A Year of Holidays with Nick and Carter Volume 1

  A Year of Holidays

  with

  Nick & Carter

  Volume 1

  By Frank W. Butterfield

  © 2020 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

  No part of these stories may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  This compilation contains explicit language and suggestive situations.

  This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.

  Cover image of St. David's Cathedral Pembrokeshire licensed under copyright from Lenise Calleja / 123RF Stock Photo. Image altered to appear older.

  YOH01-E-20200302

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  Contents

  Compilation Preface

  New Year's Day, 1979

  Preface

  The Story

  Martin Luther King, Jr., Day, 1986

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Note

  St. Valentine's Day, 1951

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Washington's Birthday, 1948

  Preface

  The Story

  Note

  Mardi Gras, 1975

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  St. David's Day, 1848

  Preface

  The Story

  Author's Note

  About Frank W. Butterfield

  Books by Frank W. Butterfield

  Compilation Preface

  Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!

  This is the first volume in a series of compiled short stories, all of which are centered around specific holidays. Each story is a vignette that stands on its own and takes place from the 1920s to 2008.

  When we read along, we get a chance to visit a place and a time which no longer exist. We get to see things as they might have appeared through the eyes of our narrator (or narrators). Most of all, we get to discover where Nick and Carter are in the progression of their lives on that particular holiday in that particular year.

  New Year's Day, 1979

  Preface

  The Hopkins Dallas is based on the Loews Anatole which opened at the same time. That hotel, known as the Hilton Anatole as of this writing, was built by Trammel Crow, developers of the Dallas Market Center and much of the surrounding neighborhood on either side of Stemmons Freeway (I-35E).

  Be sure to have a listen to this story's playlist as you read along. Every song mentioned can be heard there...

  Enjoy!

  The Story

  Hopkins Dallas Hotel

  2201 North Stemmons Freeway

  Dallas, TX 75207

  January 1, 1979

  12:01 a.m.

  It was a cold, icy night and Carter and I were dancing like we did when we were young.

  The DJ had found an old version of Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians performing "Auld Lang Syne."

  I closed my eyes as we moved around the dance floor, my left hand in his right and his other arm around my waist, holding me close, with mine around the small of his back.

  We were celebrating the new year north of the equator for the first time in a long while. Normally, we went somewhere warm for the holidays, but that year, we decided to stay in San Francisco. It was the first time in more than ten years that we'd done so.

  And the weather in Dallas had welcomed us with cold, frigid hands. As we were dancing, it was about 25 outside and the mercury was steadily dropping. Trees and power lines all over town were coated with ice thanks to the fact that it had been sleeting earlier that day. On TV, we'd heard how power was out in different parts of the city. Fortunately, the hotel had never lost power and had been able to take in a few guests who needed a warm place to spend New Year's Eve.

  Our plane had arrived at Love Field on the previous afternoon, when it was a bit warmer. We'd been driven over to the hotel, which wasn't too far away.

  We'd been greeted at the front door by Charles Marcus, the general manager. He'd previously worked for another hotel in the area. I wasn't sure which.

  Charles had contacted me in the middle of November and invited us to spend New Year's Eve in Dallas. He was pulling together an invitation-only party which would be exclusively gay and held inside the private club at the top of the hotel called The Fourteenth Floor. He said he was selling tickets for a hundred dollars a pop and how all of the money raised would go to our foundation.

  Since that was the case, we couldn't resist. I promised I would personally match whatever he raised and multiply his take by ten. If he could sell a hundred tickets for ten grand, I'd add another ninety and make it an even hundred. Easy enough.

  When we'd arrived, he'd showed me his records. He'd sold just shy of five hundred tickets and to folks from as far away as Phoenix and Baton Rouge.

  I'd congratulated him on a job well-done and written a check to him, personally, so that the total came to an even five hundred grand and he could pay out the whole amount to the foundation in one lump sum. After Carter and I were up in our suite, I'd realized that might have been a mistake for tax reasons and otherwise...

  . . .

  Once Guy Lombardo had finished singing, the DJ started up a disco version of the same song.

  Carter let go of me and then began to do his usual boogie. It involved him swiveling his hips and grinding them up and down while doing a two-step dance move with his big feet that he'd picked up when we used to spend the holidays in Rio. When he got down on the dance floor like that, a small pack of admirers would always gather.

  At 58, he was still the most handsome man on six continents (I'd checked).

  And he looked like he could have been in his 40s. His reddish blond hair was only partially streaked with white. His muscles were just as big as they'd ever been. And, at 6'4", he still commanded most every room he walked into, even though there were plenty of kids, anymore, who were his height or taller.

  We were both wearing the 1978 version of a white tie tux. Our outfits matched, even down to the bow ties, button-up vests, and white patent leather pumps. The only thing we were missing were top hats, but I had stopped wearing a hat back in the early 70s and had no desire to do so again.

  His trousers were skin-tight and made of some kind of stretchy polyester. I didn't like how it smelled. Neither did he, but he'd decided the look was what counted. He'd practically bathed in British Sterling cologne, his new favorite scent, to cover up the chemical stench.

  Cologne was a new thing for him. I didn't mind it. His sense of smell was much stronger than mine, so, if he could stand it, so could I. But I preferred a whiff of something simple, like Aqua Velva, when I kissed him.

  My trousers didn't have the same awful odor, since they were made of wool and had a smooth silk lining, like they were supposed to. And I didn't wear cologne, either. I just splashed on after-shave and that was all I needed.

  In any event, Carter was doing his moves and an admiring crowd was beginning to gather, like always happened. I stood where he'd left me and watched as he got down and grooved to the disco beat.

  Whenever we went out to the discos, anymore, I always let him do his thing and enjoy being admired by the crowd. For myself, I preferred to find a nice spot where I could watch everyone as they moved and chatted with friends and attempted to hook up (and sometimes succeeded). I looked around to see if I could find any such thing.

  After a moment or two, I spied the DJ's booth, which was elevated above the dance floor and across the room from where I was standing. Through thick glass that reminded me of a bank in a rough part of town, I could see the black kid who was manning the turntables. He had on a pair of big headphones and was smiling and nodding to the beat as he made a motion with his hand that made me think he was putting the needle on the next record.

  Sure enough, the disco version of "Auld Lang Syne" faded away. I then heard a familiar count to two followed by the crowd cheering as "Le Freak" started up.

  Most everyone who'd been standing on or sitting by the edges of the dance floor (single guys, by the look of things) made their way to dance to the song that had been popular for a while and didn't seem to be losing any steam.

  Carter's admirers pushed him towards the middle of the dance floor. From what I could see, he appeared to be having fun. So did they. I smiled in admiration, happy to be watching and not part of the action.

  With the crowd moving onto the floor, I took the opportunity to make a wide circle around the room in an attempt to find refuge in the DJ's booth. I was hoping that, since I was the owner of the joint, he might let me sit on a stool or something and watch the night away from a lofty distance.

  . . .

  On my way around, I decided to make a stop at one of the bars and pick up a rum and Coke.

  "Mr. Williams!" exclaimed an enthusiastic redhead who had to be about 25, if t
hat.

  I smiled. "How's business?"

  "Considering everyone shoulda stayed home in this weather, I'm doin' fantastic." He eyed my outfit and, with a grin, said, "Classy threads!"

  "Thanks."

  Giving me a professionally seductive smile, he asked, "What can I get you?"

  "Dark rum and Coke on the rocks."

  "Captain Morgan?"

  I shook my head. "You should have a bottle of Gosling's. It's a requirement for every Hopkins bar."

  He grinned. "We do. And we were wondering why we had it on hand. Every other place I've ever worked only had Captain Morgan. Is it your favorite?"

  I nodded.

  He laughed. "Gosling's and Coke. Coming right up." He turned and headed towards the middle of the bar.

  He was wearing the same thing all the other bartenders were wearing: a tight black t-shirt with our logo ("Hopkins Hotels") just above his left nipple. On the back was a silk-screened image of the Mark Hopkins on Nob Hill in San Francisco in silhouette. Under that, it read, "Welcome to '79" in the same style as our logo. It was a special thing Charles had ordered just for the night.

  Carter had mentioned how the silhouette should have been of the Dallas hotel. He had a point. With the three buildings (of varying heights) clustered as they were in a triangle along with their distinctive pyramid roofs, they presented an impressive outline from the freeway as we drove in from the airport. They were supposed to grab your attention and, apparently, they did.

  According to Charles, the local papers had complained about them being too unique when the buildings were finally finished. More than one person had admitted to police that they were gawking at the hotel when they'd hit the car in front of them during rush-hour traffic.

  One of the other bartenders walked by right then. A blond with a tight crew-cut and an earring in his right ear, he appeared to be in a bit of a rush. And he looked frazzled. In fact, he was in more of a rush and more frazzled than was normal for even a New Year's Eve. To be honest, he looked panicked.

  I watched as he disappeared through a pair of swinging doors. Something told me to follow him, so I left a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and did just that.

  . . .

  Behind the swinging doors, I found the kitchen. No one was cooking but there were two kids washing glasses. They were loading up trays with dirty glasses and lining them up to go down a kind of assembly line on rollers and through an automatic dishwasher.

  I stopped by a big stainless steel table and looked around. The two kids were the only ones I could see.

  Walking over to them, I tapped on the shoulder of the one closest and asked, "Did you see a bartender come charging through here?"

  The kid, who looked like he might have been Chicano, frowned at me and asked, "Eh?"

  I looked at the other one, who might have also been Chicano. They were both attractive and were filling out their black t-shirts and Levi's (the other part of the uniform) quite handsomely. Both were about 5'5" with black hair, also cut short like everyone on staff whom I'd met.

  The second one frowned at me a little as he said, "You can't be back here, mister." He had a slight accent.

  I grinned. "Sure, I can. I own the place."

  His black eyes opened wide. "Oh, Mr. Williams. So sorry."

  "No problem," I said. "Did you see a bartender run through here?"

  Shaking his head, he said, "The only person I saw here was Mr. Marcus. About five minutes ago, I think."

  That set off an alarm bell, but I had no idea why. "Where'd he go?"

  With a sudsy finger, he pointed to a doorway. "There. To the elevator, I think."

  I smiled at them both and said, "Thanks."

  I heard, "Sure thing, Mr. Williams," as I jogged to the doorway and rounded the corner, trying not to slip on the floor in my brand-new shoes.

  . . .

  The bartender I'd followed was, just then, stepping into the service elevator about twenty feet away.

  I waved at him and said, "Hey!"

  As soon as he saw me, he began to vigorously stab a button on the panel to his right. I thought I saw a big plastic bag of something white, maybe coke, in his left hand, but I couldn't tell.

  I was about halfway to the elevator when the doors closed. Under my breath, I muttered, "Damn."

  Looking around, I noticed there was a darkened office to my left. I thought I heard a sound coming from somewhere inside, so I walked over to investigate.

  A desk with a small stack of boxes stacked on top was pushed against a wall and just under a window that looked into an office beyond where I was standing. I looked around for a light switch and found it. I flipped it on, but nothing happened.

  I heard the sound again. Since I was closer, I realized it was a moan. And it was coming from inside the inner office.

  The entire time I'd been in the kitchen area (all two or three minutes), I could hear the music coming from The Fourteenth Floor where Carter was doubtlessly grinning at the guys who were trying to boogie with him.

  I felt sorry for them, sorta, since they were all going to be disappointed.

  He liked to dance. And he liked to be admired. But he would gently rebuff any attempt made by anyone to make any sort of move on him. And he was a big guy, so few guys did, which was a good thing. For them.

  The music began to change. As I walked into the inner office to find out who was moaning, I could hear a tune which assured me that Chaka Khan would soon be telling us how she was every woman.

  The room was dark. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The only piece of furniture was an empty desk. On the surface, I saw two lines of white powder, shining brightly in the dim light. Next to them was, unsurprisingly, a razor blade.

  I licked my finger, touched one of the lines to grab a few granules, and then put it on the tip of my tongue. As soon as I did, it went numb and the numbness spread quickly. It was primo coke.

  Over in the corner, I saw a body on the floor and on its side and facing the wall.

  I walked over and knelt down. I put my hand on the shoulder of whoever it was and gently turned them in my direction. It was Charles Marcus. And he was bleeding, but not much, from a gash above his forehead.

  "Charles?"

  He moaned.

  "Hold on. I'll get you some help."

  I heard him whisper, "Nick."

  "Yeah?"

  "Nick."

  "I'm right here."

  He grunted. "No, no."

  "What?"

  "Nick Reynolds."

  I got it. "Is that who attacked you? Nick Reynolds?"

  "Yes..." He moaned again.

  . . .

  "What's your name?" I was talking to the second dishwasher.

  "Juan." He looked at my hand and frowned.

  I glanced down. There was blood on my fingers.

  "You OK?" he asked.

  "Yeah. But Mr. Marcus is in that office by the elevator. Someone slugged him. Do we have a First Aid kit around here?"

  Juan nodded as the first dishwasher looked at me, his mouth agape.

  "It's dark in there. See if you two can carry him in here and"—I turned to point at the stainless steel table—"put him here. Find some towels and then see if you can clean his wound. Do you think you can do that?"

  Juan nodded wordlessly.

  "I'm going to go find a doctor, if there's one here."

  "What happened?"

  "Do you know who Nick Reynolds is?"

  Juan nodded. "He's a bartender."

  "Blond?"

  "Yes."

  "I think he slugged Mr. Marcus. Go get him and see if you can get him cleaned up. OK?"

  Juan nodded. "OK."

  . . .

  I quickly found the red-headed bartender just about the time Melba Moore started singing "You Stepped Into My Life."

  "Hey there, Mr. Williams!" he said with a big smile. We were standing at the end of the bar where I'd been earlier. He pointed to a glass. "I got your drink right here." He was talking a mile a minute and managing to do so over the thumping sound of the music. "Looks like it's melted, which is no surprise, since it's so hot in here." He pulled on his shirt which had significant wet spots under his arms. "I can pour you another one if you want."

  "Skip it," I said, more curtly than I meant to.