"She came into the office today to ask us to investigate something. I can't talk about the details but she mentioned a couple of very disturbing stories. One involved kidnapping and the other involved prostitution."
I let the words fall on the table and waited to see if John reacted. He seemed puzzled. "And?"
I looked over at Carter, whose eyes were closed. "Carter's mother reacted to one or both of those things. And Aunt Velma knows about it. Do you?"
John stood up suddenly and softly said, "Damn," as he did. He walked over to the bar and silently poured two shots of bourbon. He handed one to Carter, clinked the glass, and downed the other one. Carter followed suit and asked, "What?"
John sat and pulled out a package of Lucky Strikes. He had one in his mouth and lit before any of us could offer to light it for him. He took in a deep drag, exhaled above the table, and said, "The only reason I know this is because Uncle Leroy told me and I've seen the records."
"What records?" asked Carter.
"The ones where your mother was brought in on charges of prostitution."
Carter shook his head. "No, no, no. Not possible. Louise Jones? No."
I asked, "Was it a frame?"
John nodded slowly. Holding the cigarette in the side of his mouth, he replied, "It sure the hell was."
"Who did it?" asked Carter.
John took in another deep drag and slowly let it out in a blue haze that sat over the table for a moment before dissipating. "Your son-of-a-bitch daddy, that's who."
Carter stood up and began to pace. From experience, I knew to let him move around. John looked at me and moved to stand up but I shook my head and mouthed the word, "Don't."
He nodded and sat. Roger offered his hand and John took it. He looked stricken and I didn't blame him. Even without all the details, it explained a hell of a lot about the curious nature of Mrs. Louise Jones.
. . .
I told Gustav to hold on the dessert. We moved upstairs to our bedroom so that Carter could make himself busy building the fire. We'd never invited any of our friends or family up there but it felt like the right thing to do.
Once the fire was going, I stood up from the Chesterfield and asked, "You want me to hold you?"
He shook his head, sat down in the corner, and opened his arms. There were a few times in my life with Carter that I'd suspected he liked holding onto me like a kid holds a teddy bear. I was always more than happy to be a skinny teddy bear for him, particularly that night. Once we were nestled in, he said, "Start from the beginning and tell me what happened."
John and Roger had pulled the other two chairs together so they could hold hands. John leaned forward and asked, "What was the name of that man your mother was going with before the first war?"
Before anyone else could answer, Roger said, "Ronald Kennesaw."
John turned and asked, "How'd you know that?"
"He's part of the Johnson clan. He's something like my third cousin. Or maybe fourth." They were the biggest family in the Albany area.
John nodded. "Well, he enlisted in 1917 and went off to France. Wilson, the son of a bitch that he was, and no offense to your grandmother, Carter..."
Carter replied, "That apple didn't fall far from the tree."
John nodded. "I didn't wanna say that but I have to agree." Looking over at me, he grinned, "Anna Wilson was just about the meanest lady you'd ever wanna meet. She was always poisoning other people's dogs if she didn't like 'em. And she'd shoot at anyone she didn't like, too."
"Including my brother," added Carter.
John nodded. "I'd forgotten about that." He shook his head. "Well, anyway, Wilson Jones didn't think he was needed off in France so he managed somehow to not go. Uncle Roscoe told me that Mr. Kennesaw wasn't gone two months when your daddy began to pester your mama and not in a nice, courtin' way. Just like he was with colored, he treated her like she owed him something. After about six months, he came a-callin' on a Friday night with a bouquet of flowers he probably stole from the cemetery and tried to convince your mama to come on out with him to the horse races over at Valdosta."
"Horse races?" I asked.
Roger laughed. "They used to have an illegal bettin' track over there. 'Sorriest set of worn-out nags you ever saw' was the way my daddy described it."
I nodded.
John continued, "When Aunt Louise wouldn't come to the door, he started hollerin' and carryin' on so much that granddaddy finally came out on the porch with a shotgun."
Carter whispered, "Fuck," in my ear.
I asked, "What?"
John answered, "Our granddaddy was the closest thing to a pacifist you ever saw in South Georgia. I never once heard of him goin' huntin' or even fishin'."
Carter added, "He had a couple of shotguns but hated to use them."
John nodded. "Ain't that right?" He sighed. "Well, next thing you know, there's ole Sheriff Thomas comin' out and arrestin' your mama for prostitution. I guess Wilson Jones thought if he couldn't have your mama, then no one could."
"What happened?" I asked.
John shook his head. "Nothin', really. She was down at the county jail for two or three hours before the sheriff let Wilson in her cell." He looked up at Carter. "Say, did you know that she was in the same one as Nick, here?"
"The one at the end of the row that looks down at the street?" I asked.
"That very one. It's always kinda been what you might call reserved for special inmates."
Roger grinned. "Known homosexuals, for example."
I grabbed one of the pillows off the Chesterfield and threw it at him. He deftly caught it and said, "Thanks, Nick. How'd you know I was gonna ask you for that very one?"
I smirked at him as John said, "So, he goes into that cell and, from what Uncle Roscoe could piece together, told Aunt Louise she would be a free woman if only she'd agree to marry him. And, for whatever reason, she did."
I shook my head. "There has to be more to it than that. When did you hear this story?"
"Oh, about a month or so after you and Carter was in town. I guess that would've been..." He thought for a moment. He snapped his fingers. "I know. It was Labor Day weekend that year. 1953." He frowned for a moment. "We had a cook-out at their house on the Monday. After dinner, he called me into that office of his and sat me down. Over cigars and bourbon, he started telling me all sorts of things. But that's what he led with. I guess that since Wilson Jones was dead and buried, it was finally safe to talk about the man."
Roger shook his head. "I'm sorry to say this, Carter, but your daddy was just about the most awful man I ever knew and, considering I'm a Johnson from Daugherty County, that's saying a hell of a lot."
Carter pulled me in close. "Don't be sorry, Roger. He was. I just never knew..."
I said, "Well, now I understand your mother's interest in prisoner's aid." I looked at John right in the eye when I said that. I wondered if he was going to say something cop-like about that but instead he said, "Yeah. Those few hours must have scared her."
I looked around the room. "But I still think there's more to it than just that. He must have had something on her. Or a family member."
John nodded. "I agree, Nick. There's got to be more to the story."
I asked, "Have you ever talked about this with Aunt Velma?"
He shook his head. "No. Y'all are the first ones I've told this to since Uncle Roscoe told me."
. . .
While Carter and Roger were down in the basement looking at the gym, John and I were in my office, standing over the glass case. I was showing him my trophies.
"Carter did all this?"
I laughed. "Well, he had them made and then brought them home. We had a set over at the old house but they're long gone." I suddenly had a catch in my throat.
John put his hand on my shoulder. I put my hand on his and said, "It's funny how I'll think of something, like an old book, and start to cry just a little."
John squeezed my shoulder and said, "I know it's been a bi
g night already, but there's something else I need to talk to you about."
I nodded and waited.
He walked over to Carter's desk and sat down in the chair. He twirled it around in a circle a couple of times. "This must be Carter's chair."
I smiled. "Feel strange not to have your knees up in your chest?"
He nodded and looked down at the notepad. "Bondi Beach. Where's that?"
"Somewhere around Sydney, Australia."
John whistled. "Surfin', I suppose?"
I nodded.
"Y'all goin' soon?"
I shrugged. "We might for a case."
He nodded.
I stood stock still and waited. I knew he would get to the point when he was ready. I figured Ferdinand would be getting in on the tour downstairs and they would be down there for hours talking about squats or jerks or whatever it was that bodybuilders talked about.
Finally, John sighed. "Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"How do you know when you're in love? I mean really in love?"
I almost laughed. It seemed like lately that people were coming to me for that kind of advice almost as much as they did for private investigations. But I didn't laugh. I could tell that John was confused about something.
"Is this about Roger?"
He shook his head.
"Who is it?" I asked.
Looking down at the pad, he said, "Someone at work."
I nodded. "Is he in love with you?"
John stood up and walked over to the large bookshelf. "I don't know if he even knows I'm alive. But as soon as I saw him, I fell in love."
I walked over to stand next to him. "Is it the real thing or infatuation?"
"That's just it. I don't know. I think of him when Roger and I are making love and coming around the bases and sliding into home."
"Have you told Roger?"
John shook his head. "No. I think it would destroy him."
I pulled on John's arm. He turned and looked down at me. I said, "Probably not. Do you know that Carter is always sniffing out my little infatuations?"
"You have infatuations?" John seemed very surprised.
I laughed. "Sure. Every man does, no matter who he prefers. I'm sure women do, too. I just don't have any experience in that area."
John grinned. "Me, neither. Or not much, that is."
"So, why don't you tell him about it? But, ease into it. Don't just say, 'Hey, Honey, I'm in love with...'"
I tried to think of a random name but before I could say anything, John whispered, "Frankie."
I nodded. "Has Mike explained about Maria?"
"You mean, 'Marvin'?"
"So he has."
"Yeah. When they started, he let them tell us their story. It was real sweet. I think that's when I first... you know."
I smiled. "Did you play baseball in high school?"
He looked confused. "Sure."
"Did you ever crush on the coach?"
He nodded.
"How about your police captain in Albany?"
He nodded again.
I took his hand and said, "I know your father passed away before you were born—"
He pulled his hand away and stiffened. "You, of all people—"
I shook my head and took his hand again. "No, listen to me, John. This isn't about sex. This is about affection. Frankie is an awfully sweet guy."
John relaxed. "For a Yankee, he sure is."
"You just need a father, that's all."
"How can you say that after what happened at your trial?"
"Like I said, this ain't about sex. This is about wanting something you miss. I know about this. Just from the other direction."
A light dawned in his eyes. He nodded. "You're right. Roger said something to me not too long ago about how much Aunt Louise loves having you for a son. I didn't put much stock in that but now I see. If she can't have Carter..."
I nodded. I took out my handkerchief and wiped both my eyes. "And if I can't have my own mother..."
He pulled me in for a hug as we both cried for a moment.
Chapter 5
1198 Sacramento Street
Tuesday, February 8, 1955
Very early that morning
I woke up from a deep sleep, propped myself up, and looked around. Carter was sitting up, smoking a cigarette. "How are you doing?" I asked.
He sighed and ran his hand over my head. "OK. I knew my daddy was a real bastard but I never suspected—"
"I know."
He put out his cigarette, laid down, and pulled me against his chest. We stayed that way for a long while. With my head on his chest, I watched the fire in the distance just beyond the rising and falling of Carter's belly. I was just about to drift off to sleep when the phone rang.
Carter's immediate response was, "For fuck sake. Who's calling at this hour?"
Without thinking, I said, "O'Reilly." My stomach began to hurt.
Carter reached over and picked up the extension. "Hello?" He waited. "Hold on, Captain. Lemme let you talk to him."
He handed me the phone saying, "You were right."
"Hello, Captain."
"I'm sorry to bother you this late, Mr. Williams but I'm afraid Pete's done run off. I've no idea where he might be."
I wanted to go to sleep. I wanted to hand the phone back to Carter and tell him to hang it up. Instead, I said, "How can I help?"
"I thought you might be able to call some friend of yours with the police. I have a terrible feeling about this."
I asked him, "When did you last see him?"
"Well, we was out for a bite to eat at that Compton's Cafeteria over on Market by the Fox Theatre. I thought he might enjoy seeing that big old movie house. Anyway, we finished up our dinner and he says he needs to make a phone call. So I gave him a dime—"
"Does he have any cash on him?"
"Not much and that's a fact. Maybe twenty. Unless he'd been lying to me about being strapped which wouldn't surprise me a bit."
"What happened next?"
"I grabbed a slice of pie and read some of the newspaper while I waited for him to come back in. After about twenty minutes, I walked out to the street. There's a booth right there at the corner and no Pete, so I start walking up and down Market and then Van Ness. Poof! He's just gone. So, I took a cab home and waited for him. My Johnny—"
"Who?"
"Oh, that's me love. I'll bring him by for you and Mr. Jones to meet him."
"We'd like that."
"Well, he was home all last evening with a bowl of soup and the television and he says the phone never rang once."
"Why didn't he go with you?"
"He don't care too much for Pete. I'm sure you can understand why."
"Yeah."
"Well, so that's where we're at."
"What time was it when he went to make the call?"
"About a quarter to 7, maybe a bit later. Can you call the police and get someone on it. Sooner rather than later?"
"I'll do that. You try to get some sleep. We'll call you when we hear anything."
"I doubt I will but I do thank you for helping out considering what an ass he was to you."
I laughed. "It's all in a day's work, Captain."
I handed the receiver back to Carter who put it on the base.
"Is he dead?"
"No. Well... Probably." I rolled over to my side of the bed and stood up. I walked over to my trousers that were draped over the Chesterfield and took out my Camels. "You want one?"
"No."
I took the first willing one and lit it with my beat-up old Zippo. That first inhale was always the best. I stood there for a moment, trying to decide who to call. Once I did, I walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, dialed Mike's number, and waited while it rang.
"Hello?" It was Greg. He sounded sleepy and annoyed. I couldn't blame him.
"It's Nick. Mike there?"
"He's out on a case."
"Oh." I wondered what case that would be. "Wel
l, you might be able to help."
I heard a sound that made me think he was sitting up in bed. "What'd you need, Nick?"
I briefly explained the who, what, when, and where. I then asked, "Normally, I think Mike would call Rostenkowski at North."
"Yeah, but it's too soon for any official investigation."
"I know. Is there anyone you could call unofficially?"
"No. None of my old buddies will give me the time of day."
"I'm sorry about that, Greg."
"Don't be. In fact, I was just thinking about you tonight and how grateful I am for your help. With everything."
"Well—"
"No, I mean it. The job. Everything."
"You're welcome. Any ideas on how to proceed?"
I heard him take a deep breath. "Yeah. Call Sam. If there's anyone—"
"You're exactly right."
"You want me to take care of it?"
For some very odd reason, that touched me deeply. I cleared my throat and said, "That's fine. I'll call him. I need to check in with him about something else anyway. Thanks, Greg. Goodnight."
"Goodnight." With that, the line went dead. I dialed Sam's number.
After several rings, he sleepily answered, "Hello?"
"It's Nick. Sorry to wake you up."
"No problem, Nick. What's up?"
I explained the situation. "What do you think?"
"How's his health?"
"Why'd you ask?"
"Don't know. You say he was probably drunk. I'm wondering if he got hit by a car."
"Wouldn't O'Reilly have heard that inside Compton's?"
"Yeah, but what if the guy wandered off and got hit a few blocks away? I'm gonna start off with the hospitals and then I'll try a couple of other places and I'll call you back. How's that?"
"That's fine, Sam. Thanks."
"Pleasure."
"How's Ike doing?"
"Good as can be expected. I saw him today, er, I mean yesterday. And I met with the lawyer. He's pretty sure that Ike's gonna get six months at Soledad."
"So no trial for sure?"
"No trial. How's Carter?"
I looked down. At some point in the previous twenty or so minutes, he'd fallen asleep. He was lightly snoring, like he always did. "Asleep and handsome as ever."
"You lucky bastard."
I laughed as I put the receiver back on its cradle and nodded. Sam was right.
The Sodden Sailor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 11) Page 5