The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  She started laughing. I was afraid she was going to break into one of her laughing fits. I'd seen her do that once before. It was when she'd seen Carter and me wearing beards back in '53. She pulled back, waved her hand in front of her face, and said, "Yes. That's it. He's swell." She swallowed hard and whispered, "Your mother was a very lucky woman to have known him."

  I nodded and let the tears get out after all.

  Chapter 22

  Somewhere on Mulholland Drive

  Wednesday, July 13, 1955

  Half past 10 in the morning

  Trying to be helpful, I said, "Maybe if we just drove back down to Ventura Boulevard and found a store where we could buy a street map—"

  "I wish I would have remembered to have grabbed the Thomas Brothers from the other car."

  I wanted to say something about wishes and fishes but thought better of it. We came around yet another bend in the narrow, two-lane road which wound through the hills that separated the Los Angeles basin from the San Fernando Valley. As we did, I saw a man bent over, trying to change the tire on what looked like a brand-new Lincoln. It was pulled over on the shoulder of the far side of the road that overlooked the valley. I pointed at him and said, "Let's ask that guy. Looks like he could use some help anyway."

  Carter nodded and slowed the car down, pulling over on the shoulder next to a hillside. He killed the ignition and we both got out. We were above the smog line and the air was nice and clean. We walked across the road. As we did, Carter asked, "Need any help, mister?"

  The man, who seemed to be having a hard time in his crouching position, grunted and stood up. He turned to face us. Both Carter and I stopped in the middle of the road, both surprised. It was Errol Flynn and he was not looking good. He was red in the face and sweating.

  Carter immediately said, "I'll take care of the tire for you, Mr. Flynn." Without waiting for any agreement, Carter got down on his knees and started to loosen the lug nuts on the wheel.

  Mr. Flynn offered his hand. "Mr. Williams, I presume."

  I nodded, almost unable to speak.

  He grinned. "I was at your little to-do last night. Great speech, by the way. And very nice work." He leaned around and reached into the car through the driver's window and pulled out a flask. "Have a nip?"

  I shook my head, still unable to speak.

  "Ah, well. More for me." He took a gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good thing you blokes stopped by. I was just about to have a heart attack, I think." I was pretty sure he was serious, but he was smiling as he talked.

  His color was getting better. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Camels. He offered me one. I shook my head again. But I pulled my old battered Zippo out of my trouser pocket and offered him a light.

  As he put his hands around mine and leaned in to light his cigarette, he winked at me. I smiled in reply, not knowing what else to do. He leaned back, took a deep drag on his cigarette, and said, "Lemme see that lighter, if you don't mind."

  I shook my head, still mute, and handed it to him.

  He held it in his hand and looked at it. "Never seen one of these bent quite like this." He took another puff, held it for a long moment, and then exhaled again. Leaning against the car, he asked, "How'd it happen?"

  Before I could open my mouth to speak, Carter said, "His boyfriend in the Navy did that."

  Mr. Flynn burst out laughing. He tossed the lighter to me and then walked over to Carter. Standing right above him, the actor spread his legs and looked down at my husband. "That so?"

  Carter nodded without looking up. He had his handkerchief out and mopped his brow with it.

  I finally found my voice and said, "Need any help there, Chief?"

  Carter shook his head. "Three down, two to go. They're on there tight."

  Mr. Flynn looked at me and said, "So you do talk, then?"

  I nodded.

  Carter said, "His name was Mack. Big guy who died during Korea."

  Looking at me, Mr. Flynn said, "I thought you were in the second world war."

  I nodded. "Yeah."

  Carter added, "Mack was too. He was the kinda guy who never could settle down. When things started up in Korea, he went back into the Navy. He was on a minesweeper that sank. He was so strong that he was able to keep one of the doors open long enough for some of his fellow sailors to get out. But he went down with the ship." He grunted. "There."

  Mr. Flynn held out his hand to me. "Lemme see that again, if you will, Mr. Williams."

  I took out the lighter and tossed it over to him. He looked at the thing again and said, "So your boyfriend bent this?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know. We woke up in the bunk and it was like that."

  Putting the piece of metal to his lips, Errol Flynn kissed it, and then tossed it back to me. I caught it as he said, "There you go, Mack. From me to you, wherever you are."

  I smiled, trying very hard not to start giggling like a teenage girl.

  Carter stood and asked, "Where's the spare?"

  Mr. Flynn grinned, dropped his cigarette on the ground, and said, "How the hell should I know?" He walked around to the trunk and opened it. "Probably in here. And I bet there's a jack in there, too. Somewhere."

  Carter found the spare in a well under the trunk lining. He lifted it up and rolled it over to where the flat tire was. I handed him the jack and asked, "You need any help there?"

  Carter said, "No. You two keep talking." As he said that, I suddenly realized I was fulfilling a fantasy of Carter's that he'd once told me about. He claimed that I looked like Errol Flynn, which was frankly ridiculous. However, he'd also told me one time, when we were both smashed, that he wanted to see Errol Flynn and me necking at some point in his life. As flirtatious as Mr. Flynn was being, I could tell that he was just being nice to us and in a way that amused him. I'd met more than a few men like him. He was infamous for his hard living and for the women in his life. So, I seriously doubted we would get any more than a firm handshake out of the man. I walked over to where the actor was leaning against the car, having another sip from his flask, and asked, "Don't you live around here?"

  He looked at me and said, "Not for a couple of years now. My ex-wife owns the place. I'm in town for some work on a film. I don't have any plans until dinner tonight, so I thought I'd take a drive up here and see the old place. But, a rock in the road had other plans for me."

  I nodded. "Where do you live now?"

  "Here and there," he answered vaguely. "But what I want to know is what those ladies said to Hedda last night that made her turn tail." He grinned at me as he picked a piece of tobacco from between his teeth. "That was magnificent. People will be talking about that for years to come."

  I shrugged. "I dunno. I asked but no one would tell. They're forces of nature. There's no holding them back, no matter what they do."

  He nodded and took out his pack of Camels again. Putting one in his mouth. "Another light, if you don't mind, Mr. Williams."

  I nodded, pulled out my lighter, and offered it. He put his hands around mine again and stared at me as he lit his cigarette. I tried not to look away but then it was over. I closed my lighter and put it back in my pocket. I was pretty sure I was breathing heavy. He seemed to be amused by the whole thing.

  He leaned back against the car, took in a deep drag, exhaled, and said, "Now let's talk about Juan Zane, shall we?"

  I was looking down at Carter in order to remember how much I loved him when he said that. I glanced up in surprise and said, "Sure."

  He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it. "You and that friend of yours who was arrested are all anyone can talk about. I heard about the story as soon as I flew in on Monday. I meant to track you down last night, but, well..." He shrugged and flicked the ashes off the end his cigarette. "You know he's just the front for the organization that's dealing, right?"

  I nodded.

  "I used to make a stop or two or three at his house back during the war. I
was a pretty regular user of Mary Jane. Even tried some coke and horse but none of it was ever as good as vodka or gin, so I stopped doing it. The way it worked then was that I would call a number when I wanted some of the stuff. They would ask me if I wanted a job and, if I said yes, then I was interested in picking up some of the dope. They would ask, 'How about Monday?' I would reply in the affirmative if I wanted Mary Jane. If I said no, they would ask, 'How about Tuesday.' That was the code for horse. And so on. The rule was that you could only pick up a predetermined quantity and only from a small menu. You following this?"

  I nodded. "Sure. How did you get connected in the first place?"

  "Someone who was in the know gave me a business card. It had a phone number and that was it. I don't remember who gave me the card in the first place. The number was Baldwin 2602. That I do remember, although I doubt that's what it still is."

  He dropped his cigarette on the ground. Taking out another, he grinned. "Hit me one more time, Mr. Williams."

  I nodded and lit his cigarette. He flirted again. I didn't think I would ever tire of him doing so.

  He then said, "How's it going over there, Mr. Jones?"

  Carter replied, "Just about done. I'm tightening the nuts."

  Mr. Flynn laughed at the obvious joke. "Good one. You're mighty handy to have around. If I were a millionaire still, I might hire you."

  Carter replied, "I'm not for hire, Mr. Flynn, but thanks for the offer."

  I looked up at the actor as Carter said that with an edge in his voice. A weary expression passed over Mr. Flynn's face. He looked tired and sad, all of a sudden. I wondered, as I had when watching him on the screen, what sort of demons were taunting him. He took the flask out, drained its contents, and then tossed it over his head with a grin. I could hear it land on some rocks on the side of the hill down below.

  "Now, let's see. What else did I wanna tell you about Juan Zane?" He put his finger to his lips and thought for a moment. "Oh yes, I punched him out when he tried to grab for my dick the first time I met him. He wasn't subtle. I've known quite a few queers in my time and, apart from the two of you, he was the most obvious and the most blatant about it."

  I tried to decide whether to be angry about what he'd just said. I couldn't make up my mind so, instead, I asked, "How are we different?"

  He grinned and puffed on his cigarette. "You two just don't give a damn. It's what I like about you. And I'm not the only one. Hell, if I was bent like that lighter of yours, I'd be taking you home right now and I'd be in like Flynn, if you don't mind that terrible joke." He winked at me.

  Carter was up in a flash and standing right next to the actor. "I'm all done with the tire, Mr. Flynn. I'll put the flat in the trunk and then you can be on your way."

  I looked over at Carter. He was obviously angry. I couldn't blame him but I felt sorry for Mr. Flynn. Life had obviously not been kind to him. He looked battered and bruised.

  As Carter loaded up the trunk, I asked, "What made you stop going to get the stuff at Juan Zane's?"

  He shrugged. "I just didn't like the high. That was all. Booze is a hell of a lot better. For me, anyway. Takes the edges off. Makes me feel more myself."

  Carter slammed the trunk of the car closed and walked back over. A car zoomed past as he did. Carter offered his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Flynn."

  The actor shook in return and said, "No, it wasn't. I teased your boyfriend and then made fun of both of you all while you were doing something I don't have the ability to do for myself anymore. It wasn't very nice at all." The weary expression was back.

  I said, "Thanks for the information about Juan Zane. That'll help us."

  Mr. Flynn offered his hand to me and I shook. He said, "It was the least I could do. I know your pal is innocent. So does everyone in this town, including the D.A. I hope you find the real killer. And I hope you'll forgive me for being such an ass." He looked around for a moment. "Lots of bad memories up here. Maybe that's why." He looked at me and then up at Carter. "Or, it could just be that I'm a blithering ass."

  With that, he opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel. "Be good, boys," were his last words as he started up the engine. We walked over to the other side of the road. As he drove off, he honked his horn once, waved out the window, and was gone.

  . . .

  We found Coldwater Canyon Road about half a mile from where we'd stopped to help Errol Flynn. As we drove down the steep and narrow road, I asked Carter, "Are you disappointed?"

  He sighed and said, "A little. He's obviously had a hard life. You know he's only ten years older than me, right?"

  "He looks like he's pushing 60."

  "But while I was working on the tire and listening to the two of you talk, I was also thinking about some other things, too."

  I laughed. "I knew it. When you told us to keep talking, I knew that's what you were doing."

  Carter laughed and said, "I was thinking of the two of you, him as Robin Hood—"

  "I am not Maid Marian."

  "No, son. I was thinking of you more as just one of the merry band who was a little bit more interested in bow and arrow practice and kept asking Robin for lessons. Particularly after a meal by the campfire."

  "Carter Woodrow Wilson Jones! What a dirty mind you've got there."

  "You say it like it's a bad thing."

  I looked over at him. "Not at all. How about you tell me one of those stories tonight?"

  Carter glanced at me quickly with a grin. "I might just do that. Where to now?"

  "First to get another copy of Thomas Brothers."

  "Check."

  "Then back to the house where one of us has to wait by the phone for Juan Zane to call."

  Carter nodded. "And you have to call Mike."

  I nodded. "I know. He's gonna chew me out for making another hire."

  "Maybe not. You saw an opening. It's your company—"

  "Our company."

  Carter nodded. "Yes, our company. There was an opening. You took it. And, you're gonna have to manage the team unless Mike plans on coming down here."

  I looked out the window at the passing hillside. "Sure."

  "Why do you want Tom to come back tonight? What work are we going to do?"

  "We need to go track down some of those other places that William was frequenting. But I think we'll need Micky and Tom, both. And it would help to have Greg."

  "What is this, a full-out assault?"

  "Nope. Just wanna spread out. It's Wednesday night. I wanna see what these places are like on a weeknight."

  "Where do you think he was going?"

  "Run-down nightclubs, is my thought. The kind of places that might have once been speakeasies." I stopped and thought about it. "Hell, I don't really know. Nothing down here makes much sense to me. It's strange to me that people run out to the beach in the middle of the night. No one in San Francisco, no matter how strung out they were, would do that."

  "No, they'd go to Golden Gate Park or down by the piers."

  "Or just anywhere in North Beach."

  "Maybe that's the thing. This place is too pure."

  I snorted. "Hardly. It's that the vice is hidden too well. Did you hear that whole cockamamie story about calling a fake agency?"

  "I thought that was clever."

  "Oh sure. But, again, if we were at home, it would be so much easier. You just walk through the Tenderloin or North Beach and you'll find whatever you want. I like a town that promotes its vices."

  "Ain't that kinda perverse?" asked Carter in a mock-serious tone.

  "Sure. Put the perversion out for everyone to see. Then you know who and what you're dealing with. A lot less corruption that way."

  "You think so?"

  "Yeah. I do."

  Chapter 23

  717 North Cañon Drive

  Beverly Hills, Cal.

  Wednesday, July 13, 1955

  Later that afternoon

  We were both in the pool, splashing around, when the phone rang. I go
t out and grabbed a towel I'd left on the ground. Drying my hands and my face, I walked through the open back door and into the kitchen. I picked up the receiver and said, "Yeah?"

  A very correct English voice said, "Good afternoon. May I speak with Mr. Nicholas Williams?"

  "Speaking. Who's this?"

  "My name is Humphries. I work for Mr. Rogers. Or, as you may know him, Juan Zane." The way he pronounced Juan was odd. Instead of saying, "wan," he said something more like, "who-on."

  "Mr. Rogers has asked me to invite you to join him for tea at half past 4 today. May I tell him that you will be attending?"

  "Sure. What's the dress code?"

  "Presentable but comfortable will be fine, Mr. Williams. Do you have the address?"

  "630 North Linden."

  "That is correct. Goodbye, Mr. Williams."

  I put the receiver on the hook and looked at the clock on the wall. It said half past 3. I walked outside and stood on the small landing by the door, drying off with the towel as I did, and said, "Tea is at half past 4. Come on, Chief."

  Carter jumped out of the pool in his Speedo bathing trunks. I stood there and enjoyed the sight of his approach.

  . . .

  "No, Carter. You have to let me do this alone. I doubt there will be mayhem. And I doubt he'll grab me like he did Errol Flynn."

  Carter huffed behind the wheel. "I don't like it."

  "You just stay in the car. I'm only going to be thirty minutes, tops."

  He shook his head. "I don't like it. But, fine. OK."

  I put my hand on his thigh and said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  We were parked at the curb along Linden in front of the house just south of Juan Zane's. As I walked up to the front door, I took in the place. It had obviously been built in the 20s. It was dark wood and stucco with black iron accents everywhere. The yard was immaculate and very clean with small rose bushes lining the front of the house. I pressed the button and could hear a bell ring.

  After a moment, the door opened. A nondescript man of about 60 stood in the doorway and asked, "Mr. Williams?"