The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Analysts agree that, with anticipated tightening of the money supply following the upcoming cessation of hostilities in Korea, another recession is on the horizon. Will the Williams trust continue to grow?

  The only data outside observers have access to are the quarterly filings. Those recently made public for the second quarter of 1953 show a new business venture that Williams himself may be managing: real estate. What has everyone on Wall Street scratching their heads is that Williams is investing in the last place anyone would think of: the dilapidated areas of San Francisco known as Tenderloin and Western Addition. City planners have red-lined these areas for urban modernization. Is it Williams' wily scheme to profit on eminent domain seizures? Or, is it more likely that this is all just a case of dumb luck?

  I looked over at Uncle Leroy in shock.

  "Well, son, which is it?"

  "Dumb luck, I guess."

  "Tell me. Why'd you buy up all those buildings?"

  I shrugged. "Just made sense."

  "So, you did a profit and loss analysis, looked at the trends, and came up with a scientific basis for your decision?" It was odd hearing this kind of talk coming from a man with a thick southern accent.

  "No. I mean... It just made sense. The first building was just for a place to live."

  Uncle Leroy snorted as he stood up and walked over to the small bar under a painting of a very young Aunt Velma.

  "What about the next one?"

  "I liked the look of the place."

  He snorted again and poured a shot of bourbon into two crystal tumblers. Handing me one, which I drank in a single burning gulp, he sat down and asked, "So, maybe you have the same gift as your uncle?"

  Absentmindedly I replied, "Gift?" That was the word Carter had used the night before in the car.

  Uncle Leroy said, "Sure. Just like that crazy woman up in Vermont they called 'The Witch of Wall Street'. Seems like she didn't have a technique either but she did damn well for herself."

  I just nodded. I was thinking about Uncle Paul's diaries. I'd gone through them to read all about the firemen he'd slept with. But I had suddenly remembered something I never understood that now made sense after reading that article. They had mentioned the Reading Railroad. There was an entry from one of the early books that I could see clearly in my mind's eye in Uncle Paul's perfect penmanship.

  Dreamt on Friday sell all Reading and did. News of their demise came in w/ breakfast this morn. Wondering. James says I have the gift. His mustache always tickles and pleases in the most wonderful of ways.

  I looked over at Uncle Leroy and said, "I think he used to have dreams. But, I hardly ever have dreams."

  "You just know."

  "Right. But I never buy anything to invest in it." I frowned. "I've never told anyone this, but I sometimes spend money because I want to get rid of it. I'm embarrassed that Uncle Paul made money during the Depression. Always have been."

  Uncle Leroy peered at me but didn't say anything. I had the feeling he was trying to figure out if I was telling the truth. He stood up after a moment and motioned towards the door. "I'll bet Mattie's almost ready for us." I stood up and followed him down the hallway to the dining room.

  He stopped and turned. "The only thing I'll say to you, Nick, is this. Keep doin' whatever you're doin' because it works. Let those bigwigs in New York and London scratch their heads. Nothin' like keepin' everyone guessin'." He roared with laughter as he said that and slapped me hard on the back. I really didn't know what was so funny.

  . . .

  "Mama, we want to give you the Buick that Nick bought."

  Mrs. Jones looked over at me as Carter said that. We were all sitting around the dining room table enjoying Mattie's cooking.

  "Well, son, I don't know that I need a new car."

  I said, "I could sell it back to George Johnson."

  Everyone at the table laughed.

  John said, "Sure you could. He'll probably give you a buck for it and then turn around and try to sell it for list price."

  Uncle Leroy added, "Which no one will pay since everyone in town knows where that car came from."

  Mrs. Jones said, "Thank you, kindly, Nick, but I like the car that I have. Suits me fine." There was a finality to her words that I recognized. Her son had the same tone in his voice every now and then.

  John piped up, "I'll buy it from you, Nick."

  I shook my head. "No, John, you won't."

  Everyone stopped eating and stared at me.

  I laughed. "What I mean to say is that I'll give it to you."

  John replied, "I can't let you do that."

  Carter said, "Mama is the only person I've yet to meet who can refuse anything from Nick. Sorry, John. You have no choice. He won't let you say no."

  John took a swig of beer from the glass in front of him and said, "Well, I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth."

  I did my best imitation of a horse whinnying, which was pretty awful, as everyone laughed.

  . . .

  On Monday, at 10 in the morning, Carter and I, along with Tom Kincaid, walked into the Dougherty County District Attorney's office. Earlier in the morning, we'd sat with Tom and prepared a report that included a timeline of events, names of those we'd interviewed, and an overview of our conclusions about Hoss being the killer.

  Jeff Robinson, the new D.A., stood up as we walked in. He shook Tom's hand and pointedly did not offer to shake ours. He was a tall man, just an inch shorter than Carter, and looked respectable with thinning gray hair that formed a widow's peak over his forehead.

  As Tom handed him our report, he said, "Thank you for bringing this by." He looked over the contents. Finally, he nodded, put the report in a box on his desk, and opened a folder. "Now, I have a couple of things for you."

  Robinson handed Tom two documents.

  "The first document is an agreement that neither Nicholas Williams, nor any employee of Consolidated Security of San Francisco, will enter the State of Georgia without first notifying this office. Failure to do so will result in immediate arrest. I'm offering your client this agreement in lieu of prosecution for private investigation without a license."

  Tom read the document and then handed it to me. "I'd sign it, Nick, if I were you." I pulled a fountain pen out of my coat pocket, unscrewed the top, signed and dated the line with my name on it, and handed it back to Tom, who handed it back to Robinson.

  "We'll file this with the court this afternoon, and I'll send a copy to your office."

  Tom nodded.

  "Next up is this affidavit for Mr. Williams to sign regarding the theft of cash from his belongings while incarcerated."

  We repeated the same steps.

  After putting both documents back in their folder, Robinson leaned back in his chair and looked at me. He crossed his arms and then said, "And, if either of you faggots come back into my jurisdiction, you better damn well make sure you each sleep in a single bed, otherwise I will personally make sure you both spend ten years in the state pen. Do I make myself clear?"

  I stood up and put on my hat. Carter did the same. We both walked out without saying a word.

  . . .

  We spent Monday night at Aunt Velma and Uncle Leroy's house. We were up well before dawn on Tuesday morning and down in the kitchen drinking coffee with Aunt Velma, who was in her housecoat with her hair tied up in a scarf, when I heard a car horn blaring.

  Aunt Velma said, "Well, hell's bells! Carter! Would you go out there and tell that piece of white trash to lay off the horn? He's gonna wake the whole neighborhood!"

  Carter ran out the back door to do just that.

  As I picked up our valises, Aunt Velma said, "I'm worried about letting that T.J. take you all the way to Atlanta. I'm terrified he's gonna kill you both on the way there."

  I smiled and said, "He'll be fine. Don't worry."

  "Oh, I'm gonna worry, you can count on it. Call me from the airport before your flight takes off, won't you?"

  I nodded. Sin
ce my hands were full, she opened the door for me and we walked down the driveway to the front of the house.

  "Good morning, Miss Velma!" T.J. was wearing another clean white t-shirt just like he'd been when we first met him. He jumped out of the car and took one of the bags from me.

  "T.J. Drakes! Keep your voice down. Don't you know what time it is?"

  Popping open the trunk of his cherry red Dodge Coronet, he replied, "Sure do! It's time to get these criminals on the road and out of town."

  "Are you drunk?"

  "No, ma'am!" He put three fingers to his forehead. "Scout's honor."

  "T.J., they threw you out of the Boy Scouts."

  He just grinned at her.

  She folder her arms. "How's Juanita?"

  "She's gonna pop any day. Bert's nervous as a hooker in church on Sunday."

  "You know I hate that kind of language."

  Carter came around to the back of the car with the last of our bags. I was enjoying the little show so much that I'd forgotten all about them.

  After a couple of tearful hugs, we were all loaded up into T.J.'s Dodge. He backed out of the driveway like the house was on fire and sped through the neighborhood over to the highway.

  Carter was in the front seat and I was in the back. As we drove through the early morning light, I started to doze off.

  When I woke up, we were in front of the airport in Atlanta. T.J. and Carter were both grinning at me from the front seat.

  "What?" I asked, pulling myself up and feeling a crick in my neck.

  "You're so cute when you sleep, Nick." That was T.J.

  I looked at Carter, who was rolling his eyes, and shook my head. "We have a plane to catch."

  T.J. asked, "Before you go. Waddja think of Albinny?"

  I thought for a moment. "Not a bad little town."

  T.J. laughed and said, "But I wouldn't wanna live there!"

  Epilogue

  San Francisco, Cal.

  Wednesday, August 12, 1953

  Just past 9 in the morning

  On Wednesday, Carter and I drove down Market Street, made a left on Van Ness, made a right on Bush, and parked right in front of the office. When we walked in the door, Marnie jumped up and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then Carter leaned down and let her do the same with him.

  "How are you, Nick?"

  "Better for seeing you, doll, that's for sure." I put my hat on the rack and walked into my office. I sat down at my desk and looked around. It was sure good to be back on familiar ground. I began to look through the stack of things on my desk to see what needed attention.

  About five minutes later, Robert came to the door and knocked. "Do you have a minute, Mr. Williams?"

  I looked up and smiled. "Sure thing, kid. Come in and have a seat. And, for the last time, my name is Nick."

  "Sure, Nick. Sorry."

  "No sweat. Waddaya have for me?"

  Robert took out a notebook and began to go through a list of questions about the different properties he was managing. Most of it was easy stuff.

  "And then we have Mrs. Gruning over on Turk Street."

  "Late again?"

  "It's been over a month."

  I thought for a moment. "How old is she?"

  Robert sat for a moment, thinking, and said, "I think she's about 65."

  "When did you last talk to her?"

  "Well, I didn't. The on-site manager has been taking care of it."

  I nodded. "I want you to go over there and get a feel for what's going on. Don't make any threats and be sure to tell the manager to lay off the old broad." I thought for a moment. "Wait. Isn't she the one who got out in '37?"

  "Yeah. And her husband died at Buchenwald."

  I nodded again. I couldn't quite figure out how to do this. I yelled, "Marnie!"

  Both Marnie and Carter came in through the office door. Over Marnie's head, Carter grinned at me in that way that he has and, for a moment, I couldn't remember what I was doing. After a moment, I did remember, and said, "What's that Jewish charity we've worked with before?"

  "You know I can't pronounce the name, Nick."

  I smiled and said, "Do you think they would be able to help out an old Jewish lady from Germany with her rent?"

  Marnie nodded. "I think so."

  Carter said, "Why not send her a care package?"

  This was a little technique we'd used where we would send a bundle of cash to someone anonymously. It had been Marnie's idea. She would write a nice note about how it was a gift from a friend and include it in a medium-sized box that was packed in such a way to make it look like it didn't contain money.

  Marnie shook her head. "Is this about Mrs. Gruning in the Turk Street building?"

  I nodded.

  "Yeah, we already sent a care package there last month."

  We'd agreed that, for this to work, we had to space them out so that no one would be able to figure out where they came from.

  "Marnie, would you call that charity and see if they can fix it up? I'm sure they might know a way to do things so as not to hurt the old gal's pride. She's already been through hell. No sense rubbing salt in her wounds."

  Robert asked, "You still want me to go over there?"

  I shook my head. "No. Just call the manager and tell her to lay low."

  "Got it, Boss."

  I looked up at Carter who was grinning again.

  . . .

  "Speaking of care packages..."

  I looked up from what I was reading as Carter came over and sat on the edge of my desk just to my left.

  With his big left leg swinging, he said, "What about Ronnie Waskom? And paying for him to go to Morehouse?"

  I nodded, mildly distracted by his presence. "Seems like that's yours to handle."

  Carter's face wrinkled in concern. "How do I handle it? I don't even know where to begin."

  I stood up and looked Carter in the eyes. "Wanna know my secret?"

  He smiled his sweet, southern smile. "Sure, Boss."

  I leaned into his ear and whispered, "Marnie."

  "What?"

  I leaned back and stood up straight. "Marnie. Go tell her what needs to be done and she'll find a way to do it. She's the one who makes everything happen around here. That's why she gets paid more than anyone else."

  "You're still doing that? Even after Ben squawked about it?"

  I nodded. "Of course. Don't you think I'm right?"

  Carter was thoughtful. "I guess. Since none of the guys have a families to support."

  I shook my head. "No. Marnie works harder than any of us. She gets paid for the work she does. Has nothing to do with who does or doesn't have a family."

  He looked at me for a long moment. He stood up and said, "OK. I'll go talk to Marnie."

  As he turned, I said, "That's it?"

  He stopped and turned around with a big smile on his face. Very slowly, he said, "You wantin' somethin' in return?"

  I nodded.

  "Tonight." With that, he winked, turned, and walked into the outer office. I had to sit down.

  . . .

  While we'd been gone, Kenneth Wilcox had moved his now three-man operation into the same building as Consolidated Security at 777 Bush Street. Since June, we had expanded our office to take up the entire third floor. Kenneth was in a small office on the fourth.

  After I got caught up with Robert and Marnie, Carter and I walked up the flight of stairs. I knocked on the door and then entered. Kenneth was standing in the middle of the room talking to one of his attorneys. When he saw it was us, he said, "Go do that first, John, and then we'll go over the rest of it this afternoon."

  The man named John glanced over at Carter and me, offered Carter a lustful grin, and said, "Will do, Mr. Wilcox."

  As John went into a back office, Kenneth asked, "Back from the home front, are you?"

  He shook both our hands and then said, "Come on in. This should take about thirty minutes then maybe we can all grab some lunch."

  I said
, "Sounds fine. How are you?"

  As we settled in his office, Kenneth said, "Good. Busy! The police are stepping up their raids."

  I shook my head and then asked, "How's your love life?"

  "Very quiet, thanks to you. If I'd known I was going to need to hire one attorney a month in order to keep up with your affairs, I'd have thought twice about it."

  I laughed and said, "I asked Carter to come with me for a couple of reasons."

  Kenneth leaned in and looked curious. "Such as?"

  "First, and I don't know how to put this, but I want him to have as much control over my trust and my companies as I do."

  Kenneth, who had started making notes on a yellow pad, looked up in surprise. "Really?"

  I nodded. I reached over and took Carter's hand. I noticed it was clammy. I turned to look at him and saw that he looked pensive.

  "What?"

  Carter took a deep breath. He squeezed my hand, and I squeezed harder, which is not an easy thing for me to do. I didn't want him to let go.

  "I dunno, Nick. Maybe this isn't a good idea."

  I laughed.

  "What?" asked Carter.

  "Feels weird to have millions of dollars dumped in your lap, doesn't it?"

  He sighed and said, "Yeah, it does."

  Kenneth leaned back in his chair. As he did, the seat squeaked. He said, "Nick, before we go any further, I wish you had come to me, alone, to discuss the ramifications of doing this."

  I nodded. "I figured you'd say something like that." I turned to Carter. "Just like I figured you'd probably get nervous about this." I took a deep breath. "Look, all I want is to make sure it's absolutely clear to both of you, the Bank of America, and the world at large that, just because we can't get married, doesn't mean that this man isn't my husband."

  Kenneth blinked several times in reaction. Carter pulled his hand away. I watched him pull his handkerchief out of his pocket and wipe his eyes with it.