Nick & Carter Holiday #13
Sunday, June 26, 1977
It's a foggy Sunday morning and Nick and Carter are hosting a breakfast brunch at their house on Sacramento Street.
It's the perfect way to start off a day that will include the Gay Freedom Day Parade which is promising to be bigger than ever!
However, Nick is running late and is still getting dressed when a friend from Florida knocks on the bedroom door.
Turns out he wants Nick to have a quick meeting with a client which ends up being quite surprising, to say the least.
It's the 70s and nothing is like it used to be...
But love is still love and, by the end of the day, Nick is in Carter's strong arms, and all is as it should be.
Yet another perfectly timed short for my Happy Pride Month 2022 blog posts. Normally I would probably have posted this as a Monday Memorial Moment post(though considering I turned 4 in 1977 it's hard to think of that year as historical😉😉) but as today is June 26, the same date as the story is set I couldn't not post today.
Now onto Gay Freedom Day, 1977.
Another excellent short in this holiday snippet series. Nick and Carter are strong as ever, happy, in love, and yet Carter seems to be having thoughts of mid-life crisis, at least that is what it seems like to Nick with all the heartachy music his partner has been listening to. When we discover the reason behind his choice of music, it's a highly heart-filled scene. Not having read the original series before experiencing these holiday shorts, probably lessened the connection for me just because I didn't have "first hand" knowledge of the facts but it didn't lessen the heart of the moment.
I love the blend of fiction and the real life events of 1977's Anita Bryant and orange juice boycot. That meshing of fact and fiction brings an interesting and emotional point in Nick and Carter's journey to life. Do they have it easier because of their wealth? Of course but that doesn't mean they didn't face road blocks too but it does allow them to help others find a piece of happiness.
Once again having a look into the window of Nick and Carter's journey has upped the original Nick Williams Mystery series a notch on my TBR List. As much as I'd love to jump in immediately, it looks like a long series(which I am always a big fan of as I'm very much a series kind of gal😉) and I know once I start I won't want to stop but right now real life keeps getting in the way of my reading time. One of these days I won't be able to resist and I have a feeling once I do, I'll revisit many of these holiday shorts to get the full-on Nick and Carter experience.
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
Sunday, June 26, 1977
9:12 a.m. PDT
"Nick?" That was Ronnie Grisham, a private investigator who worked for us in Fort Lauderdale. He was also a good friend and, along with Tom Jarrell, his husband, were staying with us for a couple of days. They were in town for the Gay Freedom Day parade which was scheduled to start at noon.
"Yeah?"
I heard the door to the bedroom open.
"Are you in the bathroom?"
"Yeah. Just finishing shaving."
"You want me to come back, boy? Are you decent?"
"I try to be, Ronnie. Did you sleep well?"
"Sure did."
I turned towards the doorway as I ran my razor under the water. "Have a seat on the Chesterfield and I'll be out in a minute."
"Sure thing," was the reply.
Bending over the sink, I rinsed my face, feeling for any stray whiskers I might have missed just like my father had taught me to do.
"You sleep well?" asked Ronnie.
"Yeah. How about Tom? Did he like the Sapphire Room this time?"
"He never likes strange beds, but he did pretty well, all things considered." Ronnie paused. "I think that, of all three of them up there, that room is my favorite. No offense to your mama, but that Rose Room is way too pink for my taste."
I laughed, turned off the water, and then reached for a towel. As I patted my face dry, I said, "I never did ask you at dinner last night—how's Howie doing?" I was referring to Howie Kirkpatrick, another private investigator who worked in our office in Fort Lauderdale. Ronnie had trained him back in the 40s and 50s.
Ronnie sighed. It was big and dramatic. I could hear it even in the bathroom.
"Alright, I guess," came the reply as I splashed some aftershave on my face and grimaced just a little at the slight stinging sensation.
"Why just alright?"
"He's way too handsome for one thing."
"He's definitely a looker."
"He's just over 50, you know, but looks like he could be in his early 30s. Everyone swoons over him. He's the most popular gay man in Broward County." Ronnie laughed. "Hell, he's the most popular guy in all of South Florida. If he were to run against Anita Bryant, he'd win, hands down."
I laughed at that as I cleaned up around the sink. "Run for what? She's not in government, is she?"
"Hell, no, boy," replied Ronnie. I walked out of the bathroom and crossed over to the dresser to grab a t-shirt.
"That's what I thought. Did you know—?"
"Jesus, Nick!" exclaimed Ronnie. "You're hairier than ever. Must be all that Welsh blood."
"Guess so," I replied, feeling myself blush. I pulled the t-shirt over my head.
"You'd never know it by all that fog out there, but it's gonna be a warm day, I hear."
I turned to glance out the window. There was a low fog that was maybe a hundred feet above the twin towers of Grace Cathedral. I then walked over to the window, leaned over, and looked at the sign above the Huntington Hotel. The sky was clear beyond.
"Whatcha lookin' at?"
"The fog." I turned back to Ronnie and added, "It'll be gone by about 10."
Standing, Ronnie turned and looked across at the cathedral. "I don't know that I could fuck Tom if I knew that church as lookin' in the window. It's a good thing we couldn't see it from upstairs."
I was sitting on the bench at the end of the bed and pulling on my sneakers by then. I laughed.
"That's been there all of my life. I forget about it most of the time."
Ronnie crossed his arms and stared down at me. "How'd that thing survive the 'quake?"
I laced up my left shoe and said, "I'm not that old. The first stone wasn't laid until 1910. It was still under construction, more or less, until '65, when—"
I was interrupted by music blaring over the speaker in the corner of the room.
Ronnie grinned over in that direction and said, "The Marshall Tucker Band. Must be Carter."
I sighed and laced up my right shoe. As I did so, I pulled on the laces so hard that the part in my right hand broke. "Fuck!"
"What's goin' there, boy?" asked Ronnie.
Holding up my lace, I said, "I really hate this song."
"'Heard It in a Love Song'?"
"It's Carter's anthem to his mid-life crisis."
Ronnie laughed, staring at me as I walked back over to the dresser and knelt down to open the bottom drawer. "Mid-life crisis, huh?" he asked.
"Yeah," I replied, digging through a stash of patterned handkerchiefs that I hoped Ronnie wouldn't notice as I looked for the spare pair of laces I'd seen Gustav put in there back around Memorial Day.
"I just turned 60 in April and I think Carter's just a few years younger—"
"He'll be 57 on the 2nd of August." I found the laces. As I pulled out the pack, two hankies came tumbling out of the drawer.
"What have we here?" asked Ronnie, bending over and snatching up the hankies before I could stuff them back in the drawer.
Deciding not to be coy, I said, "What do you think they are?"
Ronnie stood, grinned, and walked over to the window. "Let's see. Mustard and gray."
I closed the drawer, stood, and walked back over to the bench. Pulling out the broken shoelace, I asked, "Do you know what they stand for?"
His lips pursed in amusement, Ronnie said, "Hell, yeah. I may live in Florida, but I don't live under a rock." He examined the mustard hanky. "So, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that this one must be Carter's and he wears it in his left pocket since his is a lot longer than 8 inches from everything I hear."
"You've seen it in the pool, Ronnie. You know how big it is."
Ronnie chuckled and then said, "This gray one must be yours and you wear it in the right pocket since we all know how things are between you and Carter." He waved that hanky in the air. "I can't imagine you callin' him 'master' though."
I reached up to grab the hanky but he held it up in the air so I couldn't reach it. He was about an inch taller than Carter at 6'5".
"In fact," he said, "I know he calls you 'Boss', so this is rather confusin', if you know what I mean."
"And I call him 'Chief'," I said as Karen Carpenter began to sing all about how 'All You Get From Love Is A Love Song'.
Ronnie walked over to the dresser and began to fold the hankies. "Is this the radio?"
"It's a reel-to-reel that's playing in the cabinet by the bar in the dining room."
"So, Carter purposely chose this song?"
"Yeah," I said as I sat down to pull on my right sneaker and lace it up.
Ronnie sighed. "I see what you mean. This is a song for single people." He sighed again. "Or people who're divorced." He knelt down, opened the bottom drawer, and put the hankies back. He then chuckled. "Black. Of course. There should be two of those in here."
I couldn't see him from where I was sitting but I knew what he would find.
"Yep. And there are." He closed the drawer, stood, and then leaned against the dresser. Crossing his arms, he looked at me with a lascivious grin and asked, "So do y'all have a dungeon somewhere? I mean I know this house gets bigger every time we come and visit." His grin widened. "Hell, it could be in the attic above where we were last night."
I shook my head. "We use the attic for storage. That used to be where Doris lived when she lived in." She was our cook.
He nodded and wiggled his eyebrows. "So where do y'all do your thang?"
I patted the big post on the corner of the bed closest to the window. "Here."
He tilted his head and then walked over to stand next to me. Reaching out, he grabbed the post and tried to shake it. It didn't budge, of course. "Solid."
I stood. "Yeah. My grandfather built a bed so sturdy that his grandson's husband could throw me around however he wants to."
Ronnie frowned a little. "You're the grandson, right?"
I laughed as I moved the bench out of the way and got down on the floor. "Yeah."
Ronnie leaned over. "Whatcha doin' now?"
I looked up at him. "My Uncle Paul left me all sorts of things when he died."
"Oh?"
I reached under the bed and pulled out an old wooden chest. "Yeah."
"What in the world is that?"
I patted the top. "It's something Carter and I picked up in Paris back in '56 after Uncle Paul's best friend passed away."
"What's in there?"
I opened the lid and said, "A century of depravity."
Ronnie knelt down and looked inside. He picked up a set of iron manacles. "Are these old timey handcuffs?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Kinda rusty, aren't they?"
I grinned at him. "Makes 'em more fun that way."
He laughed and then put them back in the chest. He then pulled out something else. "What the hell is this?"
I cleared my throat, suddenly realizing what I was doing and, for the first time, remembering Grace Cathedral was staring at us through the window.
"Never mind," said Ronnie as he looked more closely at it. "I wonder if Tom would like something like this."
"It's for looking at only," I said, the rush of embarrassment getting stronger. Right then, Barbra Streisand started singing about how the feeling was gone and that her heart belonged to her.
Ronnie nodded and put the thing back. He stood and rubbed his hands together. "Everything in here is clean."
Nodding a little nervously, he pointed to the bathroom and asked, "You mind if I wash up?"
"Sure."
While he ran the water, I put the chest away, wondering if I should have just kept it hidden away. Only a few people knew about it and what was inside. I knew Ronnie could be a little gossipy at times, but he was a good private investigator and knew when to keep his mouth shut.
As I stood and pushed the bench back into place, Ronnie turned off the water and began to dry his hands. "Hearin' this song, you'd think that you and Carter were on the rocks or somethin' like that."
"I know," I replied, thinking we really needed to get downstairs. There was a small crowd gathered for a pre-parade breakfast buffet and, for a variety of reasons, I was late getting down there. I could smell all the good stuff Doris and her team of helpers were cooking for everyone and my stomach was starting to rumble.
Ronnie walked out of the bathroom. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Nope," I replied, mostly confident I was right. "Like I said. It's just a mid-life crisis."
Ronnie leaned against the bed post. "He seems a little old for that."
I nodded.
"And these sad songs don't sound like his normal kinda thing." Ronnie grinned. "Remember Albany? Right after his mother passed?" He rubbed a bare arm. "I still get goose pimples when I think of him dancin' to all that Motown music."
I nodded.
"Any other symptoms of a mid-life crisis?"
I grinned. "He wants to go visit the French station down in Antarctica."
Ronnie's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. "What?"
"If we go, we can't go until December since it's winter down there right now."
Ronnie nodded as if I was crazy. "Sure. Yeah." He ran his hand through his hair. "And I guess it's dark, right?"
"Definitely."
"The French station? Why not American?"
"Remember, we're citizens of both. And when we met with President Giscard d'Estaing"—I mumbled through his name like I always did since my French was terrible—"right after he was elected in '74, he promised Carter we could go."
"Of course," said Ronnie. "Why, just the other day I was talkin' to President Carter about goin' to the moon." He rolled his eyes.
Nick Williams Mystery Series
In 1953, the richest homosexual in San Francisco is a private investigator.
Nick Williams lives in a modest bungalow with his fireman husband, a sweet fellow from Georgia by the name of Carter Jones.
Nick's gem of a secretary, Marnie Wilson, is worried that Nick isn't working enough. She knits a lot.
Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, is Nick's friend and lawyer. He represents the guys and gals who get caught in police raids in the Tenderloin.
Lt. Mike Robertson is Nick's first love and best friend. He's a good guy who's one hell of a cop.
The Unexpected Heiress is where their stories begin. Read along and fall in love with the City where cable cars climb halfway to the stars.
Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mahjong over tea.
Nick & Carter Holiday Series
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is a series of short stories with each centered around a specific holiday.
From New Year's Day to Boxing Day, each story stands on its own and might occur in any year from the early 1920s to the first decade of the 21st Century.
Saturday Series Spotlights
Author Bio:
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Gay Freedom Day, 1977 #13
No comments:
Post a Comment