Summary:
Wednesday, June 16, 1954
Construction on the new twenty-story building for Consolidated Security at the corner of Market and Montgomery is ahead of schedule, thanks to Henry and Pam. Nick is looking forward to his office on the nineteenth floor. The twentieth floor is designed to be a restaurant. He's hoping for French or Italian. Carter wants something with less garlic.
But then an unknown man falls from the top of the steel skeleton and things grind to a halt.
When Henry gets a late-night call warning him and Nick to not investigate, Mike takes action to protect them both but Nick gets a late-night visit from some wiseguys and it doesn't end well... for them.
That's just the beginning of a tale of mobsters, refugees, and The Old Poodle Dog that twists and turns its way to a thrilling conclusion.
In the end, it's an adventure for Nick, Carter, and the whole gang in the City we love the most: Baghdad By The Bay.
Approximately 62K words. Includes historical fiction, gay history, gay rights, M/M romance, mystery, adventure, mafia.
Summary:
Monday, July 5, 1954
Mildred's Diner just isn't the welcoming place it once was. Looking forward to a nice breakfast, including that chewy bacon that Nick and Carter both love, they're asked to leave. Mildred has gone back to Texas and word is they "ain't welcome."
But it's a sunny July day, so Nick puts the top down on the Roadmaster and they head across the Golden Gate to Sausalito for eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. But it seems like trouble follows them along the way and, before they know it, Nick and Carter are sitting in jail for vagrancy.
After making bail, the whole team is on the job figuring what the heck is going on in sleepy Sausalito while also chasing down the missing Mildred, who may have been kidnapped or worse!
The Mangled Mobster #7
Construction on a new office building, waiting to open their new offices on the top floor, what could possibly go wrong? As if you had to ask? It is Nick and Carter, after all.
There has been so much going on in my life this year, so many changes, so much stress and anxiety and unfortunately, even though books continue to be a relaxing step outside my life factor, finding the time and energy I want reviewing said books have become harder. So this will be shorter than it deserves.
Nick and Carter are still just a joy to read. Scratch that. You don't just "read" them, you experience them. You may not feel the danger physically but emotionally every single ounce jumps from the page and seeps into every pore. Their ever-growing but always-true, found family is everything most of us want, be it our inner or outer circle, you know they won't let the guys down and the guys won't let them down in turn. Honestly, as much as the mystery grabs me, it's that connection and devotion to their people that makes these a must read for me. I may not get to read them as much as I'd like, I enjoy every minute of them when I do.
With this entry, as it often does on some level, mystery and family intertwine, once the mob appears to have a role, Nick and Carter are given a blow when their home is destroyed which leads them to move into Nick's childhood home, or as it's often referred to: "the pile of rocks on the hill". A temporary scenario that could become permanent, will that weaken or strengthen the men's relationship with Nick's father? Will it help or hinder their search for what(and/or who is responsible) happened to the man who fell from their still-in-construction new office building? You'll have to read that to find out but I promise, you will enjoy every minute of The Mangled Mobster.
The Iniquitous Investigator #8
Once again, a typical, nothing special kind of day turns into something bigger for the guys and their friends. Breakfast across the bridge should be harmless but it's Nick and Carter, you know there will be nothing "easy" about this trip😉.
As I stated in my review for The Mangled Mobster, my daily stress levels are factoring into my time and energy for the reviews I want to write. I wish I could step outside myself to convey my love of the story, but unfortunately, it's just not happening right now.
There is so much going on in The Iniquitous Investigator, as it always does, one piece of info and/or action leads to another, and another, and another, etc. Watching the guys navigate each step is a delight and entertaining right to the end.
It's that breakfast mentioned above that leads to, well more than expected, along with the trouble they find themselves facing they might just end up collecting yet another member of their ever-growing found family. Who knows, maybe Nick's matchmaking skills might find a new victim😉. Despite all that the innocent breakfast leads to, the lads are determined to find out what happened to Mildred, the friendly and always welcoming owner of the diner they usually enjoy frequenting. It's that determination in the face of their own battles that speaks volumes to the kind of people they and their found family members are, which is one of the reasons I love these stories so much and conveys how much I recommend this story and overall series more than any words I could put here.
RATING:
The Mangled Mobster #7
Chapter 1
The Palace Hotel
Corner of Market and New Montgomery Streets
San Francisco, Cal.
Wednesday, June 16, 1954
Just before 10 in the morning
I pulled the Buick up in front of The Palace Hotel on New Montgomery Street. An older man, dressed in a red uniform, walked around and opened the door.
"Welcome to The Palace, sir. Are you checking in?"
"No. I'm only going to be here for an hour or so." I added, "For a meeting. Can you keep the car close by?" I pushed a folded ten into the man's gloved hand.
Without more than glancing at the bill, he tipped his hat, smiled politely, and replied, "My pleasure. It will be right here when you're ready to depart."
"Thanks," I said. "Keys are in the ignition." I quickly walked up the steps and into the hotel.
. . .
The Palace had a storied past. The great Caruso had performed Carmen the night before the earthquake of '06 and was jolted awake when the shaking started at 5 that morning. He was so outraged at the experience that he vowed to never return to San Francisco. And he never did.
The original Palace had survived the earthquake but was destroyed during the fire that followed. The current building had opened in '09 and it was a grand dame.
President Harding was once a guest. He died in his suite on the eighth floor back in '23 and under mysterious circumstances. There was a wiseacre at school who liked to say, "He didn't make it out alive." That really busted us kids up, every time, but the history teacher was never amused.
As I walked through the magnificent lobby and outside to the Market Street side of the building, I thought about my husband, Carter Jones, an ex-fireman and the love of my life. His captain at Station 3 used to start off meetings by saying, "Back in '06, it wasn't the earthquake, boys, it was the fire, so listen up..."
The doorman courteously opened the door for me and I walked out into the bustle of Market Street. The sidewalks were jammed with men and women on their way to who knew where. The street was crowded with cars and trucks trying to move around the streetcars. There was talk of building a subway under Market Street that would move the streetcars onto tracks underground. It sure would be faster for everyone concerned but it was hard to imagine the scene in front of me without the clanging bells of the streetcars.
"Hi, Nick."
My reverie was broken by Henry Winters, Carter's best friend, former lover, and someone he'd known since childhood. They'd moved to San Francisco together in '39 by driving cross country when that wasn't an easy thing to do. Carter claimed we looked alike but Henry had green eyes compared to my brown ones and he was easily more handsome. Besides, he had a scar that ran along the right side of his face. It was a parting gift from a German officer and accentuated his good looks.
We shook hands. He looked across the street and said, "The skeleton is almost finished. With any luck, we'll start installing the windows in two weeks."
We were both looking at the frame of a twenty-story office building that stood at the corner of Market and Montgomery. We hadn't come up with a name for it yet, so it was called 600 Market Street because that was the official address given the building by the post office. It was going to be a modern square glass tower on the triangular spit of land that was bordered by Market, Montgomery, and Post.
I had bought the land in November of the year before and asked Henry, an engineer, to manage the project of getting it built. Things were moving along quickly and we hoped to be done and moved in by the end of the year.
I held onto my hat as I craned my neck and looked up at the top. There was an American flag attached to the top of the building. All forty-eight stars were fluttering in the morning breeze. It was more of a thrill to see the building so far underway than I thought it would be. And the idea of having an office up on the nineteenth floor was exciting on top of that.
Consolidated Security, the private investigation and security firm I owned, would be using floors fifteen through nineteen. The twentieth floor was designed to be a restaurant. I was hoping for French or Italian. Carter wanted something with less garlic.
I asked, "Any new tenants?"
Henry replied, "I think so. But you have to ask Robert. He's handling all of that and I don't have time to keep track."
I nodded. Besides being Henry's squeeze, Robert Evans was my whiz-bang real estate manager. He took care of everything to do with the properties I owned, including leasing out the two airplanes I'd bought in the last year. One was a silver Lockheed Super Constellation, called The Laconic Lumberjack after a friend in Georgia. The other was a tan DC-7 that didn't have a name yet. Both were being used right now by some Hollywood muckety-mucks who were paying a reasonable rate for two captains, a stewardess, and the luxury of their own plane. But, I didn't keep track of who leased them and where they went any more than I tried to keep on top of who was a tenant in any of my buildings. In Robert's capable hands, my real estate business was going gangbusters.
We stood on the street for a moment more. I asked, "Wanna get some coffee?"
Henry looked at his watch. "Sure. I have about twenty minutes before I need to get back across the street."
I nodded and said, "I'm buying," as we walked back into the hotel.
. . .
The Pied Piper was the bar inside the hotel. I always felt more comfortable there than in the more famous and much larger Garden Court. Its name came from the Maxfield Parrish mural over the bar that depicted the Pied Piper of Hamlin in bright colors. The big chairs were covered in a pine green leather. The wood-paneled walls were stained a chestnut color. Like the Garden Court, the room was partially illuminated by a modest stained-glass skylight. Unlike the Garden Court, under its intricately-designed skylight and tables set among ostentatious planted palms, the Pied Piper was quiet and more like the kind of bar you'd find in the Pacific Union Club up on Nob Hill. Since it was the middle of the morning, the place was mostly empty, with one or two late risers drinking coffee and reading their newspaper.
Once we were seated and had ordered coffee, I asked Henry, "How are things between you and Robert?" The two had started going together back in November.
Henry's face brightened and he smiled. His green eyes twinkled as he said, "Good. I'm in love." He leaned in. "I'm even thinking of buying a house."
I smiled. "Where?"
"Not sure, yet. Maybe Eureka Valley. I'm ready to move out of the Tenderloin for good."
"Robert going with you?"
Right then, the waiter brought us our coffee. Henry poured some cream into his while I dropped two sugar cubes into mine. He contemplated his coffee cup for a moment. Finally, he looked up at me and said, "I hope he will." As he took a sip from his cup, I wondered what he wasn't saying. After a couple of beats, he said, "I want to tell you something, but I'm not sure how to say it."
"Just spill it. You can say anything to me, Henry." I really did love him. He was like the brother I never had. People on the street often asked if we were twins.
He smiled wanly. "Promise you won't get mad if I tell you?"
"Sure."
"It's just that..." He took another sip of his coffee. I had no idea why he was stalling, but I could wait. I was good at waiting for people to say what what they needed to say.
Finally, he said, "I'm really in love."
I nodded. "Yeah."
"I mean it. I..." He stared out across the empty room. "I... This..." He took another sip. I nodded.
"Well, Nick. It's like this. I love Robert more than Carter."
I laughed quietly.
"What?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Carter was your first love. And you were his. Of course, this is different."
"But, I've known Carter most of my life. I still love him--"
"Like I love you. As a brother."
Henry seemed to relax. "Yes. As a brother."
"Look, Henry. I couldn't be more happy for you than I am right now." I leaned in a bit. "I think this is great. You've been miserable for too long. And now you have a great guy. And you're both great together." I smiled and said, "Buy a house and move in together and be happy."
Henry looked at me as though I had said the magic words. "Thanks, Nick. I will."
. . .
Henry looked at his watch. "I need to get back." We both stood up as I dropped a five on the table and began to walk to the front of the room when a voice called out, "Paging Henry Winters."
A kid in a red uniform and a square cap was standing at the door of the bar. Henry raised his hand in response. The kid nodded and waited as walked over to him.
"I'm Henry Winters."
"You have a message Mr. Winters. You're needed back at the site urgently."
Henry looked at me. I shrugged.
"Was there anything else in the message?"
"No, sir. But I'm told it's very urgent."
Henry gave the kid a buck. I followed him as he quickly trotted to the door and out onto Market Street.
I could see two patrol cars parked along Market in front of the building. Dodging traffic, we quickly crossed the street and made our way to the construction entrance.
A policeman was standing in front of the gate waving off onlookers. As we approached, he said, "Sorry, sir. This is a crime scene."
Henry said, "My name is Winters. I'm the project manager." Pointing at me, he said, "This is the owner of the building."
The cop stepped back and said, "Go on through."
We raced down to a spot where several people, including two cops and a police lieutenant were gathered. Pam Spaulding, the site manager working for Henry, was holding her hardhat. She looked shocked and angry.
As we walked up, I could hear the lieutenant asking, "What about safety equipment?"
Pam was indignant. "Every man up there is tied off. But, you're not listening to me. This man isn't on the construction crew. I don't know who he is."
Henry walked up to Pam while I held back. "What happened, Pam?"
She turned on him and said, "I don't have a fucking clue other than this Joe fell from the twentieth floor. I don't know who he is. Do you?"
"Pardon me, sir." That was the lieutenant. "Who are you?"
Henry was looking down at the man on the ground. He turned and looked at me with an expression I didn't understand. Turning back to the lieutenant, he said, "My name is Henry Winters. I'm the project manager for this building site."
The lieutenant scribbled something on his notepad. He looked over in my direction and seemed to recognize me. He smirked and made another scribble.
I walked over and looked down at the man on the ground. He was somewhere around 40 and mostly bald. His empty eyes were looking at the sky. His arms and legs were pointed in all sorts of wrong directions. They were obviously broken. I noticed there were some red marks on his neck and that his tongue, almost blue, was hanging out of his mouth. He was dressed in a dark navy coat with trousers that matched. His red tie was undone, which I thought was interesting. He was also missing his left shoe.
I stood up and asked the lieutenant, "And you are?"
The man replied, "Lieutenant Greg Holland."
"Central Station?"
He nodded and made more notes. "So none of you recognize this man?"
I looked at the other men who were gathered around. I guessed they were all employees of Universal Construction, the firm that Pam and Henry had hired. All of them were shaking their heads.
. . .
Once the body had been removed, the lieutenant pulled Henry, Pam, and me into the temporary construction office which was cramped and only had enough room for two small desks.
Standing with his back to the door, Lieutenant Holland took a good look at each of us. He was right at six feet. His nose was broken and had the tell-tale red lines that indicated a heavy drinker. He had brown eyes and brown hair and reminded me of Andy Anderson, one of the guys at the office, in that he was handsome in a nondescript way. A casual onlooker would have trouble remembering any of his facial traits other than his broken nose. He was wearing a London Fog coat over a brown suit with a blue tie that was loose at the neck.
He asked, "Are you sure none of you know who that man is?"
I nodded and watched Henry and Pam. Henry seemed to know something but said, "I have no idea." Pam, who was still angry, said the same thing.
I looked at the lieutenant. "Do you know who he is?"
The lieutenant shrugged and changed the subject. "We've done as much as we can here. You're free to resume work." He put his notebook into his pocket, opened the door, walked down the steps, and was gone.
I asked Pam, "Do you want to go back to work?" It wasn't my question to ask but Henry seemed to be lost in thought.
She said, "Hell, yes. We're coming in ahead of schedule and I don't want that fucked up."
I smiled and said, "Well, don't let me stop you."
Henry didn't say anything. After a moment, Pam banged open the door, cussing under her breath, and was gone.
"Henry?"
He was looking at the floor. At the sound of my voice, he looked surprised to hear his name. "Yes?"
"Who was that man?"
"What man?"
I rolled my eyes. "The one who was strangled and dumped off the twentieth floor."
"Strangled?" Henry was still looking at the floor. He leaned against one of the desks and sighed.
"Yes. Those were rope burns on his neck. Who was he?"
"Johnny Russell. Riatti Supply. Concrete." Saying the words seemed painful. And it was understandable. Riatti was known to be operated by the local mob family, run by Michael Abati.
"Why didn't you tell the lieutenant?"
Henry shrugged. "I was embarrassed, I guess."
"Why?"
Henry looked up. His green eyes were worried. "He was here to collect his payoff."
I wasn't surprised that it was happening. But I was surprised to be hearing about it right at that moment and not earlier.
"How much?"
"Five thousand."
"Where was that kinda money supposed to come from?"
"A thousand from me and the rest from Universal."
I grabbed Henry by the shoulders and shook him. "What the fuck, Henry?"
This got his attention. "What?"
"Why are you only now telling me about this? You shouldn't have to pay any of it. That's my problem, not yours."
I let go of him. He looked down again. "That's how Mr. Bechtel handles it."
I laughed. "When your company gets to be the size of Bechtel, then you can handle it like that. You know a thousand bucks is nothing for me." I opened my wallet and pulled out ten hundreds.
He shook his head. "I was supposed to pay him after seeing you."
I put the cash back in my wallet. "So, do you have the whole stash that you were supposed to give this guy?"
Henry nodded. He took out a set of keys and walked over to a filing cabinet. The bottom drawer had a kind of modified padlock on the outside. Leaning over, he unlocked the drawer and pulled it open. He reached in and brought out a thick envelope. "Universal sent this over by messenger early this morning."
I asked, "Did you count it?"
Henry closed the drawer and stood up. "No."
"Did you even open it?"
He looked at me. "No. Why?"
"How do you know there's four grand in there?"
Henry shrugged. I laughed. "Son, you gotta learn how to be in the construction business. Always check. Always."
He handed me the envelope which was sealed with cellophane tape. I grabbed a pair of scissors off the desk and slit open the envelope. When I looked inside, I found a stack of newsprint cut to look like currency. I held out the envelope and said, "See?"
Henry sat down abruptly in the desk chair and put his head in his hands. I sat on the edge of the desk and said, "Rookie mistake. Don't sweat it."
Henry looked up, his face a picture of misery and moaned, "They didn't cover any of this when I was in school at Cal."
I laughed and said, "Buck up, cowboy. We need to go pay your friends over at Universal a visit. And we need to get there before the cops do." That reminded me of something. "Can I use the phone?" I asked.
Henry nodded glumly. "Sure."
I reached over, picked up the receiver, and dialed the office.
"Consolidated Security." It was Marnie, my gem of a secretary.
"Lemme talk to Mike."
"He ain't here, Nick. He's over at the North Station."
"The minute he gets back or, if he calls in, give him this message. Ready?"
"Shoot."
"Lieutenant Holland. Central Station. Unknown guy pushed off twentieth floor of 600 Market today around 10:15 or so. There's more, but I wanna tell him in person and after he's checked in with Holland. Got that?"
"Sure. Gruesome, huh?"
"Like a goddam pretzel."
"Gee, Nick."
"I know. Thanks, doll." I put down the phone and stood up. "Come on cowboy. Put on your hat and let's get saddled up. We have some cattle rustlers to chase down."
Henry smiled briefly, put on his hat, and we made our way through the construction site and out onto Market Street.
The Iniquitous Investigator #8
Prologue
The San Francisco Examiner
Page 12, Column 4
Monday, June 28, 1954
Needed: A Cleanup
The police department and the district attorney's office are to be commended for their initial effort in attempting to clean up an unwholesome condition in San Francisco.
The condition is marked by the increase of homosexuals in the parks, public gathering places and certain taverns in the city.
It is a bad situation.
It is a situation that has resulted in extortion and blackmail. Even worse, these deviates multiply by recruiting teen-agers.
It is true that complex medical and psychiatric problems are involved.
Eventually these may be solved and the problem eliminated.
But until that happens there must be sustained action by the police and the district attorney to stop the influx of homosexuals. Too many taverns cater to them openly. Only police action can drive them out of the city.
It is to be hoped that the courts here will finally recognize this problem for what it is and before the situation so deteriorates that San Francisco finds itself as the complete haven for undesirables. The courts heretofore have failed to support the arresting and prosecuting authorities.
Without the support of the courts, the police and the district attorney cannot attack the problem effectively.
Now, we need action.
We have had enough eye shutting.
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
Frank W Butterfield
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.
The Mangled Mobster #7
The Iniquitous Investigator #8
Nick Williams Mystery Series
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Nick & Carter Holiday Series
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