Summary:
May 11, 1953
Nick Williams, a private investigator in San Francisco, receives a late-night call that his sister is dying following a freak car accident.
After rushing over to the hospital with Carter Jones, a fireman and the love of his life, he arrives just in time to say good-bye to the last member of his Nob Hill family he could stand to be around.
Once the cops get a chance to take a look at the car, it becomes obvious this was no accident.
It was murder.
And, with that, Nick is hot on the trail to bring his sister's killer to justice. And it's a trail that reveals plenty of surprising secrets about his sister and their family.
Will Nick be able to find the murderer and stop them before they can strike again?
Find out in the fast-paced adventures of the case of THE UNEXPECTED HEIRESS!
The Savage Son #6
Summary:Tuesday, December 15, 1953
Ivan Kopek is missing and his parents desperately want Nick's help. Ike, as he's known to his friends, is quickly found once Nick, Carter, and their pals are on the case. Unfortunately, Ike's in jail for a murder he didn't commit. And it was only because he didn't get the chance to do it himself.
Meanwhile, it's almost Christmas. Nick's least favorite time of the year.
But, Carter wants a Christmas tree and Dr. Parnell Williams, Nick's evil bastard of a father, has summoned them both to the mansion on Sacramento Street for Christmas day at 12 noon. And they're not to be late.
In the end, Christmas brings Nick & Carter a number of unexpected and life-changing packages, both big and small.
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.
The Unexpected Heiress #1
Original Review June 2024:
If you follow my reviews you'll remember that I first found myself introduced to Nick and Carter a couple of years ago in Butterfields' short story series, Nick & Carter Holidays. With each entry the full length tales inched further up my TBR list and this past March I read book #14, The Pitiful Player for my Oscars week theme. Loved it but it was in the middle so I decided what better time than for Pride should I start from the beginning? Seeing as there are currently 39 entries I'm sure there will still be some jumping about to fit different themes but right now I'm back at square one, The Unexpected Heiress.
The author does an amazing job at keeping things very much, or as close as possible, historically accurate. Yes, Nick's wealth leaves him a bit more leeway in his personal life that Joe Blow would not be given in the day but in his public dispute with Hearst, we see there are limits that even Nick may not be able to overcome. But boy does he try.
Due to the wealth and standing I mentioned above, Nick and Carter tend to collect people, well they don't "collect" them as that's just wrong on so many levels😉 but they do tend to find people who could very much need a friend and then through these new found friendships, N&C open them to opportunities they wouldn't otherwise have. You can imagine their found family grows and grows.
The Unexpected Heiress has so many elements that by themselves are great reading but combined all together and Frank W Butterfield has brought the combo of mystery, romance, drama, humor, and historical setting to a whole new level. Whether you love historicals or not, I highly recommend Unexpected Heiress, and though I've not read them all the Nick and Carter universe is amazing storytelling not to be missed.
Blogger Note for 1-3:
I'm glad I went to the beginning because at least for the first 3 I had opportunity to read now, there is a few things that linger from one story to the next. Would you be lost? Not really as the author does a wonderful job keeping the reader in the know but I'm glad I read it this way and not just because I'm typically a series read-in-order gal. The overall feel just meshed so perfectly.
The Savage Son #6
Original Review July 2024:
As it's Xmas in July I was in a holiday reading mood so i skipped ahead a couple of entries and read The Savage Son, the sixth entry in Frank W Butterfield's Nick Williams Mystery series. I want to start by saying as it was when I read #14 The Pitiful Player for my Oscar reads I wasn't lost but I could tell a few things that happened in entries #4 & #5 were still very fresh in Nick and Carter's minds but because of both inner and outer convos I knew enough info for context and yet not enough was retold to spoil going back(which I will over the next few weeks).
Now that I mentioned that, on to The Savage Son.
Carter wants Christmas and all the trimmings, the very things he's went without since meeting Nick as he knew Nick wasn't a fan but this year he wanted it. With some moments of secrecy not often displayed between the couple, Carter gets his Xmas but will it change Nick's thoughts on the holiday? Well I think you all know my answer to that: you have to read to find out😉.
The mystery is so brilliantly weaved throughout with many possible outcomes that before I knew it, the book was over and I was kicking myself for not slowing my pace to make the enjoyment linger. To me that feeling says it all and the epitome of reading greatness. Ivan has gone missing and his parents come to Nick to find him. Sounds simple, sounds straightforward but as we all know in the land of fiction, missing is rarely simple and even rarer to stay at just a missing person. So many twists and turns kept me guessing till nearly the reveal.
Now besides the "main" mystery, there is another unanswered scenario that Nick and Carter find before them. Nick's not-so-favored father, Dr. Parnell Williams, summoning both(and the inclusion of Carter adds even more ??? to the equation) men to his home on Christmas Day at Noon. I can't lie, having read the N&C Holiday short story series I maybe should have picked up on this sooner but I didn't and it knocked me sideways for a moment or two before smacking my head and saying "how did I miss that?".
I don't want to give too much away so I'll end it here but The Savage Son is a brilliant mystery, wonderful established couple romance, with friendships-turned-found-family at every corner, and it somehow manages to embody everything a Christmas tale should: heart. Savage Son may not fit the Hallmark-style holiday fare but it's definitely a delicious holiday treat.
The Mangled Mobster #7
Original Review June 2025:
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 Unexpected Heiress #1
Chapter 1
777 Bush Street, Third Floor
San Francisco, Cal.
Monday, May 11, 1953
Half past 10 in the morning
She walked through the door of my private office like she was gliding on air. Her curves were definitely in all the right places. The dress she wore made sure I knew it.
She removed the veil from her face and pinned it back on her hat, which was perched precariously on her upswept hair.
She sat down and leaned in, making sure I could see all the way down her ample cleavage.
As she sat there, I asked, "Would you like a cigarette?"
She smiled and nodded. I offered her one and she took it. I leaned over and lit it for her.
She pulled on it like she was finally getting a drink of water after a forced march in the desert. When she exhaled, she smiled at me and asked, "You work alone?"
I nodded. "How can I help?"
She looked down demurely as if there was one very specific way I could help.
I waited.
Finally, she looked up and said, "It's over between me and Johnny and I need some proof."
I took out a pad and pencil and began to make some notes. We went through the usual questions: her name, his name, how long they'd been married, her address, the hotel she thought he had been habituating of late, and, most importantly, the name of the other woman.
"Oh, but Mr. Williams, it ain't some dame, it's a guy." She spit out the last words like she'd just bit down on a sour pickle and couldn't wait to be rid of it.
I looked up and said, "Yeah?"
She nodded. "If I'd known Johnny was a fairy when I married him..." She looked up and shrugged.
"What? What would you have done?" I asked, keeping my voice level.
"You know. I would have told my pops and he would have had some of the guys down at his bar do a number on Johnny and let him know what's what."
I stood up and put on my coat.
She made an "O" with her mouth. I guessed that was her way of expressing shock or maybe astonishment.
"Wait. How much do I owe you?"
"Not a thin dime, miss."
"Really? You work for free?"
"Oh no," I said as I put on my hat and extended my hand to help her stand up. "I don't work for free."
"I'm confused."
"No, you're not. You're just angry. You thought he loved you but you knew all along he wasn't the right man. Why did you even marry him?"
Now she was angry. She refused my hand and stayed planted in the chair.
"I had to get out of Pop's house, didn't I?"
"Well, they have wonderful residential hotels for women these days. Or so I'm told. You get three squares, a comfortable bed, and bath down the hall all at an affordable price. Daily, weekly or monthly rates offered."
She giggled. "You're funny."
"No miss. What I am is a homosexual and I don't work for clients who aren't polite and can't even talk about their soon-to-be ex-husbands without calling them words like 'fairy' or 'fruit'."
She stood up haughtily. "I should have known you was one of them. There oughta be a law."
"There is one in most states of our great nation. Now, can I walk you to the elevator while I give you a couple of names to call on? These are gentlemen who will be happy to help you. And they won't care what you call your husband as long as you pay up front and cover their daily incidentals."
She stopped at the door and turned on me. "So, what you're sayin' is that since I called Johnny a fairy, you ain't gonna help me?"
"That's right, miss."
"Well, I never!"
"Well, now you have."
We walked into the front office. I saw Marnie shaking her head as I opened the door.
I walked her down the dark, little hallway to the ancient, creaky elevator and gave her the names of some of the cheaper, but still good enough, private detectives I knew who would gladly help her out.
As the door closed, I lifted my hat and heard her giggle.
I walked back to my office and looked at the letters that had been recently been painted on the frosted glass:
Nicholas Williams
Private Detective
Licensed and Bonded
PR-7777
10 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.
And By Appointment
I sighed and thought about all the money I'd spent to get this office, hire Marnie, get that particular phone number, and even have the glass painted.
Not that it really mattered. I didn't need to work. I had what my friend and attorney Jeffery Klein called, "An unbreakable trust." It was left to me by a venerable great-uncle who, from all accounts, put the word "gay" in the "Gay Nineties" that San Francisco was infamous for.
He was a rake of the worst sort and, apparently, saw the tendency in me, and so skipped everyone else and their outstretched hands and landed the whole pile in my lap at the tender age of 21.
I was surprised and shocked by the bequest. I'd only met old Uncle Paul once, but, as I later learned, he'd been keeping a watchful eye on me through the stormy years of my misspent youth before I'd enlisted in the Navy and gone off to fight for freedom, democracy, and the American Way.
My shock turned to unsurprised disgust when every relative, near and far, decided to sue. The California dockets were cluttered for about five years with the details of Uncle Paul's sordid life and the injustice of handing untold millions over to a kid of 21.
Learned judges rebuked Uncle Paul in writing, and at great length, for his lascivious ways. They lectured me about squandering my inheritance in similar fashion. But, in the end, they had all thrown up their hands and declared the trust was valid and the inheritance was mine to do with as I wanted.
When the whole gang of relatives got together and appealed to the California State Supreme Court, the case was thrown back at them, with a vengeance, and they were told to go home and nurse their wounds.
And they did. None of them, my own father included, would now talk to me and, from what I'd heard, my name was never mentioned on Nob Hill or even down in Hillsborough where some of the younger family members were relocating to build their mansions on vast, two-acre spreads.
I opened the door and saw Marnie standing there, hands on her hips. "So, you threw another one out, didn't you?"
I took off my hat and said, "Don't harass me, Marnie. You know I don't need the work."
"Yeah, I know. You don't need the work. But you go a little stir when you ain't got the work and I love working here.
"Oh! The characters that come through that door give Mother and me a chuckle. It's better than anything on the radio or the TV.
"But, lord! I can't sit here, knitting my hands till they bleed, and watch you slowly go crazy."
I smiled at her and said, "You're a real friend, Marnie."
"Well, I ain't the only one you got. That Klein, he wants to talk to you. Seems like he's got a case for you. And it's the Polk Street kind."
I put my hat back on my head, gave Marnie a quick kiss on the cheek, and said, "Thanks doll. See you later."
The Savage Son #6
Chapter 1
Offices of Consolidated Security
777 Bush Street, 3rd Floor
San Francisco, Cal.
Tuesday, December 15, 1953
Just before 10 in the morning
I sat at my desk and stared off into space. The day was chilly, and I was glad I hadn't taken off my coat when I walked into the office. I tried to read the letters on my desk, but nothing was getting through.
Carter Jones, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman of a husband was mad at me. We'd had a fight the night before, and I ended up sleeping in the front bedroom. I wanted to invite his mother to town for Christmas, and he didn't. Somehow, in the heat of it all, the argument became a repeat of a standing disagreement we had about my father. I was still simmering. And I was hurt. And I didn't like sleeping alone.
Over breakfast, we were cool. He kissed me once we were in the car. But we were quiet on the drive to the office. He dropped me off and Carlo Martinelli, one of our co-workers, got in and the two of them headed north across the Golden Gate Bridge to the small town of Novato.
They were going up there to meet a deputy sheriff and to look over the remains of a suspicious house fire. Consolidated Security, the company we'd founded back in the summer, offered help to local towns and villages with investigations, including arson. Carter and Martinelli had been firemen together in San Francisco at Station 3 before they'd been fired in May for associating with a known homosexual, myself to be precise.
I was still in reverie when I heard Marnie, the best secretary a guy ever had, knock on my office door.
"Nick!"
"What, doll?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm just thinking. What's up?"
"Don't forget you got a 10 o'clock today."
I nodded. "Right. Thanks for the reminder. You got any coffee for me?"
"Sure." She walked over to the side of the front office. I could hear her as she poured the coffee from the percolator and stirred in a couple of sugar cubes.
She walked through the office door, handed over the cup, and stood there looking at me.
"What?"
"You gonna tell me what's really goin' on?"
I took a sip of my coffee, stalling for time. Right then, the front door opened.
Marnie gave me the eye, turned, and walked over to greet the visitor. I heard a few murmurs and then watched as a middle-aged man, about 5'9" tall with gray hair, light blue eyes, and a strong jawline, walked into my office. He was dressed in an everyday suit of clothes that had seen better days but was neat and pressed.
I stood up. "Mr. Kopek?"
The man nodded, hat in hand. "Yes." He didn't look like he wanted to shake, so I didn't offer.
"I'm Nick Williams. Have a seat."
"Thank you."
His speech was clipped, and his accent sounded German or maybe from someplace east of Germany. As he sat down, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. Instead of putting it back in his pocket, he held it in his hand as if he was expecting to need it again.
"So, how can I help you?"
"It's my son."
I nodded. I preferred to ask as few questions as possible and let the client do all the talking.
"He's missing."
I waited.
"And I want you to find him for me." He paused. "Please." His voice was quiet but desperate.
"Have you notified the police?"
"No! No police!"
"Why not?"
"Well, you see—" He stopped and looked around. "He, my son, he is like you. And, I don't want the police to be involved. I don't want him to go to jail."
I nodded. "When you say he's like me, do you mean that he's a homosexual?"
The man wiped his face again. "Yes."
"Can you describe your son?" I pulled out a pad and a pencil.
"He's a good boy, Mr. Williams."
I smiled. "I'm sure he is. But, what does he look like?"
"Oh, yes. Well, he is six feet tall and he weighs one hundred and eighty pounds. More or less. Probably more now. He is, how do you call it?" He thought for a moment. "He is a weight builder?"
"He lifts weights?"
"Yes, that is it. He lifts weights."
"How old is he?"
"He is 23 a week ago." The man's face clouded over.
I waited for about half a minute while Mr. Kopek tried not to cry. I pulled out a package of Camels and offered one to the man. He took it.
"Thank you." He reached into his coat, pulled out a box of matches, and lit his own cigarette. I did the same with my old beat-up Zippo.
After we'd both taken a deep drag, he said, "My son disappeared the day of his birthday. He had been with me at the store in the early morning, helping me with the plumbing and, when we finished, he said he was going to meet his friend." The man paused. "I think it is his special friend."
I nodded and waited.
"When he did not come home the next day, my wife and me, we did not know what to think. We waited until the noon and then we decided to go visit his other friend, the special friend from before, that we knew where he worked. But he did not know anything." Mr. Kopek shook his head slowly as he took another drag on his cigarette.
I asked, "And you haven't heard anything since?"
"No. Nothing."
"What is the name of the friend you went to see?"
"He is Randy Robbins. He works at Ernie's. Do you know it? Very expensive."
I nodded. Carter had taken me to Ernie's the night before Halloween. It had been a wonderful evening, full of champagne and laughter. Or, at least that's the little I could remember. It was all a blur. A very pleasant blur.
Snapping back to the present, I asked, "And, do you know the name of his friend, the one he was going to meet?"
"No. My wife, she thinks this is so, but I do not know the name."
"Where does your son work?"
"He drives a truck. For the newspaper."
"Which one?"
"The Call-Bulletin."
"Is he in the Teamsters?"
"Yes!" Mr. Kopek smiled with pride.
"What does his face look like?"
"He has yellow hair."
"Blond?"
"Yes, blond. His eyes are green, like his mother."
"Any scars?"
"Yes, one." He pointed. "On his chin."
"Is it small or large?"
"It is small. When we left Czechoslovakia, he was five years old. The day we left, he tripped and fell on the stones on the street."
"Are you Czechoslovakian?"
"No. There is no such thing. There are Czechs, and there are Slovaks. And then there are Poles. And that is what Kopek is: Polish. We are from Silesia, the Polish part of Czechoslovakia."
"And you left before the Germans took over?"
"Yes. We knew it was coming. We came to New York in 1935. And then, my cousin, he lived here, and he invited us to San Francisco."
I nodded. "Where do you and your wife live?"
"We are at 335 Turk Street. Apartment 5-R."
I wrote down the address and kept a straight face. That was one of the apartment buildings I happened to own.
"How did you find out about Consolidated Security?"
Mr. Kopek shrugged. "I... well... my wife. She knew about you from Ivan."
"And Ivan is your son?"
"Yes. But his friends call him Ike. Like the President." Mr. Kopek smiled broadly.
"How did your son know about us?"
"He has all the, how do you say?" He paused for a moment. Using his hands to demonstrate, he said, "He takes the scissors, and he cuts the newspaper."
"He collects clippings from the paper?"
Mr. Kopek nodded. "Yes, that is it. He has the clippings in a book. The famous and wealthy Nicholas Williams. He has many clippings of you and—" He looked away and wiped his face again with his handkerchief. "You and the other one."
"Carter Jones?"
"Yes. Mr. Jones."
I nodded. That made me think of something. "When your son is lifting weights, does he do that at home?"
Mr. Kopek shook his head. "Oh, no, Mr. Williams. He goes to the gymnasium." His pronunciation of the word was odd. He did something strange with the letter "g" when he said it.
"What is the name of it?"
Mr. Kopek shrugged. "This, I do not know."
I asked, "What is your phone number?"
"It is Prospect 5612."
"You mentioned a store. What do you do, Mr. Kopek?"
"Oh, I own the grocery at the corner of Turk and Leavenworth. Maybe you know it? It is the Maryland Market."
I shook my head. "Sorry." I leaned back in my chair and asked, "How about if I come by this evening when you and your wife are at home?"
Mr. Kopek looked surprised. "Yes. Of course. But, why?"
"I'd like to have a look at your son's bedroom. That might help me discover where he's gone."
"Yes. That is fine. You come at 8. We will prepare you a nice dinner."
I smiled. "That would be nice. I'll probably bring along a friend."
"Your special friend?"
"No. A work friend. By the name of Andy Anderson."
"Oh, yes." He wiped his face again. "How much this cost?"
"Can you pay me a hundred today?"
His eyes opened wide. "One hundred? That is all?" It was a token amount. Truth be told, I didn't need the money. We would find the man's son and I'd tell Marnie to skip sending the bill.
"Well, let's start there and see how it goes."
He nodded, looking very relieved. "Yes. Good. I give you one hundred." He reached into his pocket, took out a folder-over hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to me across the desk. I put it down on the blotter and called out, "Marnie?"
"Yeah, Nick?"
"Can you make out a receipt for Mr. Kopek? He's paying a hundred."
"Sure." She walked into the office. "Mr. Kopek?"
He stood up and nodded.
"Come in here with me, and I'll make you out a receipt."
I stood. He looked at me and asked, "Tonight at 8, yes?"
I nodded and smiled. "Yes. Thank you for coming in, Mr. Kopek."
He smiled briefly. "Thank you, Mr. Williams." Once again, he didn't offer his hand, and I followed suit.
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.
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.
Saturday Series Spotlights
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 Unexpected Heiress #1
The Savage Son #6
The Mangled Mobster #7
