The Iniquitous Investigator
A Nick Williams Mystery
Book 8
By Frank W. Butterfield
Nick Williams Mysteries
The Unexpected Heiress
The Amorous Attorney
The Sartorial Senator
The Laconic Lumberjack
The Perplexed Pumpkin
The Savage Son
The Mangled Mobster
The Iniquitous Investigator
The Voluptuous Vixen
The Timid Traitor
The Sodden Sailor
The Excluded Exile
The Paradoxical Parent
The Pitiful Player
Nick & Carter Stories
An Enchanted Beginning
Golden Gate Love Stories
The One He Waited For
Their Own Hidden Island
© 2017 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.
This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.
This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
Historical Notes
More Information
Iniquitous
i-ˈni-kwə-təs
1. Characterized by iniquity, gross injustice, wickedness, sin
Investigator
in-ˈve-stə-ˌgā-tər
1. One who observes or studies by close examination and systematic inquiry
Prologue
The San Francisco Examiner
Page 12, Column 4
Monday, June 28, 1954
Needed: A Cleanup
The police department and the district attorney's office are to be commended for their initial effort in attempting to clean up an unwholesome condition in San Francisco.
The condition is marked by the increase of homosexuals in the parks, public gathering places and certain taverns in the city.
It is a bad situation.
It is a situation that has resulted in extortion and blackmail. Even worse, these deviates multiply by recruiting teen-agers.
It is true that complex medical and psychiatric problems are involved.
Eventually these may be solved and the problem eliminated.
But until that happens there must be sustained action by the police and the district attorney to stop the influx of homosexuals. Too many taverns cater to them openly. Only police action can drive them out of the city.
It is to be hoped that the courts here will finally recognize this problem for what it is and before the situation so deteriorates that San Francisco finds itself as the complete haven for undesirables. The courts heretofore have failed to support the arresting and prosecuting authorities.
Without the support of the courts, the police and the district attorney cannot attack the problem effectively.
Now, we need action.
We have had enough eye shutting.
Chapter 1
Mildred's Diner
At the corner of Ellis and Van Ness
San Francisco, Cal.
Monday, July 5, 1954
Just past 9 in the morning
Since the Fourth Of July had been on a Sunday, we decided to close the office on Monday the fifth. Carter Jones, my handsome ex-fireman husband, was in a snit when he woke up that day. His mother and Aunt Velma were visiting us from Albany, Georgia. Instead of things improving between Carter and his mother, as I'd hoped, they seemed to be getting worse.
They were in town because I'd asked Aunt Velma to come help out and to bring her sister along. We had just moved into my family home, a big pile of rocks on Nob Hill, after our little cottage in Eureka Valley had been torched. It was the kind of place that needed a staff of five. We had six, which was fine, but they were all new. Everyone who'd worked for my father for many years all quit when Carter and I moved in. As one of them put it, they just couldn't see themselves living under the same roof as two men who would be sleeping together in the family bed.
We didn't blame them. We already had a marvelous housekeeper, Mrs. Kopek. She had assembled a group of Czechoslovakian refugees to work for us. She needed some help taking over such a big job and Aunt Velma was just the ticket.
Besides that, I had asked an interior decorator friend, one Rob Kimble, to spruce up the house. But I didn't want to have to supervise, so that was another reason to call in Aunt Velma.
So far, for my purposes, everything was going grand. Old carpets were being replaced or repaired. Rooms were getting a fresh coat of paint. The staff bedrooms were getting a much needed update. Gustav, our butler and valet, was now wearing the right kind of clothes for a butler and actually doing the job of valeting, which was nice. Things were coming together nicely.
However, Carter's mother was just as cold as she'd been when she'd walked off the plane with Aunt Velma a few days earlier. I happened to like the woman, although she hadn't really warmed up to me, yet.
Carter, for his part, had extended the olive branch several times. The most he'd gotten in return was a hug and a tentative promise.
The day before, we'd been on the bay enjoying the weather and the sailboats out for the holiday weekend. I happened to own a yacht, The Flirtatious Captain, and several of our friends and family had been with us.
Everything had gone fine until Mrs. Jones decided to stroll around the ship and had come across my best friend and first lover, one Mike Robertson, sitting aft and necking with his new squeeze, one Greg Holland.
It's one thing to imagine two men canoodling, it's another thing to be confronted with it first hand. In any event, once we were back at the marina, Mrs. Jones had asked to ride with my father and stepmother instead of going with us. Once we were home, Aunt Velma got a phone call asking if she would pack up Mrs. Jones' things and have them sent over to California Street to my father's apartment. It had been a long night for Carter.
So, to lift his spirits, I'd suggested we go out for breakfast to one of our favorite spots. Mildred's was a diner we'd been eating at since almost the beginning of our relationship in '47. Mildred was a rail-thin Texas woman with a big personality. Her cook, Joe, knew how to cook our bacon just right. We both agreed that chewy, not crispy, was the only way to go. Her coffee was strong and she knew how to help cure a hangover fast.
I was driving and pulled my new Buick Roadmaster into a spot on Ellis Street. We got out and walked over to the corner of Van Ness where Mildred's diner stood. Walking in, I could see that the place wasn't full but it was busy. I looked around and didn't see Mildred. We walked to our usual table in the back by the kitchen and had a seat. After about five minu
tes of being ignored, Carter strolled over to the counter and asked for some coffee. After he sat down, I watched as a small conference of waitresses convened. I recognized one of them, a friend of Mildred's by the name of Patty. She seemed to be against whatever the rest of them were for. After a couple minutes of heated whispering, she threw up her hands in disgust, grabbed a pot of coffee, and began to make her rounds.
One of the others, a scowling woman I'd never seen before, marched over to our table and said, "You two ain't welcome here no more."
There was no use in arguing, so we both stood up. "Where's Mildred?" I asked as I grabbed my hat.
"She moved back to Texas a week ago."
I was surprised. It had only been a few weeks since we'd been there and she hadn't said anything about leaving. "Why?" I asked.
"Her husband got sick and she went home to care for him. Now, I've got customers so you better go before I call the cops."
By this time, the rest of the diner had begun to listen to our conversation. No voices were raised but we seemed to be attracting attention. As we walked up to the front door, I could hear my name being whispered by a few folks. That didn't surprise me since the San Francisco Examiner had started calling me Notorious Nick.
Once we were outside, I turned to Carter and said, "I thought Mildred was divorced."
He nodded as we walked over to the Roadmaster. "Me, too."
. . .
It was another clear and warm day, so we decided to put the top down, drive across the Golden Gate Bridge, and have breakfast in Sausalito. We drove up Van Ness, made a left on Lombard, and then made our way onto and across the bridge. The water in the bay was just as blue as it had been the day before. I thought there were even more sailboats out and about as there had been on Sunday.
I made the right just north of the bridge and followed the road along the bay and into downtown Sausalito. It had been a few years since we'd been there. The Rexall in the middle of town was open and the counter looked inviting. I parked the car right in front. We got out and headed inside.
Thirty minutes later, we were full of eggs and bacon and toast. As we stood on the sidewalk surveying the town, Carter said, "Let's go walk over by the marina." So, we did.
I said, "There's something fishy about that story."
"What story?"
"About Mildred going back to Texas to take care of her husband."
"She told us she was divorced."
"At least twice."
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking we should have Mike get someone to look into what's going on." Mike was the President of Consolidated Security, our private investigation firm.
Carter asked, "Did you notice that Patty disagreed with whatever the rest of them were talking about?"
"Yeah. We should probably start with her."
"We, cowboy? You just said Mike should put someone on it. Let him do the managing. We've talked about this, Nick."
I nodded. "I know. I just thought one of us should approach Patty since she knows us."
"Well, why don't you ask Mike about that tomorrow?"
"I will." I wanted to take his hand, but instead I pulled out my pack of Camels. We were walking on a path that led around the water's edge. It was an isolated area, sheltered by large bushes.
I offered a cigarette to Carter, who took it. I pulled out my old beat-up Zippo and lit his. Then I took another cigarette out and lit mine off the one in his mouth as he leaned down to let me. It was our version of the Paul Henreid trick in the movie Now, Voyager. Only, Carter was much more handsome than Paul Henreid would ever be.
We stood there for a moment, smoking and looking at the City from across the bay.
"This view never gets old." That was Carter.
I sighed. "Yeah. It's nice to come over here and see the old town from a distance."
"Hey, Mister."
I turned and saw a kid of maybe 20 standing there. He had three buddies with him. One of them had a baseball bat slung over his shoulder. As a group, they all needed a haircut and could've used some soap. At least two of them were painfully thin. I wondered what they were doing in a place like Sausalito.
"Yeah?"
"You two queer on each other?"
Carter replied, "What's it to you?"
The one with the bat began to beat it against his right palm. "We don't like queers."
I smiled and said, "I don't like punks."
"Yeah?" That was the first kid.
I nodded. "Yeah."
The one with the bat raised it high and tried to bring it down on my head. Quick as a flash, Carter deftly stepped in between us and pushed the kid back by shoving his palm against the kid's dirty face. Taken by surprise, he stumbled back and dropped the bat.
At about the same time, I heard the click of a switchblade. I saw a flash of sunlight bounce off the steel of the blade as the first kid lunged forward. I grabbed his wrist and, using a move that Mike taught me, turned it slightly causing him to yelp and drop the knife.
The other two, one blonde and one dark-haired, came at us from either side. I stuck my left foot out and pulled it quickly back. I caught one leg of the blonde and he fell on top of his bat-swinging buddy.
Carter slammed the dark-haired kid with his shoulder and stunned him. He fell back into a thick bush that, based on his howling reaction, had thorns in it.
I reached down, grabbed the knife, and quickly threw it out into the bay. Carter picked up the bat and held it in his right hand.
He asked, "What gives?"
The first kid, the one who'd pulled the blade, was rubbing his wrist. "We don't like queers. I seen your faces in the Examiner."
I said, "Why don't you punks scram before you really get hurt?"
Carter swung the bat like he was aiming for the parking lot at Seals Stadium and said, "That sounds like a good idea."
The other three pulled their dark-haired buddy out of the bush and ran off, heading towards downtown.
. . .
We decided to file a police report. We walked back to the Rexall to ask for directions. Carter popped in while I smoked a Camel on the street and watched the busy foot traffic. During the war, Sausalito had a been a busy shipbuilding spot. But those days were long gone. Now, from what I'd heard, some of the artsy North Beach types were moving in. I saw at least one Joe with a scraggly beard moving down the street carrying a bag of groceries.
Carter walked out from the drugstore. "The police station is on Johnson Street. We just go around that bend and Johnson is on the left. Then it's up a block."
We started off in that direction and I asked, "What did he mean that he saw our faces in the Examiner?" I had stopped reading any of the daily papers after I'd become newsworthy over the previous year.
Carter sighed. "I've been meaning to tell you, but so much has been going on. The Examiner is on the warpath."
"More than normal?"
"Yeah. I can't remember what day it was, but in the last couple of weeks, there was a nasty editorial about the 'homosexual problem.' Something about demanding a clean-up of the City. Since then, they've been doing the usual thing."
"A banner story every day?"
"Yes. And they reprinted that photograph from last year at the Mark Hopkins. Only they cropped out Ben and Carlo and it's just the two of us."
"Damn." That was the only thing I could think of to say.
. . .
I pushed open the door to the police station. We walked into a small room. There was a bench on one side next to a staircase going up. Two desks occupied the middle of the room. A door in the back appeared to lead to a holding cell.
A police officer whose badge said "J. Young" was sitting at the desk on the right. He looked up and asked, "Can I help you?"
I said, "We'd like to report a gang assault."
The man looked from me to Carter and back. "Gang?"
Carter said, "A group of four kids just tried to attack us."
Officer Young rubbed his ey
es and stood up. He was about 5'7". "Some kids tried to attack you?" He meant Carter, who stood at 6'4" and was covered in muscles.
"Sure," I replied.
"When did this happen?"
"About fifteen minutes ago. We were over in an isolated spot by the bay, taking in the view, when they walked up behind us."
"Where you in that area that's just east of the marina? Where all the bushes are?"
I nodded. "That's about right."
The man took a deep breath and sighed. "OK. So, let me see if I got this straight. You two are over there, by yourselves, taking in the view, and these four kids gang up on you. That right?"
I said, "Yeah. We were standing there, they walked up, and called us out. One of them had a baseball bat. A second one had a switchblade. The other two appeared to be unarmed."
Officer Young said, "And what happened after they called you out?"
I gave a blow-by-blow and ended by saying, "So, we thought you might want to know."
"What did they say, exactly?" There was an interesting tone to the man's voice when he asked the question.
Carter said, "One of them asked if we were queers. I said something like, 'what's it to you.' The same kid said they didn't like queers. Nick said we don't like punks. That's when the other one swung the bat." I noticed Carter didn't mention the comment about our faces being in the Examiner. I was beginning to think that might be a good idea.
"Why did they ask if you was queer?"
Carter shrugged. "I don't know."
"Where do you live?"
I said, "We live in San Francisco. 1198 Sacramento Street."
"Nob Hill, huh? Kinda swank."
I shrugged.
Officer Young stood there a moment. "Before I take a report, I gotta ask you if you ever been here before?"
I replied, "The last time we were here was in
'48." I looked at Carter. "Right?" He nodded.
Officer Young looked at us for a long moment. "So you weren't meeting over behind those bushes for any particular reason?"
I crossed my arms. "We'd just had breakfast at the Rexall counter and were taking a stroll before heading back to the City."
The Iniquitous Investigator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 8) Page 1