The Sodden Sailor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 11)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I looked around the room. Everyone was quiet and listening closely. Lettie said, "Take your time, Geneva."

  "Thank you, Lettie." She cleared her throat and continued, "I have no idea what was in the food or the milk. I quickly fell asleep and woke to find a gentleman having his way with me while Mr. Parker watched. Not being familiar with men in that way, I wasn't sure what was happening. All I knew was that it hurt and that my body was responding in a very unusual way."

  Lettie took out her handkerchief and handed it to Geneva who dabbed the one teardrop that was running down her right cheek. "When I came to my senses, I asked to go home. The other gentleman took a small cloth and stuffed it into my mouth." She dabbed both eyes and then sat perfectly still again. Carter's mother took out her own handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it as Aunt Velma put her hand on her sister's arm. I wondered about that.

  After a long moment, Geneva said, "After they were done, the other gentleman buttoned up his trousers, put on his coat, and handed Mr. Parker an amount of money. I have no idea how much. Mr. Parker then told me to get up and to use the bathroom to clean myself. To my surprise, I found it stocked with soaps, lotions, and makeup and all of the variety used primarily by black women. In my stupor, I realized the nature of the man's business and deduced that the hotel room was a trysting place for assignations that he would arrange. He obviously had a group of women who worked for him, whether it was voluntary or not."

  From the door, I heard Marnie ask, "More coffee?"

  Mrs. Jones said, "Yes, please, Marnie." She stood up and carried the carafe over to the door. Together the two of them moved out into the front office.

  I stood up and walked over to the credenza by the door. The bar that Marnie maintained there included a bottle of aged whiskey that my father had given me a few weeks earlier after the building's grand opening. I poured a shot and carried it over to Geneva. She looked up and shook her head. "It's early for me, Nick."

  "It's always five o'clock somewhere."

  A couple of folks laughed at that. She smiled and took the glass. Smelling it first, she gave it a tentative taste. "How old is this?" she asked.

  Carter replied, "At least fifty years."

  Lettie added, "Parnell says his father laid it down in 1892, just after the house was finished and three years before he was born."

  Geneva drank the rest in the most ladylike slam I ever saw and handed the glass back to me. "My, that is smooth."

  . . .

  Once Mrs. Jones and Marnie returned with coffee and more cups and everyone who wanted a cup had one, Geneva continued with her story. "I was led downstairs to the basement. This was where we slept and were held captive. For what they were, the accommodations weren't terrible. We simply had no freedom. Meals were provided by the hotel. We had a radio and were given newspapers and magazines. That's when I began to truly educate myself. First, I read everything given to us. Then I began to ask for the classics. Not that I knew what they were. I simply saw the name of a book in a newspaper and then asked for a copy. Mr. Parker was most generous in that way. Of course, he deducted the cost of each book from the pay he was holding for me. Or so he said."

  "How long were you there?" asked Mike.

  "For six months."

  Maria gasped. "Six months? Didn't anyone look for you?"

  Geneva nodded. "From what I was told, my mother was hysterical. In those days, the disappearance of a nigger girl wasn't of much interest to the police. Not that much has changed in that regard." Her use of that word was jarring. I'd already noticed that she used the word "black" instead of "Negro" or "colored". I didn't think I'd ever heard any Negro use that word. It was, from what I'd always been told, considered to be rude or vulgar. But from her mouth, it sounded decisive and true.

  Geneva took a moment and looked down at her coffee. I knew that the next part was going to be hard for her. She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. "When I wasn't working, I was reading or sleeping. I tended to keep to myself and not gossip with the other women. One afternoon, it was particularly sunny and I was standing close to the barred window that looked out onto the sidewalk so I could feel the sun on my skin while reading Ivanhoe." She stopped for a moment and then quoted, "'We are like the herb which flourisheth most when trampled upon.' I was reading those words when I looked out the window and saw the legs of a man who had stopped a few feet away to light a cigarette. As he dropped his match and stepped on it, I had a sudden thought. I stood perfectly still, looking at the wooden match and the small bit of curling smoke that rose up from its end. By then, I had learned the habit of paying very close attention to my surroundings by not moving. I could smell the tiny amount of sulfur on the tip of the match and I remembered something I'd seen in the room that Mr. Parker often used for my assignations. There was a glass bottle of rubbing alcohol that was used by another woman who performed body massage. A plan came to me and I began to walk my way through it using my mind's eye. I could see it perfectly playing out and how very easy it would be to execute it.

  "That night, I was brought to the room and left alone with my customer, a short white man who identified himself as Mr. Jones. They were all named that way. Mr. Smith. Mr. Jones. Mr. Brown.

  "I asked him for a cigarette, which he lit and handed to me. As though suddenly surprised, I stood up, gave him the cigarette to hold for me and excused myself into the bathroom where I found the rubbing alcohol. I removed my silk dressing gown and quickly doused it with the substance. I then made a shrieking noise as though something terrible had happened. He banged on the door and asked what might be the matter. I quickly pulled the door open and, seeing that the lit cigarette was still in his mouth, I threw my dressing gown in his face with a hysterical sound.

  "It, of course, ignited. I knew it would not hurt him if he would quickly remove the gown from his person but he did not. I then pulled it away and saw that his face had been covered in the rubbing alcohol." She stopped dead quiet. The only sound in the room was from the traffic on Market Street below. Aunt Velma moved from her chair to the other side of where Geneva sat on the sofa. Together, she and Lettie held their friend as she very softly cried for a minute or two. Once she recovered, Geneva said, "The sound of his screams brought Mr. Parker into the room. That gave me an opportunity to make my way to the fire escape that was at the end of the hallway. I climbed down to the street in the dark with nothing but my underwear to cover me. An old Mexican woman walking in front of the hotel offered me her coat and quickly took me to her home, which was a few blocks nearby. I called my mother only to find that the line was no longer in service. I then called another family member, a cousin of my mother's and discovered my mother had killed herself just a month earlier. The cousin sent her husband and oldest son to retrieve me from Mrs. Guerra's house. I stayed with them for a week. Their church gathered a collection for me and I was dispatched to San Francisco to live with my father's oldest brother and his wife. They took me in and cared for me until I was able to do so for myself."

  "What happened to the john?" asked Mike. He whispered the question very carefully and evenly. It was the voice he used when he needed to ask a question but didn't want to upset the suspect.

  "According to the newspapers, he died a few days later from severe burns. The flames caught his clothing on fire." Her voice was flat when she replied.

  We all sat in silence for a long time. Finally, Geneva said, "I murdered the man. And I am quite prepared to pay whatever price there may be."

  "It was self defense, Geneva." That was Mike.

  Frankie added, "No cop would disagree with that. False imprisonment. Inducement to prostitution. But I would think the statute of limitations would have run out already."

  Mike replied, "There's no statute of limitations for murder in California."

  Frankie nodded and looked down at the floor.

  Maria asked, "Pardon me for asking, Mrs. Watkins, but isn't this something that should just..." She didn't finish.

  Mike
replied, "If only this dog was still sleeping. Walter interviewed an informant who knew this story."

  "What?" That was me.

  "Yeah. He knew most of the details. I didn't say anything because I wanted to see how close his story was to hers. There are some things he didn't know. The rubbing alcohol, for example. But he knew about the Famous Players-Lasky ruse. And he knew the name of the pimp. And the john."

  Mrs. Jones stood. "Mr. Robertson, is there anything else you need from Geneva? I think she's been through enough today."

  Everyone stood as Mike said, "No, that's plenty to get us started. Maria, I'm guessing you'll remember most everything?"

  She nodded.

  Mike added, "Besides everything else she's so good at, Maria has quite a memory."

  Frankie took his wife's hand and said, "It's tough being married to someone who can quote me chapter and verse on everything I've ever said. It's a good thing I'm such a straight-arrow Joe."

  Everyone laughed at that as she kissed him on the cheek.

  Chapter 3

  Far East Cafe

  631 Grant Ave

  Monday, February 7, 1955

  A few minutes past 1 in the afternoon

  Mike, Carter, and I had a pow-wow over lunch at our favorite spot in Chinatown. Mike decided to venture out into a new dish. He was eating something that involved octopus. Carter had his usual chop suey. I had my favorite dumplings and soup.

  "What do you think?" I asked.

  Mike picked up a piece of celery in his chopsticks and examined it. "We put Walter and Maria on tracking down who's still alive. And we get Kenneth Wilcox involved before we make any moves." Kenneth was our attorney. He and his lover, Benjamin Ross, were the senior partners in a law firm that had offices on the 15th and 16th floors of the 600 Market Street building. Originally, we'd planned for them to occupy the 16th floor but, in the last few months, their firm had grown to such an extent that they needed two floors instead of just one.

  Wilcox Ross & Partners, as they were known, handled all of Carter's and my legal matters. They also helped out with our foundation, as well as business matters related to Consolidated Security. But the heart of their work was to help the masses of men and women who were being run through the legal system at higher and higher rates simply because they happened to be in the wrong bar on the wrong night. The mayor and the new police chief had been cracking down hard on the "homosexual problem" and Wilcox Ross had become the lawyers that many were turning to. There were others doing good work but Wilcox Ross could afford to take anyone, regardless of their ability to pay, since I was making sure their costs were covered regardless. Being the one of the richest men in the City and definitely the richest homosexual in the country allowed me to do just that.

  I nodded. "Yeah. We probably should've had Kenneth in there to hear Geneva."

  Carter shook his head. "No. There were too many of us as it was. I don't know how she did it."

  Mike said, "Speaking of that and I certainly don't wanna step on any toes but did either of you notice how your mother"—he was looking at Carter as he spoke—"reacted to that story?"

  I knew exactly what Mike was referring to. I turned so I could see Carter's face. He was looking down at his bowl. After a long moment, he sighed. "Yeah. I saw that, too."

  "What do you think it means?" I asked.

  He sighed. "I don't know. I wish Uncle Leroy was still around. He'd be the one I would ask."

  "Maybe John knows something." He was Carter's cousin. He'd moved to San Francisco the summer before at the same time as Carter's mother and Aunt Velma. John Parker was the only son of the third of the three sisters. His mother had passed away during the war. He was living in one of my buildings on Russian Hill with his boyfriend, a cute kid by the name of Roger Johnson, also from Georgia.

  Carter nodded. "Let's have 'em over for dinner tonight."

  "That's a good idea." I turned to Mike. "So, you'll get Kenneth in on this and then turn Walter and Maria loose on tracking down the details. Anything else?"

  Mike shook his head. "Until we know who was involved and have an idea who's still around, there's nothing much else to do."

  "What about reporting what we know to the L.A.P.D.?"

  Mike nodded. "I'm going down there in a few days to get Micky and Carlo up and running in the new office. By the time I get there, we should have an idea where we stand." Carlo Martinelli was a former fireman who had worked with Carter until they'd been fired in '53 for consorting with a known homosexual, namely me. I'd matched up Martinelli with an ex-cop by the name of Ben White and it was love at first sight. The two of them had worked for us until the previous summer when they'd decided to move to L.A. Ben had started producing a movie called It Was Raining Then. I'd bought out the option from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and had staked him the production costs. Even though he was green, Ben was a born producer and I was looking forward to seeing what came of the effort. The last time we'd seen them, Martinelli had asked for my help in getting a job. It turned out Mike had been wanting to open an L.A. office and so there we were with that. Micky was a friend of Martinelli's who had been an M.P. during Korea and knew his way around the back alleys of the Southland so Mike was bringing him on as well.

  "Do you have a contact down there?" asked Carter.

  Mike shrugged. "Not really. But I can get one."

  "I bet Micky does," I said.

  "You're probably right," answered Mike. "But I get the feeling there's something else you wanna get off your chest, Nick. So spill it." He grinned at me as he put a tentacle or leg or whatever it was in his mouth and sucked it in.

  I told him about our encounter with O'Reilly and Thomas the night before and what O'Reilly wanted our help with. Once I'd finished, Carter added, "We're gonna help them out and get them over there. And then I'm going surfing in Australia."

  Mike laughed. "You are, are you? Just like that?"

  Carter nodded. He was serious. I hoped that Mike noticed that. Instead, Mike said, "You're becoming quite the world traveler, Fireman Jones. One week it's Paris and the next it's Australia. Next thing I know, you'll be telling me you're off to ski the Alps."

  Carter stood up and said, "I'll be right back."

  Mike looked over at me as my husband stalked off. "What gives?"

  "Paris wasn't a goddam holiday, Mike."

  He looked down at his plate and began to move things around with his chopsticks. "I'm sorry, Nick."

  "Don't apologize to me."

  Mike looked up at me and said, "It happened again."

  I shook my head. I knew what he meant. "This time you waited a little longer than last time to throw a punch."

  He shrugged. Right then, Carter walked up to the table and sat down. Pointing his finger at Mike, he said, "Get off your goddam high horse, Mike. Do you have any idea what kinda hell Nick went through in Paris?"

  Mike nodded but didn't look up. "I'm all kinds of sorry, Carter."

  My husband sat back in his chair and looked at Mike with concern on his face. "Did it happen again?"

  "Yeah."

  Carter reached his hand across the table and put it on Mike's arm. "We're not going anywhere, buddy."

  Mike shook his head. "I know. It's just that every time you and Nick get thrown into one of your adventures, I panic a little. You know why."

  Carter sighed. "I can't blame you. If I'd have been in your place after Pearl Harbor, I'd feel the same way."

  "Mike," I said, "Look at me."

  He lifted his head up. His electric blue eyes were red from the tears. "What?"

  "I'm truly, truly sorry for what I did. I really am."

  He nodded. "I know." He wiped his face with the back of his hand and sniffed. "I don't understand why I panic every time." He looked at me. "Greg says it's like shell shock." Greg Holland, another ex-cop and employee, was his lover.

  I said, "I agree with Greg. It's just like that. Only thing is there's no explosion."

  "That's the part I don't get. Why do
I panic every time you have to go somewhere without me? I mean, Nick, I love you. But you're not my, you know, husband." That last sentence made him turn red.

  I smiled. "We're always gonna have that bond, Mike. You were my first. You saved me from my father. You made me a man."

  Carter added, "You taught him how to be a good lover."

  Mike guffawed and the spell was broken. I looked down at my bowl of soup and stirred it with my spoon. "Yeah..." I shifted in my chair. "Um... Yes, yes you did. You most certainly did." I was blushing.

  Carter leaned over and whispered something lascivious. Mike heard it and all three of us started laughing in a way that made me love them both even more than I did already.

  . . .

  Once we got back to the office, I followed Carter over to his. I hadn't spent much time in that part of the building yet. His was the corner office on the opposite side of the building from mine. It wasn't as long as mine but it was still large enough. I walked in, sat down on the sofa that faced north, and looked through the floor-to-ceiling windows to the buildings in between where we were and Telegraph Hill in the distance. While we'd been at lunch, the day had turned cloudy and I could see small streaks of rain drops beginning to slide down the windows.

  Carter locked the door behind him as I watched. He moved over to the sofa, sat down next to me, put his left arm around my neck and pulled me in for a very deep and passionate kiss. We stayed that way for a while until we heard a knock on the door. Carter stood, adjusted himself, and opened the door.