. "Yes."

  He looked at the man. "I can vouch for this man."

  "But, sir," replied the man patiently, "I'm afraid I can't let them in. Not without an invitation."

  I looked at Mr. Powell. "Do you know Roz Russell?"

  He nodded. Miss Allyson said, "Of course. Everyone in town knows Roz." Grinning, she added, "She's practically an institution."

  I smiled. "Could you let her know we're out here?"

  She replied, "Of course."

  Mr. Powell smiled and offered his arm. She took it and said, "See you in there, boys." With that, they were gone.

  I turned back to our warden. "We'll go wait over here."

  He nodded apologetically. "Miss Hopper was very clear."

  I smiled. "I'm sure she was."

  Carter and I walked out of the way of the impatient crowd and stood near the wall. As we did, I was amazed at all the stars who were moving through. It was like nothing I'd ever seen.

  After a couple of moments, Carter said, "This is just the kind of thing my mother would do."

  I shook my head. "I doubt it. Maybe she didn't know—"