A Nick & Carter Holiday #10
Sunday, May 12, 1978
It's 3 in the morning and Carter is dancing the night away at the Trocadero Transfer.
Nick, being his dutiful husband, is along for the ride.
Truth be told, Nick never wanted to rock around the clock back in the 50s and he certainly doesn't wanna get down and boogie, either. Whatever happened to dancing cheek-to-cheek?
So, while Carter wows the crowd with his shirtless gyrations, Nick chats with friends who stop by as he maintains his perch upstairs and keeps an eye on the show happening down on the dance floor.
As time drags on, however, Nick decides to have a seat and maybe rest his eyes for just a moment...
Before long, he's in Paris with his Uncle Paul and watching Josephine Baker do the Charleston.
This Mother's Day will be one Nick will remember for a long, long time.
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is the tenth in a series of short stories all centered around specific holidays.
Each story is a vignette that stands on its own and takes place from the 1920s to 2008.
Anywho. Thinking of the entries I have read, I would say Mother's Day, 1978 is one of the most heart-filled so far. I say "heart-filled" because I found it equally heartwarming and heartbreaking. While Carter enjoys himself on the dancefloor during their monthly date night at the Trocadero Transfer, Nick sits in the balcony above and finds himself dozing peacefully where he spends time with his Uncle Paul and others who pop up in his dream. There he finds perhaps a sense of closure but also wakes with an equal sense of clarity that he needs to address.
Perhaps I'm not making much sense but in trying not to give anything away I'm finding it a bit difficult to express the emotions Nick finds himself facing in both his dream and waking state. So maybe I'll simply say this: Frank W Butterfield brought tears of sadness and joy to my eyes with Mother's Day, 1978 and in doing so, I can't find a better way to express how amazing this short story is, it may just be my favorite Nick and Carter Holiday entry yet.
RATING:
Trocadero Transfer
520 4th Street
San Francisco, CA 94107
Sunday, May 14, 1978
2:46 a.m.
"Nice to see you out, tonight, Nick."
I looked at the smiling man next to me and smiled back. The man's name was Dick Collier and he owned the place. He was a little shorter than me, with curly black hair, a Castro clone mustache, and bright blue eyes. He was wearing what looked like a red satin track suit. The top was unzipped, with no shirt underneath, and revealing a chest of black hair but not a lot.
"Looks like a nice crowd," I observed. We were standing at the railing overlooking the dance floor.
He nodded. "I think we've finally got that family feeling I always dreamed of."
"Definitely," I replied as I stifled a yawn.
"How's your father doing?"
I took a deep breath. "He's could be better, but he's hanging in there."
"I saw in Herb Caen that he left the hospital."
I chuckled. "More like they kicked him out last Monday. But he's at home. Our home. We set him up in our bedroom in the bed my grandfather built and there's a battle-axe of a nurse who's in charge of a small army catering to his every whim. He tries to be difficult, but she doesn't take any of his guff."
"Where are you and Carter sleeping?"
"On the third floor."
"Wish him well for me."
I smiled. "I will."
We looked at the dance floor for a moment before Dick asked, "Who are the studs Carter is dancing with?"
"Jerry is the blond. Bill is the brunet. They moved here back in January."
"Are they a couple?"
"Yeah. They met during Mardi Gras back in '75. Jerry just got out of the Navy."
"There he goes," said Dick, leaning over the railing to watch the next part of the floor show.
I laughed as the crowd dancing around Carter began to whoop it up. He'd just taken off his shirt and was twirling it in the air.
"Man," said Dick, "if I didn't know he was in his 50s, I'd think he was twenty years older.
"The white hair on his chest kinda gives him away, doncha think?"
Dick laughed. He turned to look at me. "Do you mind if we talk a little business?"
"Sure."
"The way things are going, Nick, I think I'll be able to pay you back by the end of next year."
"No rush on my end."
He frowned a little and then turned to look at the crowd dancing below. "I hate being in anyone's debt."
I looked at him for a long moment. He was in love with the Troc. It was his baby. Since it had opened, it had become the kind of place he'd dreamed of. It felt like a home, of sorts. I knew it was the only place anywhere in the world where I was willing to show up after 2 in the morning and hang out with Carter while he danced shirtless to the latest disco tunes.
Dick had built something special that was filled with a kind of magic I'd rarely ever seen. Although they were nothing alike, I always thought of the old Black Cat on Montgomery whenever we walked in the doors. That was another place that, once upon a time, had that same kind of magic.
So, looking at Dick and seeing how much he was in love with the music and the crowd and the sound system that had cost a hundred grand and was worth every penny, I made up my mind. It was something I'd wanted to do when he'd first asked me to be a silent partner in the club and, instead, I'd offered to loan him as much money as he needed at no interest. I liked the guy and knew whatever he did with the place would be successful. And I'd been right. He was more successful than anyone in the City thought he would be. And that was a good thing.
I squeezed his shoulder. "Dick?"
He looked at me. "Yeah, Nick?"
"You don't owe me a thing."
His blue eyes widened. "But..." He began to frown. "But that promissory note—"
"Forget about it. It's canceled. Paid in full."
He stared at me for a long minute before finally asking, "How do you make any money if you just give it away?"
I shrugged. I'd never once understood how I'd become so rich and, at 55, wasn't interested in figuring it out. Carter and I had more money than we could ever spend in a thousand years. Giving it away was one of my favorite things to do. My lawyers and accountants would have to figure out a way to do it so that Dick wouldn't owe any taxes, but they knew every (legal) trick in the book.
He leaned in. "Are you sure?"
I grinned and kissed him on the cheek. "Positive." Thinking of one my favorite people, I waved my hand like Roz Russell in Auntie Mame and said, "Now, circulate, darling, circulate."
He kissed me back and, before heading down the spiral staircase that led to the dance floor, said, "I'll never forget this, Nick. I promise."
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.
Mother's Day, 1978 #10
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