Nick & Carter Holiday #14
Sunday, July 4, 1976
It's America's Bicentennial! And it's a day the whole country has been anticipating for a while.
The original plan was for Nick and Carter to take some of the old gang out for a cruise around the bay and watch the day's fireworks up close once the sun sets.
Unfortunately, it's July in San Francisco and the forecast is for fog to settle in and not budge.
Fortunately, Nick comes up with a new plan and moves the festivities to a vacant apartment in a building he owns on Russian Hill that's above the fog line so that everyone can see the big, bright explosions celebrating the nation's independence!
Problem solved!
So, the 4th of July should be a walk in the park, right?
Well... between breakfast with a famous French director and actress, a Soviet defector who really doesn't like Nick, and a completely unexpected visitor from the past...
There might be a few metaphorical fireworks before the sun finally sets on the Golden Gate.
Still, at the end of the day, it's America's Bicentennial! Don't miss out on what promises to be great fun!
Another great short in the holiday journey of Nick and Carter, though this is probably a tad longer than the previous ones I've read. In 1976, I turned 3(though only 2 1/2 at the time of this short) so the events of the time don't really stand out for me but Frank W Butterfield tells Nick and Carter's Bicentennial celebration in a way that you can't help but feel you lived it with the pair.
I really won't say too much to the story itself but I will say I felt like had I read their original adventures I might know a few ins and outs when it comes to one of their surprise guests for the holiday. Having said that, I wasn't lost by any means, enough is revealed to the readers that details fall into place.
We meet old and new characters(well new to me not having read the originals yet) and together they all find a place to celebrate our country's bicentennial and as always, Nick and Carter have each other and they have yet again bumped up a notch on my TBR list.
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
Sunday, July 4, 1976
6:05 a.m. PDT
"Nick?"
I stretched and opened my eyes. Carter Jones, my tall ex-fireman of a husband, was looking down at me. Somehow, in the muted light of the foggy dawn, the blend of white, red, and blond hair was highlighted all over his beautiful body.
And, from where I lay in bed, he appeared to be wearing nothing but a pair of red shorts with a white racing stripe down the side. It was a tight pair and showed everything.
I figured he was also wearing his usual pair of white Adidas sneakers (with matching red stripes) and white athletic socks with a red trim. I leaned over to look and confirmed that I was right.
"This is the red workout set," he announced.
"Is the jock red?" I asked. During the previous couple of years, Carter had started wearing a jock strap when he worked out. That was a new thing for him.
He pulled the band of his shorts out a little with his thumb and showed me that it was white. "I'm not completely nuts, Nick."
I put my hands behind my back and grinned. "You coulda fooled me."
He rolled his eyes.
"The only reason you're dressing this way is because of the Russian kid you and Ferdinand are parenting."
Carter frowned. "Parenting?"
I rubbed some sleep out of one eye as I nodded. "Yeah. I'm convinced he defected because he saw a photograph of you back in..." I paused. "Where's he from?"
"Kiev. And he'd be the first to tell you that he's Ukrainian, not Russian."
I shrugged. "It's all Soviet to me."
Carter leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Brushing his lips over my cheeks, he asked, "Did Doris tell you what she's making?"
"Poached eggs served on a mushroom and rice pilaf. Waffles. Bacon. Ham and cheddar quiche."
"Sounds good. Anton is coming over in a minute. We're working out and then it'll be time to get ready for company."
I kissed him back. "I'm going back to sleep then."
. . .
"Parisians?" asked Uncle Paul as his ridiculous monocle glittered in the sunlight. "In my brother's house?"
I snorted. "Yes," I said, not bothering to hide my irritation. "There've been Parisians in that house before. Whole gangs of them, in fact." I looked out at the ocean. We were standing on the deck of our house up in Sonoma County.
Uncle Paul turned to look out at the ocean. "And, yet, you could be here instead."
"Ben asked us to host a brunch," I replied, "so we are."
"I find the entire idea of brunch to be one plainly devised by the bourgeoisie. Don't you agree, Nicholas?"
I didn't reply. There was nothing to say.
"The weather will be quite nice up here while you entertain your new friends in the dampness of the fog."
He was right. Even though he was dead, he was right. Even though he was annoying, he was right. The weather in the City was predicted to be miserably cold and damp and the bay would be socked in. So much for the Bicentennial fireworks.
I turned to look at him. I wondered how, with all the wind, his top hat stayed perfectly perched on his head. "Did you come all the way from the other side just to give me a weather report?"
He smiled. His mustache (which came and went, depending on his mood) was out in full force and twirling on its own like it sometimes did. "No, my dear Nicholas, I brought you here to remind you of the tale of Jacob and Esau."
I frowned. "That's from the Bible, right?"
His eyes danced with amusement as he replied, "Ask Carter all about it."
. . .
"Nick?"
I sat up.
Carter was sitting on his side of the bed, his back covered in sweat. He was peeling off his athletic socks. Without turning, he said, "Time to get up."
"Jacob and Esau..." Feeling like an idiot, I suddenly remembered who they were.
He stopped moving. "What about them?"
Jacob, the older of the two, had shot me on the front steps of The Ritz Hotel in Nice in July of 1957. After trying to kill me, Jacob had shot himself.
Thinking about that day made the spot in my shoulder where the bullet went in begin to throb a little. According to Carter, there was barely a scar there. And I rarely ever thought about what happened that day anymore. It had been 19 years, after all.
Although the bullet didn't do much damage, I lost a lot of blood, went into a coma, and had a weird dream where Uncle Paul took me to see myself at some point in the future. The future me had looked old, wrinkled, and shrunken.
I'd come through the experience with nothing more than a small scar on my back, but Jacob's father, Jean-Louis Auguste Tremont, half-brother of my own father, had a kind of mental breakdown afterwards. However, last I'd heard, he was still going strong and still as much of an asshole as he'd been in '57.
Turning to look at me, Carter asked, "Why'd you ask me about them?"
"I had a dream. Uncle Paul mentioned their names."
Carter looked at me for a long moment, his emerald green eyes searching my face. "What do you think it means?"
I shrugged and then reached over my shoulder to try to scratch the scar, which was beginning to itch. "Dunno. What do you think?"
He watched me struggle for a moment and then stretched out on the bed and patted his belly. I lay across it, feeling how sweaty it still was. Carter began to scratch the skin and rub the scar at the same time.
I purred a little. "I forgot how you used to do that, fireman. That feels good."
"I wonder whatever happened to Ésaü?" He pronounced the name like the French did.
"I don't have a clue."
He continued to rub and scratch. After half a minute, or so, of doing that, he said, "Actually, Nick, I think I know what happened to him."
I was too relaxed to care enough to ask.
. . .
After we'd showered, shaved, and dressed, I was leading Carter down the hallway to the stairs, when the doorbell rang.
"That should be Ben and Carlo," said Carter.
"Yeah," I replied.
By the time we got to the bottom of the stairs, Gustav, our butler and valet, had opened the door and let them in. Ben was looking pensive while Carlo was grinning.
We said our hellos and exchanged hugs. Gustav asked about drinks. We all put in for coffee. With that, he disappeared into the kitchen and I led everyone into the great room.
"How was the penthouse at the Mark Hopkins?" I asked.
"Nice as always," replied Ben. "We really could have stayed here, but we didn't make it into town until almost midnight."
"And we didn't need to stay in the penthouse," added Carlo.
I shrugged and got a good look at both of them.
Carlo, who was a little taller than me, never seemed to age. He had classic Italian features, including beautiful black eyes. His wavy hair was still black. I knew we were around the same age—53—so I figured he'd found someone in Beverly Hills or West Hollywood to make sure his hair stayed black. He also, somehow, had no wrinkles, other than little lines around his eyes when he smiled. I wondered if he'd had work done. They lived and worked in Hollywood. It wouldn't have surprised me one bit.
Ben, who was a little shorter than me, had visibly aged over the years since we'd met back in '53. His wispy blond hair had long ago turned white. And his face was full of wrinkles. In fact, he looked older than the rest of us even though we were all about the same age. I was probably to blame for that since he worked for me, managing Monumental, the movie and TV production company I owned.
"So," said Ben as we all stood around the fireplace, "I see nothing really changes around here."
I asked, "What do you mean?"
He pointed to the roaring fire. "It's the 4th of July."
I laughed as Carter pointed to the open doors which led out into the garden. "That's why."
"Never see anything like that at home," said Carlo.
Carter grabbed the poker. As he pushed a log back and let some sparks fly, he asked, "So Hollywood is home now?"
"We've lived there for 20-odd years, so yeah," replied Carlo.
Gustav arrived right then with coffee.
. . .
Once we all had our cups, Gustav retreated to the kitchen. Carlo and Ben sat next to each other on the sofa. I took the chair facing the front door. Carter put his cup on the coffee table and walked behind me, squeezing my shoulder as he passed by. "Music," was his only comment.
"Did you make a new tape?" I asked.
"Yep."
Carlo looked up at the ceiling. "Did you install those speakers we were talkin' about in April?"
"Yep," replied Carter as he knelt in front of the reel-to-reel tape deck he kept in a cabinet next to the bar in the dining room. "The whole house is wired now."
"Nice," said Carlo as he glanced at Ben over his cup of coffee.
"No, Carlo Martinelli," said Ben in a sour tone of voice, "you may not install speakers all over our house. I don't want to see a mess like that."
I looked at Ben, trying not to grin, and said, "All the wires are hidden."
"I don't care," said Ben as "Philadelphia Freedom" by Elton John began to play.
Carter walked over, grooving a little as he did. When Elton started singing, Carter began to lip synch.
Carlo put down his coffee cup, hopped up, and, in front of the fireplace, held his hand over his belly and made a sliding move.
Carter met him and the two did the bump a couple of times as Ben and I laughed.
"Can you follow?" asked my husband.
Carlo nodded and took Carter's offered hands. "Sure."
The two of them began to do a kind of modified boogie fox trot. Carter led him to the other side of the fireplace. Once they had the room to make the move, he dipped Carlo, quickly brought him back up, and then spun him around once.
It was an impressive thing to watch. Ben and I got up and both applauded. I tried to whistle. It didn't come out right. But no one seemed to notice.
Carter led Carlo to the other side of the room. He spun him around twice and then pulled Carlo in close. The two held tight and boogied in place.
Out of nowhere, Anton, dressed in his waiter's uniform, appeared and began to dance like he was on Soul Train. I knew he'd been watching the show religiously so he could figure out how to dance like all the kids his age did. I had to admit he knew his moves.
As all this went down, Ben and I were both dancing (neither of us were very good, to be honest) and clapping along with the rhythm of the song (or trying to).
Right then, Carter glanced over at me and let Carlo go. Carter said something I couldn't hear because of the music. But Carlo and Anton both nodded and then the three of them formed a line and began to do a synchronized move that reminded me of seeing The Spinners on TV a couple of years earlier. It was amazing and gave me a nice, warm feeling to watch my husband do another one of the thousand things he was naturally good at.
Then the song was over. Ben and I both applauded as Carter, Carlo, and Anton held hands and bowed. That was when I heard other people applauding. Turning, I saw Gustav, Ferdinand (his husband and our gardener and ersatz chauffeur), Doris (our cook), and Rachel (her latest girlfriend) all applauding. Doris whistled and then said, "Y'all should take that act on the road!"
We all laughed at that.
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.
Independence Day, 1976 #14
