The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I laughed. "You know me better than that. Hell, you know Carter better than that." I thought for a moment. "The problem is that no one seems to be interested in finding out who really killed William. It's Wednesday night already and the trial starts on Monday."

  "Trial?"

  "Yeah. You didn't hear? Gilbraith waived a preliminary hearing. It had to do with who was on the calendar. The asshole arraignment judge would have been the one who would have presided over the hearing. This way there was a friendlier judge. Besides, Gilbraith was depending on us to find out who did it before the trial even started."

  "What do you have?"

  "Bits and pieces. And Ben White crying and screaming at me on the phone, poor guy."

  Kenneth sighed. "OK, we'll both come down."

  "Tonight? You can stay in our second bedroom."

  "Second bedroom? How big are the suites at the Beverly Hills Hotel?"

  "Oh, right. I forgot to tell you. I bought a house."

  "Jesus, Nick. I'm your goddam lawyer. I should have looked at—"

  "I've been yelled at once tonight. Can you wait and yell at me after the trial is over."

  Kenneth sighed. "Sure. Where is the house?"

  "Beverly Hills. I bought it so we would be able to claim that we were just out for a walk if the police stopped us."

  "Good God."

  "Yeah." I wasn't sure if he was talking about the need to do that or the fact that I'd dropped a hundred grand to buy a house for that right. Of course, he had no idea how much I'd spent. And I didn't much care myself.

  . . .

  We were all three standing on the front porch when a dark blue '53 Ford Customline pulled into the driveway. The driver sat in the car for a long moment before killing the ignition and getting out. Even in the light of the nearby street lamp, the man who walked up to the front looked like he was annoyed. He stood about 5'9", was a little thick through the middle, and had thick black hair that needed a cut. I pegged him at about 45 or so. He was wearing a dark suit with a green tie that looked like a bad match.

  "Are you the fella who called this in?" He asked Carter that question.

  I said, "I did. Name is Nick Williams." Pointing, I said, "This is Carter Jones. And this is Tom Ruggles." I pulled out my wallet and offered him my license. "I'm a private investigator from San Francisco. As is Mr. Jones. Mr. Ruggles is a friend who is helping us find our way around L.A. Mr. Gilbraith is the man who's inside. This is his house. He's a lawyer I've been working with on a murder case."

  The man looked at my license, handed it back, and then pulled out a package of Camels. He lit one up. Once he'd inhaled, he asked, "Have any of you been inside?"

  I shook my head. Carter did the same. Tom replied, "I have. But it was a few years ago. And before Mr. Gilbraith lived here."

  The detective smiled wanly. "Small world."

  None of us replied.

  He walked up the steps and, using his handkerchief, pulled the screen door open. He then tried the front door. It was unlocked and opened right up.

  "Stay out here."

  We did as he asked. While he was inside, I asked Tom, "Why were you here?"

  "It was for a kind of going away party. Back in '53. The guy who lived here, his name was Andy if I remember right, had fallen in love and was moving somewhere." He shook his head and took out his Pall Malls.

  As he lit one up, Carter asked, "Was he from Georgia?"

  Tom took in a drag and nodded slowly. "Sure. Could have been. He had a little bit of an accent."

  Carter and I both laughed. I asked, "Was he moving to San Francisco?"

  Tom nodded. "Sure. That's it. He'd been in—"

  "D.C.," I said.

  "Yeah. He met someone there—" Tom suddenly stopped. He pointed at me. "Was that you he was gonna go work for?"

  I nodded. "He's a co-worker of yours and he grew up with Carter."

  Tom nodded and took a puff.

  Carter said, "Small world."

  Tom smiled. "Not really. I was—"

  The screen door pushed open right then and the detective came out. He pulled the front door closed and the screen door banged shut behind him.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  Before he could answer a black-and-white patrol car pulled up in front of the house and parked at the curb. As the two officers got out, I looked at the detective. He was still just as annoyed, if not more so. He took my arm and pulled me over to the side. It was less of a pull and more of a yank.

  In a very tense, very angry tone, he whispered, "That guy prolly died two days ago. You said he was the lawyer in a murder case?"

  I nodded.

  "Wouldn't be for Carlo Martinelli, by any chance?"

  I nodded a second time.

  "You're that faggotty P.I. who's always in the papers, right?"

  I nodded a third time. His breath reeked of booze. It was probably gin.

  He tightened his grip on my arm. "Then, let me tell you this, my fine queer friend, you get the hell out of my jurisdiction and stay out and don't bring your faggotty self or your friends back around here, do you hear me?

  I pulled my arm away just as the two officers stepped up on the porch.

  "There a problem here, Lieutenant?"

  He turned on them and said, "Just fuckin' go in there and do your goddam jobs. Where the hell have you two nutsacks been, anyways? You shoulda been here ten minutes ago!"

  They both quickly walked into the house, slamming the front door closed as the screen door banged shut. At that noise, which sounded like a gunshot, a dog started barking a couple of houses down which started a second dog a little further away.

  I stood and waited for the detective to turn back around. When he did, I very calmly asked, "Was it murder or natural causes?"

  In the light from the lamp on in the window next to us, I could see his face turn red. He screamed right in my face, spittle flying in all directions. "Get the hell outta here, you goddam queers!" His voice echoed throughout the neighborhood. A third dog decided to get in on the action and began to howl.

  Chapter 26

  Lockheed Air Terminal

  Burbank, Cal.

  Thursday, July 14, 1955

  A few minutes before 2 in the morning

  Tom was snoozing in the backseat of the Mercedes as Carter and I both sipped from hot coffee that we'd picked up on our way to the airport in Burbank. We were waiting on the tarmac, watching as a DC-3 landed.

  "That's gotta be them," I said.

  "That has to be the third one in fifteen minutes. I didn't know there were that many DC-3s flying around still."

  I laughed. "I didn't think Kenneth would take me seriously about coming down tonight. I hope Robert isn't too upset about having to arrange things."

  Carter nodded. "And what about the flight crew?"

  I sighed. "Yeah. The important thing is that we're making some headway on this case. I feel better now that Kenneth and Benjamin are both on the job."

  The DC-3 circled around and parked about fifty feet from where we were sitting. The engines switched off and the back door open. A stewardess I didn't recognize put out the steps. Since the DC-3 came to rest at an angle, with the door just above the tarmac, the steps weren't much more than a stool.

  We both got out of the car and walked towards the plane. Right then, Kenneth and Benjamin walked up. I offered my hand to Kenneth. "Counselor."

  He shook it with a tired grin. "We're here. Nice little rustbucket you got yourself there."

  "It came like that." The plane was a custom remodel with leather benches and a deep pile carpet.

  Kenneth looked over my shoulder. "What the hell is that thing?"

  Carter laughed. "That's my new car. It's a Mercedes-Benz."

  Benjamin said, "Nice."

  I nodded. "Yeah and that's the one he's borrowing from the dealer. He smashed the first one up already."

  Kenneth looked like he was practically sleeping on his feet. "That's all fine, and everything, bu
t I'm ready to hit the hay."

  . . .

  We managed to squeeze into the Mercedes. I put the two muscle heads in the front while I sat behind Carter and next to Kenneth. Benjamin was behind Tom. It was roomier than I thought it would be but it was still a tight squeeze.

  As we drove through the San Fernando Valley and then over the hills and down Coldwater Canyon Road, I brought the two lawyers up to date on what we knew in the case. As Carter pulled into the driveway of our house, I could see Howie splashing around in the pool.

  "That kid again," growled Carter under his breath.

  "Give him a break," said Tom as we were all piling out. "He may be skinny but he's kinda cute."

  I laughed as I walked into the backyard and said, "Howie, we have house guests."

  He lifted himself up out of the water, buck naked, and quickly wrapped himself in a long striped towel that looked suspiciously like the ones that the Beverly Hills Hotel kept poolside for their guests. I introduced everyone.

  Howie looked at me and asked, "What about Walter?" He was using his juvenile, "Gee, mister," voice again.

  I said, "He's coming down on Friday, I think."

  Kenneth said, "That's what Robert said when I talked to him. Something about two brainiacs in love. I didn't really understand what he meant."

  "Two brainiacs?" asked Howie, dripping in the dark and looking very seductive.

  Benjamin, who was able to see where things were going, said, "I'm tired, Kenneth. How about you?" Without waiting for a reply, Benjamin guided Kenneth by the neck and led him into the house. Carter and Tom followed suit.

  Howie grinned at me and said, "Gee, Mr. Williams. Has anyone ever told you how handsome you look at night?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Cut the crap, kid."

  Howie grinned and laughed. "Sure, thing, Nick. Well, have they?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. Not really."

  Howie swaggered up to me and got close in. "Let me be the first." Before I could say anything, he kissed me quickly on the lips, then turned tail and ran up the steps, hollering, "G'night, Mr. Williams!"

  I turned around and bumped right into Carter. He quietly growled, "That kid." He leaned down, held my chin in his left hand, and kissed me lingeringly on my lips. I loved every moment of it, as I always did.

  Chapter 27

  717 North Cañon Drive

  Beverly Hills, Cal.

  Thursday, July 14, 1955

  Half past 7 in the morning

  The sound of people talking in the kitchen and the smell of coffee woke me up. I wasn't finished sleeping but I was awake. I slipped out of bed, hoping not to disturb Carter. I pulled on my trousers from earlier that morning and made my way to the bathroom. After I was done there, I popped into the kitchen to see what was happening.

  "See!" That was Howie. He was cooking breakfast and, apparently, entertaining Kenneth and Benjamin, along with Tom, who'd slept on the couch. They all turned to look at me.

  "I can't tell if he's more handsome in the daylight, with his hair all scruffy, or at night. What do you think, Mr. Ross?"

  Benjamin laughed and had a drink of his coffee. "I think someone is asking for a spanking."

  Howie giggled. "Oh, you think so?"

  Kenneth said, "Look, kid, I'm exhausted. Either make us breakfast or let me in there and I'll do it."

  I said, "Mornin' all."

  Tom stood and stretched. He wasn't wearing a shirt either and his broad chest was impressive. He was ruddy and freckled all over. He pushed by me. "'Scuse me while I freshen up." As he walked by, I could feel the heat coming off his body.

  After he left, Howie said, "He's big. Not as big as Mr. Jones, but still."

  "You sound impressed," said Benjamin.

  Howie began to crack eggs into a big red mixing bowl. I walked over and started helping him.

  Howie said, "Not impressed. Way too big for me. I like the kind you can throw around. And, for me, I'm too small for most guys. But then I hear tale of one who's just a wee mite and who's also smart and I'm already in love." He sighed. "Walter. Even the name is like a song."

  We all laughed.

  Howie said, "Can I leave you with the eggs while I finish up this bacon?"

  "Sure. Do you have any that's chewy for Carter and me?"

  "Of course. Mrs. Jones told me all about it."

  Kenneth asked, "You've met Carter's mother?"

  Howie said, "She's a fine lady. I wish my mother was like her."

  I explained the story of the gala and who had come down and what had happened. When I got to the part about Hedda Hopper running out of the room, Benjamin said, "Oh boy! I wish I woulda been there. And that does explain something I saw in the 'J.K., Hollywood' column the next morning about Hedda on the run. I had no idea what it meant but now I get it."

  I asked, "Do you read Hedda's column?"

  Kenneth said, "He reads 'em all. Louella, Hedda, Winchell. That J.K., whoever he or she is."

  I said, "We met J.K. at the Brown Derby."

  "You met J.K.?" That was Benjamin, almost breathless.

  "Sure did. He was with Rock Hudson."

  "He was with Rock?" More Benjamin, more breathless.

  I laughed. "Yeah."

  "But Rock and Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean are all in Texas."

  I turned and looked at him. "So Hedda didn't mention anything about them being in town over the weekend? They came just for the big shindig at the Ambassador."

  Ben shook his head. "No. Her column yesterday morning was about some sort of scandal on Broadway. I don't follow that stuff so I just skimmed over it. Louella made fun of—" Benjamin stopped.

  I looked over at him. "What?"

  "Now I get it. In her column, she mentioned a star-studded event and the 'darling little speech given by the queen of the ball'." He looked at me with a worried expression. "That's you she's talking about, isn't it?"

  I shrugged and cracked the last egg open. "For a Hearst column, that's not too bad. She almost sounds like she might have liked it."

  I heard Carter say, "It was a damn fine speech. She should have liked it."

  He walked over and kissed me on the forehead. He was wearing his Speedo trunks and it was quite the sight.

  Kenneth said, "I hope that's not what you're wearing later on."

  Ben added, "Well, I for one would appreciate something like that in a courtroom. I think it would make life a little less dull."

  I started mixing the eggs together with a wooden spoon. "You two need to mind your manners." Turning to Carter, I asked, "Going for a swim?"

  "Yeah. You should join me."

  "Well, I'm—"

  Carter said, "Howie?"

  In a kind of radio comic voice, he replied, "Yes, Mr. Jones?"

  "You're in charge of breakfast."

  He mock saluted. "Yes, sir, Mr. Jones."

  "And don't forget the chewy bacon."

  "No, sir, Mr. Jones."

  We all laughed as I handed Howie the wooden spoon and went to go change into my swim trunks.

  . . .

  "I think we need a pool back home." That was Carter. We were floating around in the deep end.

  "We'd have to buy the building behind us and raze it. Then we'd have to put it in a hothouse. There's no way I'd be swimming outside on a day when it's foggy and 55."

  Carter laughed and splashed me with his hand. "Well, why don't you?"

  I splashed him back. "Don't you think we've spent enough money lately?"

  He splashed me again. "How much was this place?"

  "A hundred grand, more or less."

  He whistled and moved toward me. "OK. And how much was that jet airplane you told Robert to buy?"

  "Twice that."

  "Yeah but that'll pay for itself. And it's not taxable, right?"

  "Sure." I really had no idea about taxes but that sounded vaguely right. "It'll definitely pay for itself. I don't think anyone else privately owns a jet airplane. Yet."

  Carter put his arms
around me. The water right there was too deep for me to stand so I had to let him hold me up since I couldn't dog paddle in his arms. I rested my arms on his and relaxed. He kissed my neck. "Yeah. Let's don't build a pool at home. If we want to swim, we can come here."

  I rolled my head back as he moved his lips around my neck. "Or we can go to your house on Kauai."

  Carter kissed my forehead. "You know what, son?"

  "What's that?" I asked as he gently bit my ear.

  "There are some days when I wish we were back on Hartford Street and still had that one Buick Super and I took the streetcar to work."

  "Me too." The water was beginning to feel cold, for some reason.

  "But then I remember everything that's happened since your sister died."

  I nodded. "Yeah. If only I'd just kept my mouth shut and not said anything to George Hearst."

  Carter pulled me in tight. His body was warm and it felt good. "I guess we would be living a much quieter life. I'd still be working at the firehouse."

  "No."

  "What?"

  "No. I'm glad you got fired."

  He pushed back and looked at me. "You are?"

  I nodded. "I am. It's hell being apart from you for that long."

  Carter smiled. "It's hell sleeping in a room with twenty guys who really could use a shower."

  I laughed. "I guess we'll never know what it would have been like."

  "Oh, I know." He very gently put his finger against my lip.

  "What?"

  He looked at me very seriously. His eyes started turning red.

  "What is it, Carter?"

  He swallowed. "I know we said we weren't gonna talk about this again."

  I braced for what he was about to say. "What?"

  He swallowed and he said, "You'd be dead."

  I blinked a couple of times and tried to figure out what he meant. "How so?" My voice sounded so small as it came out of my mouth. I wanted to know, but then again I didn't.

  "Ricky's photos went all the way back to 1945. There was one of you and Mack crossing the street and holding hands. Remember?" The tears started streaming down his face.

  "Yeah. I remember." He was talking about a room we'd come across back in March. It was in an old building where I'd hidden out with some friends from school back in '39. One of those friends, Ricky, had secretly been in love with me and I'd had no idea. He'd become a killer, trained by the Mafia in Sicily after it was liberated. And he'd been watching me ever since I'd gotten home from the war. That room had thousands of photographs of me plastered over the walls and ceiling. Ricky was crazy. And he was dead. He was shot by Sam Halversen, one of our friends who worked for us.