A Nick & Carter Holiday #5
Tuesday, February 11, 1975
Nick and Carter are in New Orleans, the Big Easy, for their first trip to Mardi Gras!
When Nick first opens his eyes that morning, he realizes he has a big hangover and no memory of what happened the night before.
Over a breakfast of coffee and grease, Miss Wanna Man, a local drag queen in the French Quarter, swings by to give Nick the Tea and let him know to watch his back. Apparently, he's insulted Mr. Reginald Beauregard Jackson, III, who lives in the Garden District and that could mean bad news for Nick.
It's an adventurous Fat Tuesday for Nick and Carter as they are confronted by the past and help a new friend embrace his future as only someone under Nick's matchmaking spell really can.
As they say down in New Orleans, "Laissez les bons temps rouler!"
As I mentioned in my review for their Valentine's Day adventure, there is not much more that I can say about this pair and series without spoiling it for other newcomers. Even though these shorts jump around through their journey's timeline, each one gives us more insight into who Nick Williams and Carter Jones is and why they so perfectly complete each other.
The couple meets some new people, explore the festivities, enjoy some quiet time(which I find brilliantly expressed and great to see an "older" couple doing so), and Butterfield's Mardi Gras, 1975 simply put is just a pure delight that makes you smile and believe in love and happiness.
RATING:
RATING:
835 Dumaine St.
New Orleans, LA 70116
Tuesday, February 11, 1975
Just past dawn
The thump-thump of a song was coming through the wall next to the bed as I opened my eyes. I looked at my watch. It was half past 6 in the morning. I put my left arm over my eyes to keep out the light.
I could feel the daiquiris from the night before sitting on my head like a heavy iron fist. And the thump-thump wasn't helping.
I banged on the wall. That didn't do anything other than make Carter turn over and ask, "What the hell, Nick?"
Carter Jones was my tall, muscular ex-fireman of a husband and he was sleeping next to me on the double bed in the second-floor bedroom of the little house we'd bought a few weeks earlier in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
"Damn hippies next door have their goddam record player too loud."
"Like I told you before, they're not hippies. They live on some commune in Tennessee."
I sighed and put my arm over my eyes, trying to block the blinding sunlight coming through the blinds. "They have dirty feet like hippies."
"Hippies are straight. These kids are gay. They call themselves fairies."
"I don't care if they fuck sheep, they're dirty. And they woke me up."
Carter laughed and kissed me on my belly. "You'll feel better once you get some coffee. Let's head over to the Clover Grille and get some grease."
I asked, "Do you have a hangover?"
"No, son, because I remembered to take aspirin last night. I tried to give you some, but you told me to go fuck myself."
I laughed, which hurt. "Did you?"
Carter pulled on my right arm and said, "Get up. I'm hungry."
I sat up and covered my eyes. "It's so bright in here."
"You must be hurtin', son, cause it's foggy outside."
"Ugh," was the only answer I could come up with right then.
. . .
As we staggered down Dumaine Street, I asked, "What did we do last night?"
Carter put his arm around my shoulder. "Well, we went to one of those private parties in the Garden District."
"We did?"
"Yep. And you guzzled way too many daiquiris and that's why you feel like hell."
As I kicked a brown beer bottle into the street and winced from the sound of it clanging, I asked,
"What time did we go to bed?"
"A little after 11."
Right then, we walked past the open doors of Lafitte's in Exile, a gay bar at the corner of Bourbon Street where we'd had some swell times, particularly on a trip back in '62. The song playing over the loudspeakers was "Get Dancin'" by Disco-Tex and the Sex-O-Lettes. It had been one of the songs playing everywhere we'd gone in the past couple of days.
As we stood at the corner and waited for a long line of sanitation trucks to make their way past, I got a big whiff of what I had decided to call "New Orleans During Mardi Gras." It was a mix of stale cigarette smoke, stale beer, stale vomit, and disinfectant. My stomach turned so I held onto Carter's arm.
He put his hand on mine. "You OK there, Boss?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Doesn't the smell get to you?"
He laughed. "Haven't you seen me putting Vicks under my nose?" By then the trucks had rumbled past. We carefully stepped into the trash-riddled street.
"Is that what's in that little tube?"
"You got it. I can't smell anything but eucalyptus and camphor or whatever the hell they use."
As we made our way through the front door of the Clover Grille, I saw Henry and Robert sitting in the back booth. Henry Winters was Carter's first lover and a good friend to us both. Robert Evans was his lover and the man who managed my real estate among other things. They'd been together for 22 years. Carter always claimed Henry and I looked alike which was ridiculous since Henry was much more handsome than me.
As we moved towards the back of the room, I could see that was Robert was his usually cheery self. But Henry looked as bad as I felt.
We slid in across from them as the waiter walked up. He asked, "Coffee and water?"
I asked, "Any chance for an Alka-Seltzer?"
Carter jumped in and said, "Nope. Just bring us coffee and water. And we're ready to order, if that's OK."
The waiter, a dark-haired kid with a short haircut smiled at Carter. "Sure thing, Daddy. What'll it be?"
"Two eggs over easy, chewy bacon, crispy hash browns, buttered rye toast. And two of those. One for me and one for my husband, here."
As the waiter wrote down our order, he raised an eyebrow. "Husband?"
"Yeah," I replied. "And I'm in pain."
"Well," snapped the waiter. "I'll get right on that." He turned on his heel and called out our order as he walked towards the kitchen.
I looked at Henry who shook his head. "Nick, you better hope that he doesn't spit in your food."
I tried to grin, but it hurt too much. "I don't think spit is gonna hurt the food here."
Robert asked, "So, did you two go to that private party last night?"
Carter nodded. "Yep. I wish you guys had come with us instead of staying in. Believe it or not, we were the youngest guys there."
"We were?" I asked.
Pointing at me with his left thumb, Carter said, "This one doesn't remember a thing. He had about five daiquiris too many."
I groaned and slouched down in the booth. "Be nice to me, Carter Jones."
"I am being nice to you, Nicholas Williams. I ordered your breakfast for you. And I warned off the waiter. What more do you want?"
"A kiss on the cheek."
Carter turned and did just 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.
Mardi Gras, 1975 #5
