The Sodden Sailor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 11)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  It was Walter. He looked up at Carter with the usual mixture of awe and fear and, in his squeaky voice, asked, "Is Mr. Williams here with you?"

  Carter stepped back and motioned over to where I was sitting. From the look on Walter's face, I realized my hair was probably sticking up so I used my hands to slick it back in place. I didn't want to embarrass the kid any further, so I stayed seated and asked, "What's up?"

  Pulling at his collar, Walter stood in front of me and said, "Mr. Robertson told me to run this by you, Mr. Williams."

  I nodded. "Whenever you're ready, Walter, you can call me Nick."

  He coughed and looked away from me for a moment. "Sure." He shifted his weight uncomfortably. I glanced over at Carter who was leaning against the door with his arms folded and an amused look on his face. "Well, the thing is that I've been going through my notes from my interview with Harvey Reynolds." That was the man who'd been following us for the F.B.I.

  I nodded. "What'd you find?"

  "Well, Mr. Williams, it's like this. I think he knew something about you that I didn't understand at the time."

  I could feel a knot forming in my stomach. "What?"

  Walter shifted again. Carter walked up behind him and pulled over a chair. "Have a seat, Walter."

  He nodded and did just that. The new furniture was low to the ground so his legs hit the floor unlike with the old straight-backed chairs we'd had over at the old place on Bush Street. "Were you ever involved with the mob?" asked Walter. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  "Do you mean last year when—"

  "No, sir," interrupted Walter. "I mean in the 30s."

  I shook my head. "No. There was a gang of kids that I ran around with my last year of school. That was when I met Mike."

  Walter nodded. He always reminded me of an owl. A skinny owl.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Well, it seems like Mr. Reynolds knew you were connected to Enrico 'Kid' Allomare." That was one of the members of the Abati crime family, the local mob.

  "I've never met the Kid." That was how most everyone referred to the man. He was notoriously violent which was very much out of character for the rest of the local mobsters.

  "Did you know someone named Rick, Richard, or Ricky Benvenuto?"

  I nodded. "Sure. He was one of the kids I ran around with in the spring of '39."

  Walter swallowed hard. "That's the birth name of Enrico Allomare. He changed his name after the war in order to toughen up his image."

  Carter sat down next to me and took my left hand. "Are you sure, Walter?" he asked.

  The kid nodded and wiped his forehead again. "I confirmed this with Mr. Halversen." That was Sam, one of our employees. He was originally from Czechoslovakia but had been in the City since the 30s and knew everything there was to know about everyone.

  I sat back in surprise. "Who'd've thunk it?" I asked no one in particular. "He was such a scrawny thing. I knew he was connected to a big Italian family but I didn't know who it was."

  Walter shook his head. "He was the godson of Francesco 'Frank' Lanza." That was the man who'd consolidated the San Francisco mob back in the early 30s. I could remember the big news when Lanza died just before I became friends with Ricky. But I had never put the two of them together, for whatever reason.

  "So, what did Reynolds know about this?"

  Walter looked at me as owlishly as ever. "That you two had been lovers. The Bureau thinks that Mr. Allomare can be compromised that way."

  I laughed. "Ricky Benvenuto? Are you fucking kidding me?"

  Walter shook his head. "Oh, no, Mr. Williams. This is no laughing matter."

  Carter put his hand on my leg and asked, "Well?"

  "No. Never. Not even a circle-jerk, which I did plenty. But you know." I looked at Walter meaningfully.

  Carter smiled. "Oh, yeah. He's what? 5'2"?"

  "If that. Last photo I saw of him, he looks like he bulked up a bit but, you know me..."

  Carter took my hand and squeezed it. "I sure do, son. He'd be too skinny and too short for you." Looking over at Walter, he said, "No offense, Walter."

  The kid shrugged as if he had no idea what we were talking about. "None taken, Mr. Jones."

  I leaned forward. "Do you have any suggestions about whether we should do anything about this?"

  Walter shook his head. "No, Mr. Williams. I discussed the matter with Mr. Halversen who, for some reason, found it all very funny. But he suggested we wait until the Bureau makes a move."

  I nodded. "Or Ricky does."

  . . .

  Once I was back in my office, I closed the door and sat down at my desk. I swiveled the chair around and looked through the rainy haze at the Ferry Building off in the distance and the small whitecaps on the bay further on.

  Ricky Benvenuto had been, in many ways, my first lover. We'd shared so many secrets, like lovers do. But we'd never touched each other beyond shaking hands or shoving or punching in a friendly way. I had a hard time believing that the Kid was Ricky.

  I stood up and opened the door. "Doll?"

  Marnie said, "Yeah, Nick?" She stood up and walked over to where I was standing in the doorway.

  "Do me a favor. See if you can get a current photo of the Kid."

  "You mean that mob thug?"

  I nodded. "Keep it on the Q.T. I don't want anyone to know anything about it, particularly not Mike or Walter."

  "OK, Nick." She looked dubious.

  I smiled. "Don't worry, doll."

  She half smiled, shrugged, and walked back to her desk.

  I closed the door and went back to my chair to look out the window and think about a long time ago.

  . . .

  "You got the stuff?" asked Ricky.

  I pulled the magazines out from under my shirt. "Yeah. It's just want you wanted."

  He grabbed them from me and gaped. "Look at the bazoongas on that one. She is stacked, boy. I'm tellin' ya."

  I looked down at the gal he was pointing to on the cover. I wasn't that interested in the gal as much as I was in the sailor who stood in the background, smoking a pipe and grinning like a dirty old man. But, as always, I said, "Yeah. She's a dish."

  Ricky snickered and began to turn the pages of the magazine I'd made off with over on Columbus. Right then, I heard the noon whistle. We both looked at each other. We'd promised JayJay, Bobby, and Mel that we'd meet them over in that warehouse South of the Slot by half past noon. We were still a good forty-five minutes from getting there.

  Ricky got a grin on his face. "You wanna drive or you want me to drive?"

  I shook my head. "We nearly got caught last time by that big cop."

  Ricky gave me Bronx cheer. "Fuck that Robertson. He's a pansy and he's after you. I keep tellin' you that. You better watch your ass around him or you know what he'll do to ya, boy."

  I punched Ricky in the shoulder. He just grinned and said, "Fine. I'll drive. You wait here."

  I sat on the curb along Front Street and watched as the trucks rolled by from the market and the cabs tried to zip around them. A couple of men kicked my back as I sat there. I was used to it. Ricky said it was a signal that they would take me home and give me a buck or two if I would let 'em have their way. I had to admit I was curious but I figured they were just kickin' me to let me know to get up off the street and stop runnin' around like a hooligan. Just like my evil old man was always doin'.

  After a couple of minutes, I saw a brand-spanking-new white Ford coupe come barreling around the corner. It stopped in front of me. I jumped up, popped the door, and got in.

  Ricky put the thing in gear and we were off. He drove like a devil, trying to get ahead of every slow-moving truck. He would even drive on the wrong side of the road and honk the horn as if it was the other drivers' fault for nearly slamming into us.

  We made it to Brannan Street in just under ten minutes. Ricky ditched the car in an alley and we ran over to the warehouse. Sliding through a door that we were sure no one knew was
unlocked, we made our way up to the second floor. That's where we had our camp. There were a couple of old mattresses, some pillows and blankets, and a campfire that JayJay had built. We made it look like hobos might be living there just in case any coppers found us.

  We were sitting there when the rest of the guys came in. Ricky had been going through both magazines. He'd torn out the best pages and made a stack for the other guys to go through. They sat down and began to pass the pages around, telling each stories about what they were gonna do some day when they had a dame like that.

  I sat against the wall, as usual, and just watched. I looked over at Ricky. He had that devil grin on his face like always and was licking his lips as the other guys talked and joked about which one of 'em was gonna fuck which of the gals in the magazine.

  . . .

  I'd played that memory over and over many times in the past. Ricky had been right. Mike was in love with me. That was the day before my father threw me out of his house, the big pile of rocks where Carter and I lived, and when Mike took me home to live with him.

  And that was the beginning of my life, as far as I was concerned. Everything before that day was someone else's life. I didn't fully come alive until I let Mike put me in his shower and then take me to his bed. Nothing before then really mattered.

  Back on Christmas Day of '53, my father had finally told me why mother had disappeared in '29. She'd had cancer and didn't want to die in front of her children. I couldn't blame her. But when I thought about all of that, it always seemed to me that I was watching a movie of someone else's life.

  And then, that day that Ricky stole the Ford Coupe and Mike found us at the warehouse and my father tossed me out on my ass and Mike took me home and loved me for the first time, that was the day when I truly came to life.

  Chapter 4

  1198 Sacramento Street

  Monday, February 7, 1955

  Half past 7 in the evening

  "Y'all come on in." That was Carter talking to John and Roger.

  Gustav had let them in and walked them into the great room. The fire was roaring, the garden door was open, and something delicious was being prepared in the kitchen by Mrs. Strakova. We had both been sitting on the big sofa, drinking beer out of a glass, and talking about nothing much which was one of my favorite subjects.

  "May I take your hats and coats, please?" asked Gustav.

  I stood and watched as John, handsome, lean, and almost as tall as Carter, handed his hat to Gustav and then removed his overcoat and did the same. He grinned at me and asked, "How are you, Nick?"

  I walked over and let him give me a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Fine. How about you?"

  "Can't complain."

  "How's it working for Mike?"

  "Good, good. Once a cop, always a cop. That's Mike."

  I laughed. "Yeah. Makes it kinda hard for us private dicks who wanna take the short cut."

  John slapped me on the back. "You be careful, Nick. I've already been to two of your trials. I don't wanna be at a third one."

  I smiled and led him over to the bar. "What'll you have?"

  "Bourbon and soda will do me fine."

  As I was building his drink, Carter called out, "Roger'll have the same."

  I called back, "Two coming up, Chief."

  John leaned down and whispered in my ear. "I need to talk to you in private tonight."

  I nodded and wondered what that was about.

  . . .

  The four of us stood in front of the fireplace and got caught up. Roger, who stood about 5'8", had bright green eyes and short blond hair, was telling us about Engineering School over at Cal in Berkeley. Henry, Carter's ex and best friend, was a graduate and had helped him get in. Roger and Henry knew each other from when they were growing up in and around Albany, Georgia. From what I could tell, they didn't like each other much even though they were friendly enough. I'd never heard what it was. I made mental note to ask Carter later that night when we were in bed.

  "So, one of the clowns in this class is a Marine in on the G.I. Bill. He's smart enough. His name is Harold and he thinks he's the funniest guy on planet Earth. He's got one joke after another and another. And they all really stink."

  "Like what?" asked Carter.

  "What do you call a rubber toe?" asked Roger with a grin.

  "What?"

  "Roberto."

  We all groaned.

  "I'm tellin' you, it's like that before every goddam class I have with the guy. And he really cuts himself up. And when he laughs, he sounds like a brayin' donkey." He took a final drink of his bourbon and put the glass on the fireplace mantel.

  John put his long arm around Roger and said, "He tries to bring some of those jokes home to me and I'll tell him to stuff it."

  Roger looked up at John. "And I tell him to stuff me, so it all works out just fine."

  We all laughed at that. Right then, Gustav walked into the dining room from the kitchen and announced, "Dinner is ready."

  We walked over to the long redwood table and had a seat at the far end. Carter sat at the head. I sat on his left facing the great room. John and Roger sat across from me with John next to Carter.

  Gustav brought out four glasses of Burgie beer and then brought us the soup course. It was cream of broccoli, which was one of my favorites. There were slices of fresh white bread, as well.

  "Man, that Mrs. S., she really is something, isn't she?" That was John as he was lapping up his bowl of soup.

  Carter said, "It's still hard to believe we have a real Parisian chef working for us."

  John laughed. "It's hard to believe that Wilson Jones's son is sitting at the head of a table in a mansion on Nob Hill."

  Carter paled at the mention of his father's name. I reached over and took his hand in mine and squeezed it. "I can't believe I live here, much less that I live here with my very own husband and sleep in my goddam grandfather's mahogany bed every night."

  Carter sighed. "Thank you, Grandpa Williams for building us this house, this table, and the kind of bed that can take just about anything the two of us care to get up to."

  Roger asked, "Is it true you built a gym down in the basement?"

  Carter nodded. "It was Nick's belated Christmas present from 1953. We were supposed to build one in the basement on Hartford Street, but we never got around to it. I'll take y'all down there for a tour after dinner."

  Roger smiled. "That'd be great. Did John tell you I've started training at Nick's gym in North Beach?"

  I laughed and said, "It's not my gym. I'm just holding it in trust while the real owner is on trial." The gym was called Sugar Joe's #2 and I'd helped set up Ivan "Ike" Kopek, son of our housekeeper, to start the place up about a year earlier. He'd recently been arrested for making and sending pornographic films through the mail. He was lovers with Sam Halversen who also happened to be a childhood friend of his mother.

  John took a piece of bread and used it to sop up the rest of his soup. "How's that goin'?"

  I swallowed and replied, "As good as can be expected. We're hoping he'll only get six months. And hopefully at Soledad instead of San Quentin. Not quite as bad down there."

  John nodded. "So, you go for the rehabilitation theory?"

  I shook my head. "I go for the best place for a friend of mine to do his time. San Quentin is a fortress. Soledad is more relaxed. Ike'll do better if he's not treated like a criminal."

  John sat back and crossed his arms. "But he is a criminal. And why are you even talking about these state prisons? I thought this was a Federal thing."

  "It was. But because of his connection to me, the case was handed over to the City to prosecute."

  "What connection?" asked Roger.

  Carter answered, "Our lawyer's theory is that the U.S. Attorney didn't wanna have to put the Bureau agents on the stand under cross-examination. Because it might come out about how they've been harassing Nick illegally."

  "And you," I added.

  Carter waved that away
. He looked at John. "But let's get back to what you just said, there, son. Ike shouldn't be a criminal. He's an idiot, I'll grant you that. But the law he broke is the wrong law."

  John asked, "What's he being charged with?"

  "Manufacture and distribution of obscene material," I answered.

  John tightened up his mouth and looked over my head. After a moment, he relaxed. "You're right. I just—"

  I said, "Once a cop, always a cop."

  We all laughed as he nodded.

  . . .

  The main course was a mixed grill. We had chicken, steak tips, and vegetables over rice and with a side of a spicy tomato relish. Mrs. Strakova could take a really basic meal and make it taste like nothing I'd ever eaten before.

  Roger looked up, "This is so good. How do you two not ever gain any weight?"

  I smiled. "Carter is always gaining weight."

  Lifting up his left arm, Carter flexed his biceps as we laughed. He then poked my ribs. "And this one never gains weight, no matter what or how much he eats."

  Looking at John, I said, "We're glad you guys could come over tonight on short notice."

  John smiled. He was almost as handsome as Carter but not quite. "We'd be glad to do so every night of the week. There's no restaurant in town that serves meals like you can get over here."

  Carter said, "She doesn't make chop suey."

  I looked at him. "How'd you know?"

  "I've asked."

  John and Roger laughed. I took a deep breath. "But we did have a specific reason for asking you to come over."

  John wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Oh, really? What's that?"

  I looked at Carter as he sat back in his chair. He started to speak and then he shook his head.

  I picked up the ball. "You two know Geneva Watkins, right?"

  Roger nodded. "That colored gal who runs your stepmother's foundation?"

  "That's her."

  "Sure," added John as he sipped from his glass of beer.