A Nick & Carter Holiday #16
Monday, September 5, 1960
It's Labor Day morning and Nick and Carter are flying into Detroit for a one-night stay at the Sheraton-Cadillac Hotel downtown.
Senator John F. Kennedy is in town to kick off the final leg of his presidential campaign by giving the traditional Labor Day speech right there in the Motor City.
Back home, Nick has been working hard raising money and campaigning for his favorite candidate. He wants California to vote for the Democrat in 1960 and is doing what he can to speed the plough.
But when they get to their hotel in Detroit, nothing quite works out for Nick or Carter.
They can't get into their room.
Senator Kennedy won't meet with them.
At least not together.
To top things off, a woman with a connection to their past suddenly shows up in the lobby and is demanding to be seen by Nick.
Mob bosses, angry wives, and nymphomaniacs are just some of what crawl right out of the Danish modern woodwork in Detroit's newly renovated and up-to-date downtown hotel with the most uncomfortable furniture and ugliest color scheme Nick has ever seen.
Join Nick and Carter, won't you, for another thrilling holiday escapade!
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is the sixteenth in a series of short stories and novellas all centered around specific holidays.
Each story is a vignette that stands on its own and takes place from the 1920s to 2008.
I'm huge historical lover when it comes to both reality and fiction but I'll honestly admit I tend to not seek out stories from the 1960s & 1970s, there is plenty of great stories set in those decades it's just that I gravitate towards older decades, post-WW2 and older. And of course as I was born in 1973, despite having absolutely no problems with my upcoming 50th birthday in October, I find it a bit disconcerting to think of the 70s and historical in the same sentence😉. Labor Day, 1960 has just enough mayhem, drama, humor, snark, and heart to draw me in and of course there's the right balance of cuddle between our MCs to leave you with no doubts of their unending love for each other. Butterfield's Labor Day reminds me of the amazing stories I'm probably missing out on by shying away from the 60s and 70s. Nick and Carter's full length stories just keep getting higher and higher on my TBR list.
A little side note: Senator Kennedy had spoken at the UW-River Falls in Western Wisconsin in November 1959 and was back for a campaign stop a few months later in March 1960. River Falls is my hometown, my dad recalls "the fuss of him being here" but not much else as he would have only been 8, we may be a college town but even now we're only a city of less than 20,000 people so it's always been a "big deal" of his stop here. Now Detroit is obviously a bigger city than River Falls(especially in terms of 1960) but in fiction when authors use historical facts and they have location options, it's so often not the upper Midwest so I applaud Mr. Butterfield for that element.
RATING:
RATING:
Sheraton-Cadillac Hotel
1114 Washington Boulevard
Detroit 31, Mich.
Monday, September 5, 1960
Half past 8 in the morning
Carrying a valise with enough clothes for a quick overnight trip, I led Carter through the crowded lobby and towards the front desk of the hotel. Getting inside had required a chat with a local cop. That only made sense. Senator Kennedy was staying at the place, after all.
"Yes, sir?" asked a perky gal of about 30.
"My name is Nick Williams. I believe you have a room reserved for me."
The woman frowned a little. "One moment, sir."
Behind me, Carter asked, "Problem?"
"She does have to look us up, you know."
He whispered, "You're cruisin', son."
I snorted and then noticed that the gal was talking to a man who had was likely the front office manager. He glanced at me and then the two of them disappeared behind the blond wood partition.
"Kinda snazzy place they got here," commented Carter.
I looked around. The room was bright. That was thanks to the massive wall of frosted glass behind the wood partition. I didn't like the primary color, however, and I said as much. "Too much green."
"Too much Danish modern," added Carter.
I nodded.
Since I owned a handful of hotels (one in Paris, two in Nice, and one in San Francisco), I had some opinions about their design. "Modern but comfortable," was my motto.
The lobby was definitely modern—almost too modern. But all the blond furniture looked a little stiff. Beyond Carter's shoulder, I saw a couple of women who were obviously wearing girdles shifting in their seats as if they couldn't find a comfortable way to sit. I'd have installed deeper and wider chairs and sofas. Then again, maybe the management didn't want people to spend too much time in the lobby. That said, I wondered whether—
"Mr. Williams?"
I turned around. "Yeah?" It was the man the first gal had been talking to.
"I'm Mr. Garfinkle, the front office manager." He was a bit on the short side, probably around 5'5" or so, had thinning black hair pasted down with some sort of goop, and a thin black mustache. When he smiled, his teeth made it clear he drank a lot of coffee and smoked a lot of cigarettes. He was dressed to the nines, however, with an impeccably ironed morning suit with a striped white and silver tie under a light gray vest and black coat and trousers. A yellow rose in his buttonhole completed his outfit.
"Nice to meet you," I said with a smile.
He nodded. "The pleasure is mine, sir." He gave me a professional frown. "We have you reserved for the Cadillac Suite. I'm afraid it's not ready." Garfinkle looked at me, silently pleading with his brown eyes but not offering any alternative.
We'd specifically booked the suite for check-in at 8 a.m. and paid extra, in advance, for the privilege. I wanted to mention that, but the man's sad eyes made me keep my mouth shut.
I could only imagine the jam Garfinkle was in. Senator Kennedy was in town, staying at the same hotel, and ready to start off the final stretch of the presidential race. Detroit was the traditional spot for Democratic candidates to give a good, rousing speech on Labor Day. Kennedy had three scheduled for the day, in fact. Or that was what I'd heard.
I was trying to think of something when Carter leaned over my shoulder and said, "That's OK. We can have some coffee in the restaurant."
Garfinkle gave him the kind of smile that only someone in pain ever gives. "I called the restaurant and our breakfast room. There are significant waits in both."
"What about a diner nearby?" I asked.
The man shook his head. "I can only imagine that they're all in the same shape. The senator will be speaking at Cadillac Square, which is just a few blocks away. All of this part of downtown, as you likely saw, is simply mobbed."
I tried to hide my disappointment when I said, "We can always wait here in the lobby."
Garfinkle suddenly looked hopeful.
"How about another room?" asked Carter.
"We were sold out last night."
"We don't need the room to be clean." Carter clapped my shoulder. "Nick, here, owns four hotels of his own, including the Mark Hopkins in San Francisco. We've both pitched in for the housekeeping maids a time or two." That wasn't strictly true, but it was close enough.
That was obviously not news to Garfinkle. He just smiled at me, but his eyes were still pleading.
Then it hit me. Whoever they'd put in the suite was still in there. And it must have been an honest mistake. There was nothing to do but wait, so I said, "Have someone page us when the suite is ready. We'll be out in the lobby."
"If we can find a place to sit," whispered Carter.
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.
Labor Day, 1960 #16
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