The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I rubbed the back of his head and said, "It's OK."

  He sighed. "No, it's not OK. It's not right. It's not fair."

  I nodded and said, "No, it's not fair. But it's the hand we were dealt. And we're much more lucky than most, thanks to Uncle Paul." He was my father's uncle, in truth. And he'd been one of us. And he'd left me half his fortune when he died. That was where the trust came from.

  Carter said, "I know. And all of this high flying is fine for what it is. But it seems like we could do more."

  "Do more what?"

  "I don't know. More. I don't know what we could do."

  I sighed. "Me neither."

  "Well, the N.A.A.C.P. got the schools integrated last year."

  "Of all people, Carter, you know that's just on paper. Can you imagine your school in Albany ever being integrated?"

  He sighed. "No. But I never thought they could win a case like that, either."

  "Maybe some day we'll be able to fight back. But right now, we do what we can. Thanks to Kenneth, there's a whole lot of men and women who haven't been pleading guilty when the cops raid the bars."

  "I know. And that's really thanks to you."

  "And you. Half of everything is yours."

  He burst into tears again. I was confused. I wondered what was really going on. I held him and let him cry. And, much to my surprise, he cried himself to sleep pretty quickly. I couldn't remember the last time Carter had burst into tears. That was usually me. And I'd never seen him cry himself to sleep.

  As we lay there and he started to lightly snore, I wondered if maybe he was having a kind of shell shock reaction to Howie having overdosed. It was the only connection I could make. I figured that, like my breaking the mirror on the Friday before, that the tension would be looking for ways to get out. That was how shell shock seemed to work. And we'd both had enough for a lifetime, or so it seemed to me, since January. We'd almost been all the way around the world. We'd had to jump at a moment's notice more times that I could count. All of that was stressful, to say the least.

  I also remembered that Carter's mother was getting married. That had to be in the mix, somehow. That part of his life had changed dramatically since his father had been murdered two years earlier. And even though he liked Ed, it still had to be a strange thing, at the very least, to be thinking about. In the same way that it had taken me a while to get used to my father being a moderately happy and somewhat kind human being, it was taking Carter a while to get used to his mother doing the same.

  And, for reasons that didn't make sense to me, I thought about the swimming pool. When we were in the pool, I noticed how it relaxed both of us more than anything else, even beyond the things we did in and around the bed. It was different to be in a pool behind your own house as opposed to being in one at a hotel, like in Ensenada. I couldn't figure out why that was connected. But I knew it was, somehow.

  Chapter 33

  14301 Deseo Drive

  Friday, July 15, 1955

  Just past dawn

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Howie standing in the bedroom at the foot of the bed. He put his right finger over his lips and then left the room, waving his hand in a way that looked like he wanted me to follow him. I slipped out of bed, hoping not to wake Carter, and pulled on my trousers from the day before.

  As I walked into the living room, Howie was sitting on the sofa. In a whisper, he said, "Sorry. I didn't want to wake up Carter."

  I nodded, feeling a little perturbed. "Why did you want to wake me up?"

  He patted the space next to him on the sofa. I folded my arms and stood where I was. He nodded, as if realizing I was annoyed with him. "I wanted to tell you the truth about those pills but I didn't want anyone else to hear about it. You're the only one who wasn't chastising me last night. I hate to be chastised."

  I nodded and waited.

  "There's a group of us at school who get the pills from a phone number we call."

  "Baldwin 2602."

  His eyes widened. "How'd you know?"

  "Doesn't matter. Tell me how it works."

  "I don't have a phone in my apartment so I use the one in the room where the SWAC is installed. My job is to get the black ones. Those are the one that keep you up." He was still whispering and I was having a hard time hearing him, so I relented and sat next to him on the sofa.

  "So you don't really have insomnia?"

  He shrugged. "I might now. But, I didn't before I started taking the pills. I've tried to time when I take them so they wouldn't keep me awake because I don't like to take the pink ones. And after yesterday, I'm not gonna take any of them."

  "There were more than just black and pink ones in that jar."

  He nodded. "They're all uppers and downers. One of them helps you think really clearly but it doesn't keep you awake. They're blue. The black ones are like that but they also keep you up. The yellow ones—"

  I didn't feel like going through the rainbow of pills, so I interrupted and asked, "How does it work?"

  He looked contrite and nodded. "When I need the black ones, I call and say that I'm looking for work. They always ask if I want to start on Monday. That's for pot. You know. 'M' for marijuana. I say that I'm looking for any day that might be better. I think it's 'B' for 'better' or maybe 'BB' for 'be better'. One time I said, 'do you have a day that's better' and the lady said, 'no', which no one had ever said before. Then I remembered the script and said, 'How about a day that might be better?' She answered, 'We'll call you back and let you know when.' She hung up. I got a call back about three hours later and a different lady asked, 'Are you looking for work?' The code was to say 'yes' if I was ready to buy and 'no' if not. On that day, I said, 'yes,' so she gave me a date, time, and an address."

  "Was it always the same address?"

  He shook his head. "It's never been the same address twice. And it's always a little old lady. Sometimes they offer me lemonade or cookies or a Coke. That part is always weird."

  "What do they give you?"

  "A small package wrapped in brown paper."

  "Can you tell that it's pills?"

  He shook his head. "No. The pills are in little sleeves that are packaged in cotton."

  "How does the little old lady know which one is yours?"

  "The date and time is marked on the outside in pencil."

  "Do you know if the writing on the brown paper package is the same person?"

  Howie shook his head. "I don't think so. Sometimes the writing is so shaky that it's hard to read."

  "So the little old lady is writing it out herself." That was less of a question and more of a statement.

  "That's what I thought."

  "Do you have any idea how these gals get roped into doing this?"

  Howie smiled. "Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact. I asked one of them about a year ago. She invited me in for oatmeal cookies and coffee. Her house was in Silver Lake, 2416 Berkeley, which was a long way for me to go but I didn't care." His voice was beginning to croak.

  "Do you need some water?"

  "I need some coffee."

  I nodded and stood. "So do I. I'll put on some clothes and then we can drive down to Sherman Oaks and find a place to get some."

  Howie smiled. "We'll have to bring some back for everyone else."

  Chapter 34

  Mayfair Diner

  14142 Ventura Boulevard

  Friday, July 15, 1955

  Half past 6 in the morning

  We found a little diner on Ventura Boulevard, not far from where Beverly Glen ended. Taking a table in the back, I watched as a waitress walked up.

  "What'll it be, fellas?" As she talked, she was chewing and popping her gum.

  We'd already turned over our coffee cups so she filled them both. I replied, "Coffee for now. But I have a big order that I want to take out."

  She grinned and said, "That's fine. Give the cook about ten minutes notice. Just wave me down when you're ready."

  "Thanks," I said a
s she turned and walked back to the counter.

  Howie took a long sip of his coffee. He opened his mouth and tried talking in a normal voice. "How's this?"

  I shook my head. He still sounded like a frog. "Maybe we should get you a hot water with lemon or something like that."

  He nodded. Whispering, he said, "Sounds good."

  I looked for the waitress. She was talking to a customer at the counter. I waved my hand. She nodded at me. Looking back at Howie, I asked, "So what did she tell you?"

  "That she'd answered an ad in the Times."

  The waitress appeared right then, pencil in hand and poised over her pad. "Ready for that to-go?"

  I shook my head. "Can my friend get a cup of hot water with lemon?"

  She narrowed her eyes at me. "Say, are you two really gonna order? We got the breakfast rush coming and I—"

  I put a folded five in her hand and said, "Here's your tip in advance. Can we get some hot water with lemon?"

  She looked at the five and grinned. "Sure. You can have hot water and lemon all day, as far as I'm concerned." With that, she walked off.

  Howie smiled at me. "Does that always work?"

  I shook my head. "Not always. Did she tell you what the ad said?"

  He thought for a moment. "She showed it to me." He blinked a couple of times. "Make money at home. No experience needed. Mature ladies preferred. Call Crestview 7-3752."

  "How did you remember that?"

  He put his finger to his temple and tapped. "Photographic memory."

  I nodded. "Impressive."

  He shrugged.

  The waitress arrived with his water and a dish of lemons. "There you go."

  I looked up. "Thanks. Can you come back in five minutes? We'll be ready for that order."

  She smiled in return. "Sure thing."

  As she walked away, Howie said, "You gave her the biggest tip she's ever gotten."

  I shook my head. "Probably not. You can't see the way she's walking."

  "Swing in the hip?" he asked with a grin as he squeezed a couple of lemon wedges into the water.

  "Yeah," I replied. "What else did she say?"

  "She called the number. A very nice young man answered. Never gave his name. Just told her that she would start receiving bundled packages in the mail. Each package would have a number. There would be an envelope in the bundle with a dollar bill for every package in the bundle along with a list. That she needed—" He coughed.

  "Slow down," I suggested.

  He nodded and took a long sip of the water. After a moment, he continued, but still in a whisper. "That she needed to go buy a large amount of wrapping paper and cellophane tape. That she would wrap each package in the bundle in the plain brown paper and to do so securely. That, using the list in the envelope, she would need to put the correct date and time on the package. That she would need to be home at those dates and times. That both men and women would be calling on her to pick up their packages. That they would be giving her money. That she should keep all the money she received in a week and then mail it to the post office box, Box 187, Los Angeles 17."

  I held up my hand. "Where is zone 17?"

  "Downtown."

  I nodded.

  He grinned and continued, rattling off what he remembered like he was shooting a machine gun. "That she should call a number, Dunkirk 2-4332, to report in. That they were very busy and so she shouldn't try to chat. Just call in and give her address, the date and time of the package, and then hang up. That if anyone who came for a pick-up was rude or disrespectful to her, that she should just smile at them, give them the package, and then call in and add the phrase, 'bad apple.'" He grinned and took another long sip of his water. "She thought they were very courteous, giving her a number to call that was, more or less, local. And trusting her with all the money. She showed me that week's envelope. There was a hundred and twenty."

  I nodded. "About that. How did you know how much to give her?"

  "When they called, they always gave me a number. It was always ten. I've never paid anything but ten." That matched what I'd been told the day before.

  "Were they all tens in the envelope?"

  He shook his head. "There were some fives. But an even number." He blinked his eyes a couple of times. "There were six fives. And nine tens."

  His memory was amazing.

  The waitress walked up. "Ready to put in that order?"

  I nodded. "I've got eight men to feed."

  "Construction site?" she asked.

  "Something like that. Can you ask the cook to make enough scrambled eggs and toast for that many?"

  She wrote on her pad. "Sure. What about bacon? Ham?"

  "Four ham steaks. Six orders of crispy bacon and two orders of chewy bacon."

  She nodded as she wrote. After repeating that back, she asked, "How about hash-browns?"

  "Sure. Enough for eight."

  "OK, mister. That'll take about fifteen minutes to put together."

  "Fine. You have a phone?"

  Using her pencil, she pointed to the back. "Phone booth is by the ladies."

  "Thanks."

  "No problem." With that, she walked away.

  Howie turned to watch her. "Oh, yeah. I see what you mean."

  . . .

  Once I'd called the house and let Carter know that breakfast was on the way, I walked back over to the booth and slid in.

  "Did you happen to ask her about keeping so much money at the house?"

  He shook his head. "Nah. I could see the scam right away. Old ladies would be easy to muscle in on. Whoever was organizing things wasn't taking much of a risk. But she showed me her supplies. She had a set of large envelopes that she used for mailing the cash to the post office box. She'd even bought a scale so she could put the right postage and drop it in the box at her post office. She didn't wanna use the counter." His voice was coming back to life.

  "Didn't wanna use the counter?"

  He nodded and grinned. "I think she knew exactly what was in those packages she was getting and she knew that mailing a lot of cash would generate suspicion. The more we talked, the more obvious it was that she had figured out the scheme."

  "That was a year ago?"

  "More or less. It was Monday, August 9th, at 2 p.m."

  "Did you ever go back to that address again?"

  He shook his head. He blinked a couple of times. "But I just remembered something. In March, I saw an obituary in the Times for a woman at that address." He blinked again. "Mrs. Rose Ellen Cabral of 2416 Berkeley, Los Angeles. Born on January 5th in 1884 in New Bedford, Mass. Died on March 4th as a result of a hit-and-run accident on Alvarado Street. Memorial mass to be said at Our Lady of Loretto, 301 North Belmont Ave. Monday, March 8th at 2 p.m."

  "How do you do that?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. I just do."

  I nodded and thought for a moment. "What do you think happened to her?"

  Howie looked down at his empty cup. "I think maybe she told the wrong person all about how it worked."

  Chapter 35

  14301 Deseo Drive

  Friday, July 15, 1955

  A quarter until 8 in the morning

  By the time we sat down to eat breakfast at a quarter to 8, the eggs were cold and rubbery. They reminded me of the ones we ate in the Navy. But the chewy bacon was good.

  Tom arrived about the time we sat down to eat. As we ate, I brought everyone up to speed on what Howie had told me. We were in the middle of Tom and Benjamin asking Howie a lot of questions about his photographic memory when the doorbell rang. I looked at my watch. It was 8 on the dot. I stood and said, "It's the housekeeper."

  When I opened the door, I was surprised to see a man standing on the front porch. He stood about 5'7", had very short dark hair and a trim mustache, and was dressed in a morning suit. It was similar to the one that Gustav wore. I pegged the man at about 50.

  He bowed and said, "I am Oscar. I am housekeeper."

  I offered my hand, which he
shook, and said, "Welcome, Oscar. I'm Nick Williams. Come in."

  He stepped in and looked around. "This house very beautiful."

  I nodded. "Where are you from, Oscar?"

  "From Prague."

  I grinned. "Really?"

  He nodded. "You know it?"

  I shook my head. "No, but the kids who work for us in San Francisco are from Czechoslovakia."

  He grinned. It was a nice grin. "Very good. Shall I get to work?"

  I nodded. "Do you want a tour of the house?"

  "No. That is good. How many here?"

  "Well, right now, we have—" I suddenly stopped as I wondered about something.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  "Do you know who I am?"

  He nodded. "Oh yes. In the papers many times. Yes." He blushed slightly. That was all I needed to know.

  "Good. So, we have some friends staying here for a few days. I don't know how long we'll be here."

  "You are renting?"

  I didn't want to confuse things, so I just said, "Yes. But for at least a year."

  "If you like me, I can keep ear on things here for you."

  I laughed. "Sure. And if you like us."

  He blushed again. "Oh yes. Of course." He looked at the living room. "Very empty the shelves."

  I nodded. "We just moved in yesterday."

  "Yes. Where is kitchen? This is heart of house."

  I walked down the steps into the living room. "Follow me."

  As we came around into the kitchen, everyone looked up from the table. I said, "Gang, this is Oscar. He's our new housekeeper." I looked at Carter. "And he's from Czechoslovakia."

  Carter stood and walked towards the man, who blushed again. Offering his hand, Carter said, "Welcome, Oscar. My name is Carter. And our only rule around here is that we only speak English in the house."