As a licensed private investigator, I was always cautious about following police instructions. Being in Georgia made me even more cautious. So, I waited even though I was pretty sure I knew who this was.
After a moment, Carter was back in the car, looking happy for the first time since we arrived.
I asked, "So, that's your cousin John? The one you've been writing to all these years?"
Carter nodded. "Just follow him. He'll take us over to Leroy and Velma's place."
The police car moved around us. John flicked the siren just for fun as it did. I pulled out onto the highway and followed.
We drove several blocks, holding hands in between. I followed the police car as it made a right turn at a street next to a brand-new supermarket with a large parking lot. As we continued down this road, I noticed these were newer houses than the ones I'd seen in town up to then. Everything about these houses said they were new and expensive. They sat on large lots, had manicured lawns, and sported new Lincolns and Cadillacs in their circular drives. And they were large.
Carter said, "I think John is in the life."
"Really? How so?"
"Well, he isn't married. He never talks about dating. He's always asking about you. I dunno. Maybe not."
I said, "You know what Mack would say." Mack had been one of my best friends. We'd met at the end of the war. He'd always been quick to say whether a man was a homosexual and he'd always been right. He'd volunteered to go back into the Navy during Korea, and he'd died when his ship hit a mine and sank just a few months in.
Carter replied, "Son, if Mack were here, he probably wouldn't shut up about it."
I laughed.
. . .
We pulled into a circular driveway. The house was set back from the street and was on a very large lot. It looked like someone's idea of Tara from Gone With The Wind. Big Georgian columns in front. Tall windows on two floors. A red brick walkway led to a set of red brick steps that led to a small red brick porch and a big green double door. But we didn't go in that way. John led us around back through an opening between a three-car garage and the right side of the house. Before we got to the backyard, John walked up a couple of steps and entered the house through the back door.
We walked into the kitchen, which was monstrously large. Huge windows looked over the lush backyard, including a pool. On the opposite side of the room from the windows was a breakfast nook for eight. The kitchen itself had all the modern conveniences, including two double ovens built into a wall. They even had an automatic dishwasher, something I'd never seen in a house before.
A short, thin Negro woman with big black eyes was helping Aunt Velma cook dinner. She was introduced as Mattie.
We all stood there for a moment, while Velma fussed over something in a pot. Finally, Mattie said, "Miss Velma, will you please leave me to my kitchen? You know you don't belong in here." Carter, John, and Aunt Velma all laughed.
John said, "Pardon me, folks. Now that I've delivered your boys, Aunt Velma, I'm gonna run home and change into my civvies. Be back in about twenty minutes. Don't start dinner without me!" He turned and walked out the door.
As I watched him do this, I realized he did look a lot like Carter. But, then again, he didn't. He wasn't nearly as handsome but, then again, I was biased.
. . .
Mattie served us dinner in the formal dining room at a large polished dining table with room for twelve. Aunt Velma had given Carter and me a quick tour of the house while John was gone. They had lived somewhere more modest when Carter had left Albany, so this was all new to him.
Every room was perfectly furnished. The drapes and the carpet were paired but not matched. The fabrics in the pillows showed accents of color that either contrasted or blended in exactly right. I had a feeling that a local homosexual of some stripe had been involved. That was confirmed when we got to the wood-paneled "rumpus room," and Aunt Velma had said, "This is Leroy's favorite room. Douglas, my designer, told me that we can have a television but that we need to keep it confined to its own room." I knew this was a man after my own heart. As I nodded in agreement, Aunt Velma winked at me.
Dinner, or "supper," as everyone else was calling it, wasn't lavish but it was solid stick-to-your-ribs fare. We had fried chicken, mashed potatoes, pan-dripping gravy, thick flat green beans from Mattie's garden cooked in bacon fat, boiled squash also from her garden covered by a cheese sauce, and biscuits with butter and strained honey from bees kept by Mattie's brother.
To drink, everyone but me had sweetened iced tea. I didn't much care for tea, hot or iced. I tried a drink out of Carter's glass, and it was all sugar. I had a glass of cold milk, which tasted fresh. That brought me back to my childhood in a powerful way.
As the five of us sat around the table, I leaned back and watched the others as they brought Carter up to date on who was married and who had left town to go to Atlanta or New York or parts unknown. There were all the kids that Carter knew from school to go through. Aunt Velma had a list in her head and brought him up to date on everyone. When she got to Beauregard Anderson, I raised my hand.
"For once, and maybe the only time, I have some news about Andy that only Carter and I know."
John turned and looked at me with a curious expression on his face. I wondered if he'd been to Andy's fort when he was younger.
Beauregard "Andy" Anderson had grown up with Carter and Henry. We had run into Andy in Newport Beach back in early June. He was working for the F.B.I. then and was keeping an eye on us on behalf of Senator McCarthy's committee. I had been subpoenaed to testify and Andy was supposed to make sure to get us to Washington so that I could do just that.
He had volunteered for the job because, as he later told me, he was doing more than just making sure we got to Washington. He was also trying to make sure that no one arrested me for having admitted to sodomy on the pages of every newspaper in the country. Traveling with Carter had that disadvantage. Every night we spent in most every state in the country, we were breaking the law.
But Andy and Carter had a very different connection. When they were young, Andy had violated both Carter and Henry. He had invited them to see the fort he'd built in the woods and that's where it happened. To Andy, it was just plain fun. But, to Carter and Henry, it had been a painful experience that neither understood nor could have possibly consented to if they did.
Andy eventually apologized to both men. Carter took it mostly well and finally decided to give Andy a second chance.
I said, "Andy is now living in San Francisco. He worked in Eisenhower's command over in France and Germany and then came home to train for the F.B.I. He worked in L.A. for several years as a special agent. And, for all the obvious reasons, he quit back in June before they could fire him. And now he's working with us."
John turned to Carter and asked, "How does Henry feel about that?" Obviously, John knew about the fort.
Carter sighed. "He doesn't like it."
John looked over at Aunt Velma who shook her head. Neither said anything. I wondered what that look meant.
. . .
After dinner, I went into the kitchen to ask Mattie about her mashed potatoes. There was something tasty about them that I couldn't quite figure out.
"Well, I guess you could say it was the cream. Or maybe the butter. But I think it's the pepper. The real secret is lots of ground pepper. Just doesn't taste right if I don't add enough." I always put pepper in mine. I figured it was the cream.
"You like to cook, Mister Nick?"
I nodded. "I grew up in a big old house and my father always had a cook. I would watch her work and tried to get her to let me--"
Mattie started laughing. "But she didn't, did she?"
I smiled and shook my head. "No. I taught myself to cook after the war."
"Well, no woman hired to cook for the husband is gonna let the son lift a finger." She nodded. "Believe me. That's the straight road to gettin' fired."
I asked, "Did that happen to you?"
&nb
sp; "No, sir. But it did happen to my cousin Maybelle. She used to cook for the Mayor, hisself. He had a little boy just like you." She looked me up and down. "Just like you and Mister Carter. He was all curious in the kitchen. Maybelle would show him how to cook biscuits and fry chicken. Then one day the Mayor came home and found his little boy cookin' with the help instead of outside playin' football and that was the end of Maybelle.
"Course her fried chicken was famous in the neighborhood, so she just had to walk next door to get a new job. She's still there today. But, your daddy's cook was right. Don't ever make no sense to get in the middle of family things like that."
She bustled over to the oven. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mister Nick, I have a peach cobbler that's just about ready. I needs to let it cool down a bit before I put the ice cream on it. I think Miss Velma wanted to serve desert out by the pool, so you best head on out there."
I had never been dismissed and told to butt out so clearly and as kindly as that. And I'd been told off by a lot of people in my time.
. . .
The rain held off until it was time for dessert. We were all sitting by the pool, waiting for the peach cobbler, when there was a big flash of light and a loud boom. Rain started coming down in sheets almost immediately. We ran into the house as another flash and an even closer boom happened. Right then, as Uncle Leroy was closing the sliding glass door to the patio, all the lights went out.
We ended up at the breakfast nook, with the kitchen door and all the windows open so we could get a breeze, eating our dishes of peach cobbler covered in homemade vanilla ice cream in the dark. Mattie joined us this time. At Uncle Leroy's prompting, she regaled us with stories about her Uncle Henry who lived east of town in the swamps and all about how he used to catch live alligators and "cook 'em up real nice." I wasn't sure if she was telling us the truth or not.
I was scraping my bowl to get the last of the cobbler when the lights came back on.
Suddenly, Aunt Velma shrieked, "Oh my goodness, Mattie! Look at your floor! It's sopping wet!"
We all looked at the linoleum by the door. It was covered in water.
"That'll just take a mop and a towel or two to clean up, Miss Velma. Don't you fret. I got one right here that's handy, and you can do it yourself if you don't believe me."
Aunt Velma stood up and smoothed out her dress, "No, thank you. As you say, this kitchen is no place for me."
We all laughed.
Chapter 6
Driving south on Highway 19 in Mitchell County, Ga.
Friday, July 17, 1953
Around 10 in the evening
I had never been to a honky-tonk before that night. We followed John to his house to drop off his car. He convinced us both to take off our coats and ties and roll up our sleeves. That was certainly a lot cooler.
We all piled into the Buick and headed south down the highway to a place in the next county where John wanted to go. We passed through a little town called Radium Springs, which sounded like the kind of spot F.D.R. would have visited. We crossed into Mitchell County and drove through a small town with the picturesque name of Baconton. About five miles south of there, John told me to pull over at the flashing sign that said, "Hank's."
We parked the car and walked inside. As he opened the door, John said, "There's no Hank. There's only Henrietta. But she's enough." He looked around before he said anything else. "She's a widowed lady and has a fierce temper. She can fight almost any man that comes at her."
We sat at the mostly empty bar. John ordered three boilermakers. I hadn't had one of those since my first or second night out on the town in San Francisco with Mack after the war. I'd had several that night and the hangover was something I still remembered. I didn't say anything and wondered how it would taste this time.
The bartender, a stout man with a dark buzz cut, sat down three glasses of beer that were two-thirds full. He put the shot glasses down in front and poured out the whiskey. With that, he said, "You make your own around here."
I dropped my shot glass into the beer and watched the magic fizzing happen. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see John downing his all in one gulp. Carter, on the other hand was sipping his. I didn't think he would like this and, apparently, he didn't. I downed mine all at once and banged my beer glass on the counter like Mack used to. It didn't feel too bad going down. But I decided to switch to Coke after that. I was driving, after all.
The bar filled up rather quickly. I looked at my watch, and it was just past 10:30. The funeral for Carter's father was at 2 the next afternoon, so we had plenty of time.
"What's your pleasure, Nick?" John asked. I wasn't sure what he meant. He said, "I'm gonna put a dime in the jukebox. Waddaya wanna hear?" By this time, he'd had three boilermakers, but they didn't seem to faze him.
I shrugged. "Jo Stafford?"
John laughed. "This here is a honky-tonk, city slicker. I'm sure Henrietta don't have nuthin' like that in the jukebox. I know just the right one. New song." He walked over to the jukebox, dropped the dime, and pressed a couple of buttons.
The tune that came up was a western swing song called, "Mexican Joe." John explained it was a big hit by some guy from Louisiana named Jim Reeves. A handful of couples got up and started swinging to the tune as it played.
"John Parker! You big son of a bitch! How the hell are you?" A tall woman in tight pants, a tight blouse, and with a closely cut head of hair came out of a door near the back of the bar and walked up to John. She grabbed him off his stool and pulled him out on the sawdust-covered floor. John took the lead and the two of them did a swing dance that was impressive to watch. I looked over at Carter who was mildly shocked.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"Henrietta?"
I nodded.
When the song was done, John came over and introduced us. "Henrietta, this here is my cousin Carter Jones."
She grabbed his hand and shook it as he stood up. "Mighty fine to know you. I've heard lots of good things 'bout you." She winked at him.
I stood up and she said, "And I'd know you anywhere. You're much more handsome than in the papers, but what do they know, right?" She winked at me, too, as she vigorously shook my hand.
I looked over at Carter who was looking at me. Neither of us knew what to make of this.
"You know, fellas." Her voice lowered a few decibels. "Some friends of mine are throwin' a house party in your honor. I hope you'll do us the honor of joinin' in the festivities."
Carter said, "Sure." He looked at John who was grinning.
"Fine!" She clapped John on the back. "Y'all head on over. I'll be there as soon as I can square things away 'round here."
. . .
The little house party was in a big mansion out in the woods. There were at least twenty cars parked along the drive. We parked on the lawn in front of the house because there was nowhere else to do so otherwise.
As we pulled up, John said, "This here is Belle Terre. Belongs to another Nick. His last name is plain ole Smith. He and his boyfriend live here. There'll be people here from Atlanta and Tallahassee and everywhere in between. Y'all are famous!"
We stepped out of the car and began to cross the lawn to the front steps. I asked, "You're kidding, right?"
John slapped me on the back and said, "Hell, no, Nick. This is for you and Carter. You're the most infamous homosexuals in these United States. Everyone wants to meet you!"
I felt a little overwhelmed. I looked at Carter. His forehead was wrinkled. I stopped and put my hand on John's big arm. "Wait, John." He stopped and looked down at me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"What?"
"Carter's father just died. He saw his mother for the first time in fourteen years today. Maybe this isn't a good idea." I looked over at Carter.
"Yeah, John. I appreciate it, but--"
Suddenly, from the front door, a voice cried out, "They're here, y'all!"
I looked over and saw a petite blonde woman in a tight white sweater and a full skirt sta
nding arm-in-arm with a petite brunette, also in a tight sweater and full skirt. They didn't match, but it was close.
They both came bounding down the steps together, followed by several persons of both sexes and, before we knew it, we were surrounded by a group of well-wishers. After the initial panic of being around so many unknown people had passed, I began to enjoy being in the company of the crowd and relaxed. It looked like this house party was going to be a hell of a lot more fun than the last one we'd been to in Mexico.
Carter and I were propelled into the house by the throng. Once we were inside, we met Nick Smith, the owner of Belle Terre, who was about 40 and very attractive. He was my height, had silver hair, and wore a casual short-sleeved shirt with trousers and, curiously, no shoes. His boyfriend's name was Jerry Reynolds and we only met him in passing. He seemed to be the center of the party even if we were the guests of honor. He was also very handsome, somewhat taller than me, and had a dark tan suggesting that he spent time in someplace like the Riviera.
As we stood in the center of the large front parlor talking with Nick and a few others, a tall man with a pipe and a brown beard walked up and asked, "So, how does it feel to be Hearst's new number-one enemy? Sure takes the pressure off those Commies." Several people in the room laughed at this.
I smiled and said, "Wouldn't know. I never read a Hearst paper."
The tall man crossed his arms, pulled on his pipe, and smiled. He regarded me for a moment and then said something curious. "They really don't know who they're dealing with, do they?"
I shrugged.
He pulled his pipe out of his mouth for emphasis. "No, what I mean is this. You really don't give a good goddam about the money, do you?"
This surprised me. "No, I don't. But, why do you say that?"
"Just something in the way you carry yourself. I've known plenty of wealthy socialites and playboys in my time who didn't have a tenth of your fortune, and they're always playing like they're richer than they are." He looked me up and down and then over at Carter who, by this time, was listening. "But both of you are pretending you're not nearly as wealthy as you are." The group around us had fallen silent while the man talked.
The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4) Page 5