As I drove down Castro, very slowly behind a truck that couldn't seem to shift up out of first gear, I watched the neighborhood ladies doing their morning shopping. First it was the supermarket then it was either the fish and poultry man or the butcher. Maybe a stop at the bakery for some delectables to be served at afternoon mahjong or the local women's auxiliary of whatever fraternal organization their husbands had pledged. I knew most of these ladies by sight, although we'd never really been introduced. They had their world with their teas, mass, Friday suppers, and such. And I had my world with my husband and his dick in my mouth. The two were not likely to mix.
Besides, I didn't really want all the ladies up and down Hartford, over on Collingwood, and throughout the neighborhood to know that one of the wealthiest men in America, and definitely the wealthiest queer possibly since Alexander the Great, lived among them.
I'm sure they would have been perfectly nice, but I didn't want to have to answer a lot of questions or be hit up for solicitations.
The Williams Beneficial Foundation handled all that for me. It was right up there with the Carnegie Endowment in terms of giving. I got an invitation each year to their annual meeting, which I always politely declined, and received the annual report that followed said meeting, which I usually tossed in the bin.
It seems that Uncle Paul had literally taken all the gold rush money he'd inherited from his father and multiplied it many times over through shrewd investments, some unscrupulous money lending, and a lot of just being in the right place at the right time. He survived all the crashes that had preceded the big one and, from what I was told, had made money on the Depression, as had a few others.
I was thinking about all this when the light turned green at Market and I failed to notice. Fortunately, a kind soul reminded me by laying on their horn.
Ten minutes later, I was crawling up Market Street. I'd managed to cross Van Ness without incident, but then the combination of delivery trucks, slow-moving and overburdened streetcars, and the general mass of automobiles brought everything to a stop.
I checked my watch and realized I was going to be late. Oh ducky.
. . .
I rolled into Jeffery's conference room at 10:15. Robert had a frown on his otherwise pretty face when I walked through the door.
I asked, "That bad?"
"Much worse, Mr. Williams. Much worse."
I could hear the noise all the way out in front. I soldiered on and burst in without bothering to knock.
At the table were, from left to right: Eddie Mannix, asshole extraordinaire, Taylor Wells, glamor guy of the moment, and Jeffery Klein, much put-upon attorney and erstwhile lover of said Taylor Wells.
Eddie was purple and was screaming, "Why can't you two fairies keep it in your pants?"
I said, cheerily, "Morning all!"
Taylor smiled at me weakly. Jeffery looked like he was ready to be boiled in oil, which would have been preferable to what he was experiencing. Mannix turned on me.
"Now we have all the fruits in one room. Great! We have the whole fruit salad."
"Hi Eddie. Good to see you again too."
I sat down across from Taylor and between Jeffery and Mannix.
"What I want to know is when were you gonna tell me about your newest lover boy?" This question was directed at Taylor, who just shrugged.
Jeffery started to speak, but Mannix got there first. "I don't wanna hear nuthin from you. This is a pure conflict of interest. I should fire you right here and now."
I spoke up. "But you won't, Eddie, right? Because it takes a cocksucker to help a cocksucker and that's the problem you have here."
Eddie turned on me and burned. He looked at me hard and quietly said, "We don't need that kind of fixing in this case. This son of a bitch"—he was pointing at Jeffery—"he could queer everything for us." Mannix laughed, alone, at his inadvertent joke. He pulled out a pack of Pall Mall and quickly lit a cigarette. He then pointed it at Jeffery. "Someday your cover is gonna be blown and I'm gonna be very happy to watch you come tumblin' down, you fucking fag."
I stood up, pushed in my chair, and leaned against the wall. I crossed my arms and looked at Mannix. "Then why are you here, Eddie? Why don't you just fire Jeffery, and me, and do us all a big favor?"
Eddie looked up at me with hatred in his eyes. "Because you're all I've got right now." He spoke slow and steady. I knew he had a heart condition and was hoping he'd brought his pills because he was about to need them.
I nodded, still smiling, and started in on the only thing that would shut Mannix up: a steamroll. "So you do need Jeffery and me, doncha? Like I said before, you need one to handle one. We may be queer but Jeffery knows his way around the odd thing known as the justice system in this town. And you benefit from it." I looked him dead in the eyes.
"And, I often wonder, Eddie, what it is that you go back to Hollywood and say to Mr. Schary about your meetings up here in Baghdad by the Bay that justifies your outrageous salary."
Mannix was strangely quiet for a moment. I grabbed one of the red apples that was in the middle of the table and began to polish it on my coat sleeve.
I pressed on. "I hope that, at least while you're up here, you'll take a stroll through Golden Gate Park and visit the Oriental Tea Garden. Oops! I mean the recently re-named and restored Japanese Tea Garden. Beautiful spot. So glad they didn't pull the whole thing down during the war. Would have been a shame."
I bit hard into the apple and looked at Mannix, who now seriously looked like he was having a heart attack.
"And how is your wife?"
With that, Eddie lunged up out of his chair. But he was an older man who was not accustomed to long marathons of sex with another man, so his body didn't go as far as his mind wanted it to. I sidestepped. He tripped and fell on his knees, breathing hard. Taylor rushed around the table and helped Mannix up.
"I oughta clean your clock, you pansy. How dare you bring my wife into this?"
I just shrugged. "And, when you get back to Hollywood, which I assume you are about to do, and on the very next plane, will you give my regards to George Reeves? I've had such a crush on him ever since I saw him in those tight riding breeches in Gone with the Wind." I winked at Eddie and walked out of the conference room.
I sat in my usual spot in Jeffery's office, looked out the window at the beautiful blue waters of the bay, and waited for the mess in the other room to be over.
I didn't have to wait long. In about 10 minutes, Taylor and Jeffery came into the office.
I grinned as they both walked around and stood in front of me. Jeffery tried to thunder down on me, but I was having none of it.
"Damn it, Nick! Why'd you do a thing like that?"
"Because that officious prick has the nerve to pick on the two of you while he's got his Japanese mistress stashed up at the Palace and his wife and George Reeves are probably canoodling right now up in Tahoe."
I took another bite out of my apple.
Taylor looked scared. Jeffery was a cross between angry and relieved.
I stood up and threw the apple in the bin. I reached over and pulled Taylor into an embrace, dipped him, and kissed him right on the mouth, without any tongue, of course, that wouldn't have been gentlemanly.
I noticed he didn't refuse and he knew how to dip backwards. I pulled him back up and then pushed him towards Jeffery.
"You're welcome, kid. Now be good to my friend or I will hunt you down and kick your ass."
I straightened out my coat and pulled down my sleeves. I looked over at Jeffery who was trying very hard not to laugh.
Chapter 9
137 Hartford Street
Friday, May 15, 1953
About half past 7 in the morning
Friday morning dawned cloudy and dull. We'd been having so many sunny days in a row I'd almost forgotten that it might not be bright in the bedroom when I woke up.
Carter was snoring, lightly, when I opened my eyes. I got out of bed, ever so quietly, and ran the
water in the shower.
As I was brushing my teeth, waiting for the hot water, Carter came in and began to relieve himself. He stood there sleepily, bracing himself against the wall for support. I rinsed off my brush, dropped it in the glass, and walked into the shower.
A couple of years ago, we'd discovered that neither of us liked baths. We finally figured out we could take out the old, cast iron bathtub and tile the wall and floor and install a walk-in shower. Best five hundred bucks I ever spent.
Carter followed me into the shower, reached above my head, and redirected the nozzle up.
"You know I hate it when you do that."
"I know." He yawned and then moved the nozzle even higher so it would spray him in the face. I reached up and he swatted my hand out of the way.
"Look you," I threatened.
"Yeah? What're you gonna do about it?"
I had a few suggestions and Carter decided to take matters into his own hands. That was one of the many reasons why I loved him.
Twenty minutes later, we'd long ago drained the water heater but were cleaning up from being frisky in the morning. It was a brisk change to have a nice cold shower on a foggy morning. And I wouldn't have had it any other way.
We were both getting dressed when the goddam phone rang.
I said, "Let it ring. If they need to talk to us, they'll call back."
"We really need an upstairs extension."
"Why don't you call Pacific Telephone and have them bring out some sweet phone repairman to install one? Sounds like a project just up your alley."
Carter asked, "What if they bring out a sweet phone repair lady?"
"Send her next door."
I was referring to our only real neighborly neighbors, a "lady couple," as Carter liked to refer to them. They were Pam and Diane. Pam was an actual honest-to-god construction worker. She was nimble as a goat, not afraid of heights, a member of the union in good standing, and knew how to throw a mean left hook if hassled. Diane taught the fourth grade at the neighborhood primary school over on Collingwood.
They had two poodles that I was mostly disinterested in but that Carter thought were cute. They adored him and treated me with the same indifference I had for them.
Pam was from Idaho, from some crazy family whose drama was right up there with mine. Diane moved to the Bay Area from Modesto and came from an Okie family. She was born in Enid and had been thirteen in '35 when the family finally took to the road and found their way out of the dust bowl and into the Central Valley.
They were wonderful neighbors. Friendly when engaged, nosy about everyone but us, and willing to serve as dates on the very rare occasions when we just couldn't do anything different. Usually those involved something swank with the firemen's union. I would foot the bill for whatever new outfits were needed, including paying Diane for nuisance time when she had to drag Pam to a dress shop once. We had gone to an event at the Legion of Honor and a new dress was de rigueur.
The phone had stopped ringing but then it rang again. I was only in my shirt and BVDs, but I went down the stairs, two at a time, cursing whoever was calling.
I picked up the black devil and said, "Yeah?"
"And a good morning to you too."
"Sorry, Mike. How are you?"
"I'm good and I have good news for you on two fronts."
"Shoot."
"First, we found out what happened to the transmission on Janet's car."
"Really, what was it?"
"It had been rigged to stay in motion."
"How does that work?"
"Beats me. But that's what the boys at the shop say."
"Sounds like something only a professional could do."
"Right."
"Have you tried to trace the money that Janet used to buy the car?"
"I'm still working on it. I just got the subpoena today for Hibernia Bank to open up her account records."
"Hibernia?"
"Why? What's strange about that?"
"Nothing except she has an account at Bank of America. Every Williams has banked there since it was Bank of Italy."
"Maybe that was part of her rebellion."
"Maybe... Did you know she also bought a house? With cash?"
"Yes. Does that surprise you?"
"Damn right it does. This is a girl who was known to be ecstatic when she had fifty bucks to her name. I don't get it."
"Well, I'll be finding out in about an hour or so. In fact, her branch was on Castro and 18th Street. You still playing hooky?"
"No. I gotta go in and answer mail and make sure Marnie doesn't knit herself a noose to hang herself with."
Mike laughed.
"What's the other piece of good news?"
"Oh, are you and Carter free for dinner tonight?"
"Sure. Where do you want to go?"
"Oh, not me, buddy boy. I'm talking about Ben White."
"Oh, right. He's available tonight?"
"Yes. And you better make sure to deliver on the location and the, you know, other thing."
"I think Carter has that covered and we're definitely on for 7 pm at the Top of the Mark. When are they gonna give you your own office?"
"Hell if I know. Say, how did you know tonight would be the night?"
"I didn't."
"Then how do you already have reservations at the hottest spot in town at 7 pm on a Friday night?"
"I don't. Didn't you hear? My name is Nicholas Williams, and I'm the richest fag in town. Don't worry. I know the maitre d' there. We'll be waiting for Ben at the bar. Tell him to dress sharp."
"Will do."
"Call me at the office if you find anything interesting at the bank, will you?"
"You'll be the first to know."
With that, he dropped the receiver and the line went dead.
Carter was coming down the stairs, heavy on the cane.
"Do you have a sucker lined up for tonight? We're go with Ben White for dinner."
Carter came around the corner and grinned at me. "I sure do and you won't guess who."
I liked it when Carter put on a suit, which wasn't often these days since dungarees were the best clothes to wear to a soggy, muddy, soot-covered crime scene. Usually, he had an old wool pullover on top of a couple of T-shirts for layers, depending on the weather. He had a pair of monster boots that were probably designed for guys scaling telephone poles but he liked them because they didn't slip and that was important with his cane.
Today, however, he was wearing one of his tailored suits. The cut and style were about two years out of season, but it looked good on him. My reaction was, as always, to look like the cat in the cartoon whose eyes bug out.
He reached over and ran his big hand up my shirt and rubbed my belly.
"So, who is it?"
"Well, the two usual suspects weren't available. Seems like one of them has decided he's back on girls."
"Oh, brother."
"It's a phase."
We both laughed.
"And the other one is shacking up with some artist type over on Potrero Hill."
"Well, how about that... I assume it's all goatees and painter's smocks and crepe-soled shoes?"
"More like construction gear. The artist builds massive sculptures out of copper. Lots of welding. Real butch, apparently."
"So, who does that leave us with?"
"Martinelli."
My eyes bugged out again.
"No!"
"Yes!"
"How did you even? I mean... What was that conversation?"
"Make me a cup of coffee and a couple of eggs and I'll tell you."
I looked down at my shirt and BVDs.
"Who's gonna see you?"
I looked around and said, "Right. Fuck 'em."
I walked into the kitchen and pulled out eggs, a rasher of bacon, butter, and the bottle of milk from the icebox.
I filled the percolator with water, put some coffee in the top reservoir, and then plugged it in. I reached down under the cabine
t and got out a bowl and started cracking eggs. "So, tell me about it. I thought Martinelli was a Kinsey zero. All he-man and stuff."
Carter laughed. "So did I. I was over at the firehouse yesterday and the other guys were sacked out. Martinelli and I were in the kitchen playing penny poker..."
"Civil servants gambling on the job?"
"Well, one was on the job. The other was loitering with intent."
"True. Go on."
I had started up the gas under the skillet and was waiting for it to get hot before I dropped in the bacon.
"Well, we're talking about this and that and suddenly I got an inspiration. I asked him, 'Did you ever think about what happens in a place like prison?'"
"You asked what?"
"I know. The words were out of my mouth before I'd realized what I'd said."
I laid out four strips of bacon and they began to sizzle. I opened the bread box and took out the cottage loaf I'd picked up the day before and began to cut some slices for toast under the broiler.
"So, obviously he didn't slug you since you don't have a black eye."
"No. It was anything but that."
"What?" I was almost breathless at this point. I turned the bacon. We may have had problems when it came to garlic but we both agreed: crispy bacon is the devil. It's chewy or nothing.
"Well, he stands up and comes over to give me a shoulder rub." When Carter said that, I turned around to look at him. He was wearing the South Georgia shit-kicking grin that I loved so much.
"What did you do, Mr. Jones?" I tried to use a schoolmarm voice, but it didn't work.
"Well, Mr. Williams, I said, 'Hey. I was asking for a friend.'"
"What did he say?" I picked up the bacon and put it on a towel to drain. I poured the grease into the can on the counter and then cut off some butter, put the skillet on the stove, and turned down the heat.
"He said, 'Yeah, I thought you were an item with that private dick.'"
"Let me guess, he emphasized the word 'dick'."
"You got it."
"Well, so he's up for meeting a rising star in the police department for a date tonight?"
"All I had to do was to mention the Top of the Mark."
I put in the toast under the broiler and then turned the beaten eggs into the skillet. In about five more minutes, we were tucked in to our breakfast.
The Unexpected Heiress (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 1) Page 5