The Amorous Attorney (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 2)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "Because I want them to know that we are a going concern, that we have a case, and that we'll be paid for our time and our incidentals."

  Mike looked at me with a doubtful expression. "We will?"

  "We will. I'll tell you who in a minute. I don't want to corrupt young minds." I smirked. The truth was that they were both maybe two years younger than Carter and myself. Mike was the old man of our group, five years older than me at about 36 or 37, if I remembered correctly.

  I watched as Marnie folded a piece of paper and gave it to the two prospective honeymooners.

  "Now scat, you two."

  They both stood up and grabbed their hats from the rack. I admired how they looked together. Ben was blonde, with bright blue eyes, and a ready smile. Carlo had classic Italian features, including dark hair and wonderfully sensual lips. They looked good as a pair. "Thanks Nick," said Carlo. "Yeah, thanks Nick." was Ben's echo.

  I waved them away. "Be good. And if you can't be good, at least be good at it." They were already out the door before I could finish my benediction.

  "Marnie, would you call Ralph real quick and tell him the Bobbsey Twins are on their way and to charge it all to me? And be sure to tell him it's a Boston Honeymoon Special."

  Marnie, who was standing at the door, turned and asked, "Boston Honeymoon? They ain't goin' all the way cross country, are they?"

  Mike, Carter, and I laughed. "No, that's a kind of code that means they'll be acting as though they were married. In a Boston Marriage."

  She was still puzzled. "A Boston Marriage?"

  Mike said, "Two guys or two gals."

  Marnie saw the light and said quietly, "Oh." She nodded and moved into the outer office to make the call.

  Carter stood up. He walked up and down the room to stretch his long legs. Mike did the same.

  I heard Marnie talking on the phone and walked over to look in my desk for a cigarette. For some reason, I wanted one.

  As I lit the Camel, Mike said, "I don't think it's good for the small fry to smoke, do you Carter?"

  They were looking at each other with dead pan. "No. Stunts the growth."

  This was a running gag between the two of them. Mike was an inch taller than Carter, had dark black hair, and what was best described as monster good looks. When he was happy, like when he was making fun of me, he was handsome. But when he was unhappy, it made you look for innocent villagers who were about to be attacked by the monster. The two of them thought it was a real joke to pretend like I wasn't visible to them because I was too short. Considering I was taller than most of the men I came across in this city of Irish and Italian immigrants, I tried to take it in stride.

  Marnie walked back in the room and looked around. "What's the joke?"

  Mike pushed the two vacated chairs against the wall. "Nothing."

  Carter sat down and said, "It's a small thing."

  Mike said, "You could call it short, really."

  I rolled my eyes as I stubbed out the cigarette, which didn't taste that good after all, and said, "This ain't vaudeville, you clowns."

  Marnie said, "Sometimes I feel like you're all talking in another language." She smoothed out her dress and sat down.

  "You're not really missing anything, Marnie," I said as I sat down. Mike was leaning against the wall. Bringing us back to the matter at hand, he asked the obvious. "So who is Jeffery's secret love?"

  "Taylor Wells."

  Mike said, "Well, well, well."

  I nodded. "Exactly."

  Right then the phone rang. Marnie picked up the extension on my desk and said, "Nick Will--" She moved the earpiece away and I could hear the dulcet tones of Eddie Mannix in high dudgeon.

  She handed the receiver to me. I said, "Hello, Eddie. What a pleasant surprise."

  "Look, you faggot. Where the hell does that fruit lawyer have Taylor stashed? Do you know how much it's costing us? Just since 6 this morning?"

  "Thousands, undoubtedly. And, no, I have no idea. That's why we called down there this morning."

  "Well, what are you gonna do about it?"

  "First thing is that we are gonna come down to the southland and do a little sniffing. I imagine we'll be on the P.S.A. flight at 7:20 to Burbank. You might have a car come get us or maybe send someone to arrange for a rental. In fact, a rental would be better."

  "What the hell?"

  "You don't think we're coming down there for a lark? No true San Franciscan ever wants to go to L.A. You should know that, Eddie."

  "Who's this we?"

  "My two business associates, of course."

  "More fruits, I suppose?"

  I looked at Mike and Carter. "Tell you what Eddie, you meet us at Burbank at..." I waited for Marnie, who already had the Pacific Southwest Airlines timetable card in her hand. She said, "9:20." I repeated that down the wire. "You meet us and then you can decide how fruity my associates actually are and whether you think you'll survive saying that to their faces." I dropped the receiver on the cradle and said, "You fucking asshole."

  I turned to the others and said, "Our first client is Eddie Mannix of Metro-Goldwyn Mayer. Not exactly an auspicious start, but they do pay and always on time."

  Mike asked, "What do you think we'll find down there, Nick?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know. I hope we'll find Jeffery and Taylor. But I don't have a good feeling about this."

  Mike, who had a pretty good intuitive sense about these things, shook his head and said, "Me, neither."

  Chapter 3

  In the air between San Francisco and Burbank

  Monday, May 18, 1953

  Evening

  The fine folks at the Douglas Corporation didn't have giants of six feet and change in mind when they designed the DC-3, which was the workhorse of Pacific Southwest Airlines.

  When we landed at Burbank at 9:30, only ten minutes late, I could tell that Carter was not happy. His knee started hurting about halfway down the coast. He didn't say anything but he did start moving around in his seat, trying to get more comfortable.

  The plane came to a stop on the tarmac and the stewardess walked past us to open the door in the rear. I stood up on the inclined floor, straightened my tie, and offered my hand to Carter, who took it. He pulled and I pulled and, eventually, he was out of his confinement.

  "Maybe we should drive back?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "That would be worse. Ten hours instead of two? No thanks."

  I nodded and helped him into his coat. Mike came down the aisle and met us on our way out. The flight had only been about half full. Mike had been up in the front, by himself, and subject to the unfruitful flirtations of the same stewardess who was now wishing us a goodnight as we walked out the door and onto the movable stairway.

  As we stepped out into the evening twilight, I took a deep breath and realized it wasn't as smoggy as the last time I'd been there.

  Truth was that I hated L.A. Nothing was ever going to change that. I didn't understand living in a place that was so spread out and where views of the ocean were impossible unless you were at the beach. It just seemed like a very silly town.

  We walked into the terminal building. I looked around for Eddie and was happy not to see him. I said to Carter, "Why don't you two go get the bags and meet me over by the Hertz desk? I'll go take care of the car and then we can head to the hotel."

  They both nodded and walked away. Carter was noticeably limping more than he had in a few weeks. But, he hobbled along and kept pace with Mike's long loping strides.

  . . .

  I heard Mannix before I saw him. "Goddam it! That 's not what I said. Tell that S.O.B. that if he thinks we're gonna pay for him to do the job that he's supposed to be doing for fucking free that he's got another thing coming."

  I looked at the row of phone booths that lined the far wall from where I was standing. Eddie was sitting inside one of them but had failed to close the door. So, everyone in the terminal could hear him. I saw a woman, who already looked very harried,
grab a boy and a girl and drag them away from the wall of phone booths. I tried to imagine the conversation later where she would have to explain what words not to repeat while trying to not actually say them herself.

  Eddie stood up, slammed the receiver on the phone, and looked around. He saw me and came charging. "You!"

  I looked around and said innocently, "Me?"

  By this time, he was standing in front of me. He was about two or three inches shorter but had the build of a bull with broad shoulders, a sagging belly from too much drink, and that slightly purple face that always made me want to ask him if he had brought his heart pills.

  "Yeah, you, you damn faggot." A woman who was walking by said, "I beg your pardon, sir. There are children present." Eddie turned on her and said, "Yeah? Tell you what bitch, you just keep on moving. This ain't none of your business." She looked shocked and affronted and moved on quickly.

  I shook my head. "You just ooze charm, Eddie."

  He put a finger in my face. "I want goddam Taylor fucking Wells on the lot tomorrow morning at 6, no ifs, ands, or buts."

  I raised my hands. "That's why we're here."

  "Yeah. And speaking of we. There ain't gonna be no padding on this account. I won't authorize any charges beyond the minimum. So--" He looked up and was momentarily startled.

  I could sense that Mike and Carter were behind me. I said, "Eddie Mannix, allow me to introduce my associates." I turned and pointed to Carter. "Mr. Carter Jones. And this is Mr. Michael Robertson." I had talked to Mike about using his police department title and we agreed not to use it unless we absolutely needed to. This was not official police business.

  Eddie looked back at me. "These are the two..." He paused significantly. "Your, uh..."

  I nodded. "My associates. Yes, these are they."

  Eddie looked up at the two. "Oh, yeah," he sneered. "I saw your mugs in the paper. Pretty dandy thing you got goin' there, Williams."

  "Do you have a car for us?" I asked.

  Eddie laughed bitterly. "Who do you think I am, your travel agent?"

  "Don't you have people for things like that?" asked Carter in a slow drawl, which Eddie couldn't know was a danger signal.

  "I wasn't talkin' to you, was I?"

  I put my arm out to keep Carter back. "Fine Eddie, you go to wherever it is that you go at night and we'll be in touch the minute we have a lead."

  He threw a card in my face and said, "Six in the morning faggot. No later. Or else."

  Being a wise man, he turned and moved much faster than I thought possible. There was an assistant of some sort I hadn't noticed earlier. He followed Mannix as the mad charged outside the terminal door.

  I bent down and picked up the card. It had two phone numbers in pencil and was otherwise blank.

  Carter said, "Charming man."

  Mike asked, "How does he get away with that?"

  "It's a company town, Mike."

  . . .

  We piled into the '53 Ford Customline that Hertz had given us. Knowing that Eddie would do nothing on this end, I'd given Marnie the task of reserving the car before we left. A year ago, she'd set up an account for me with Hertz, so all I had to do was sign, which was easy.

  Mike volunteered to drive since he knew L.A. better than Carter or me. Carter took the front seat with the joke that kids had to sit in the back. That was starting to get old.

  Mike expertly got us across the hills and down over the other side. We pulled into the Beverly Hills Hotel at about 10:15. We were met by a valet for the car and a bellman who started loading up our baggage on his cart.

  I walked into the lobby and proceeded to the reception desk. Marnie had been able to reserve two bungalows for us, next door to each other. I could already hear the screaming fit that Eddie would make, but I didn't care.

  Mike and Carter caught up with me in the lobby and we made our way to the bungalows, following James, our chatty and friendly bellman.

  "So, you fellas here in town for the convention?"

  I said, "No. We're here for business. Private business."

  James took the hint. He whispered, "Marilyn and Jane are here for the month."

  I nodded. I assumed he meant Monroe and Russell, respectively.

  "Their new picture premieres soon."

  Mike asked, "What's it called?"

  James looked at Mike as if he was asking, "Is there water in the pool?"

  "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."

  Pretty soon we were all tucked in our bungalows. Mike was in #20 and Carter and I were sharing #21, with its two-bed setup. Each one had a sitting room in front with a bedroom and bath in the rear.

  Carter and I were standing in the bathroom, getting in some much-needed kissing time, when Mike knocked on the door.

  "You guys presentable?" was the call from the other room.

  "Just a sec, Mike," replied Carter, who reached around and grabbed my ass. It was a promise.

  I adjusted myself as Carter did the same. We walked out and I asked, "Who wants dinner?"

  Mike said, "You know this town goes to bed at nine, right?"

  "Really?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

  Mike nodded. "We can probably get a grilled cheese or a hamburger sandwich at the Fountain Coffee Shop, though."

  I shrugged and said, "I just need to eat something. And get some coffee. It's gonna be a long night."

  . . .

  Once we were seated at the counter and had put in our orders with Estelle, our waitress, I leaned in and whispered, "So, our first stop tonight is Brentwood to the house of you-know-who."

  I looked around. We were the only ones sitting at the counter. We had actually startled Estelle when we walked in. The sign said they were open 24 hours, but apparently they weren't expecting anyone at the late hour of 11.

  Mike asked, "Why are you whispering? There's no one here."

  "Estelle is here. Maybe she works for Louella or Hedda." The two rival gossip columnists, who feuded constantly, were known to have paid informants all over town.

  Carter asked, "What about Winchell?"

  "Jeffery told me last week that Winchell has been paid off by Metro."

  Mike, who had been leaning in across Carter breathed out and whispered, "God, I hate this town."

  "You and me, both, friend," was my reply as Estelle brought out a grilled-cheese sandwich for Mike, open-face roast beef for Carter, and a hamburger sandwich with cheese for me.

  . . .

  As Estelle topped off my coffee, she looked at the three of us and said, "James told me you aren't here for the convention. Said you were here on private business. That right?"

  I shrugged. "That's the thing about private business, hon. It's private. Know what I mean?"

  She smiled and put the coffee pot down on the counter. "Well, what I want to know is why Nick Williams, his live-in, and a fired San Francisco police lieutenant are doing sitting at my counter, if you know what I mean."

  I tried not to look impressed. Mike said, "You read the Examiner?"

  She smiled and said, "Read it and more, if you know what I mean."

  The aforementioned Louella was, of course, Louella Parsons, the long-time gossip columnist for the Hearst chain. So, apparently Estelle was on her payroll.

  I sighed. "What do you want Estelle?"

  She leaned in conspiratorially. "You wouldn't be in town looking for Taylor Wells, would you?"

  I went into total stone face. I tried to imagine those statues on that island in the South Pacific and look like them. But it was Carter's irrepressible southern charm that opened her up.

  He reached out and took Estelle's greasy hand. "Why Estelle. What makes you ask that?"

  She looked at him squarely with an expression that said so many things about waitresses who work at lunch counters and diners on the overnight shift and have a lot of time on their hands in the daytime.

  "Well, Mr. Jones. I happen to know where he's shacked up."

  I wondered if we were going to have to offer up Car
ter's amazing body as a bribe. I was hoping not since he was like me, a Kinsey 6, and I didn't like to share my toys.

  Mike played the trump card. "Where's the payphone?" Estelle said, "Just past the door in the lobby." Mike looked at me. "You have a dime Nick? I want to call Eddie Mannix and let him know Estelle here has the dope on Taylor."

  Estelle pulled her hand back from Carter's like she'd been burned with oil from one of the fryers behind her. "No," she said softly but clearly. "Not Mannix."

  I said, "Well, then, Estelle. Where is Taylor Wells?"

  She looked at me and asked, with genuine fear in her voice, "You promise you won't tell Mr. Mannix about me telling you?"

  I nodded. "I promise. He'll never know."

  Estelle looked to her right and then to her left. Just like in the movies.

  "He's in Bungalow #7."

  Chapter 4

  The Beverly Hills Hotel

  Monday, May 18, 1953

  Just before midnight

  The door to Bungalow #7 was dimly lit by a dull yellow bulb just to the right of the entrance. The curtains were drawn but there was a light that peaked out regardless.

  I stood at the door and listened. I could hear voices, both male, but I couldn't catch what anyone was saying.

  Mike and Carter were standing about six feet away, hidden in the lush vegetation that the grounds of the Beverly Hills Hotel was famous for.

  I was wavering in my decision to just knock. We could have come up with a ruse of some sort, but Mike pointed out that Estelle was probably on the horn with Louella and we would only have a matter of minutes to pull Taylor and Jeffery out of here.

  Finally, I made up my mind. I just knocked.

  The voices stopped. The light went out. I rolled my eyes at these amateur tactics. I knew there was no way out from the back. We had quickly checked to make sure before approaching the front door.

  I knocked again. I heard something fall over. I pulled a little piece of metal from my pocket and began to fiddle the lock, trying to keep from making any scraping sounds. I heard the tell-tale click and opened the door very slowly.