Browning in Buckskin

by Peter Corris

  'Seems they were somewhere in the San Fernando Valley doing a horse scene. Flynn was playing an officer whether the cameras were rolling or not, and one of the extras decided to take him down a peg or two. He stuck his lance up the ass of Flynn's horse and the critter bucked Flynn off into the dirt. A couple of hundred people thought it was very funny.'

  'What did Flynn do?'

  'Pulled the guy off his horse – big bastard apparently, stunt rider or something, and they went at it. Took a while, but Flynn knocked the shit out of him.'36

  'Thanks, Belinda,' I said, 'that was just what I needed to hear. Think we should go? How about your place?'

  'I'm staying. Hey, look, there's Errol!'

  I whipped around, and Belinda laughed herself silly.

  It went on like that for a few weeks. I skulked around Hollywood when I had to go near the place, jumping at shadows. Mostly, I tried to stay in Venice and have Belinda come to me. I tried to conceal this from everybody, of course. I swaggered when I thought I was safe and made disparaging remarks about Don't Bet on Blondes, one of Flynn's first Hollywood films, which was so bad it isn't even shown on late night TV. I also ventured criticisms of Captain Blood. I half-knew that I was fuelling the fire; I suppose I hoped Flynn would break his neck in one of his flying leaps, or go on location to Tunisia. With the vogue for exotic costume pictures at the time, it was on the cards.

  But I kept training and sparring with Spielberg, thinking that if I had to fight Flynn I should be as well prepared as possible. Larry was gentle with me in the ring and taught me more evasive tricks than aggressive moves. He knew that I was a pacifist at heart. Also that I was a good listener.

  'Dick, I got a problem,' he said, during one of our running stints along the grey beach.

  'So have I,' I gasped. 'I need to stop for a cigarette. All this seaweed air is killing me.'

  'Just another half mile,' Larry said. His breath wouldn't have extinguished a kitchen match. 'It's Eben Cartwright and his cousin.'

  I estimated the yardage to the pier – a quarter mile at least, maybe a half – far enough, anyway. I dug into my reserves of lung and leg strength for the distance. There wasn't much breath to spare for talking. 'What about 'em?'

  'They look at me funny.'

  The pier was getting closer but the sand was getting softer. 'Fighters have to live with that. People wonder how you do it.'

  'It's not that. They look at me like I'm an animal or somethin'. And they never talk to me.'

  My calves were cramping. 'Quote the Bible. That'll break the ice.' We reached the pier and I embraced one of the mussel-covered posts. 'Suffer the little children to come unto me,' I wheezed, dredging up ancient memories, 'or something such.'

  'That's the New Testament, Dick. I'm a Jew. I don't know nothing about that stuff.'

  'Forget them, Larry. They're just a couple of crazy rednecks. Harmless. When's your next fight?'

  'November tenth, in San Diego. Some coloured guy. A ten rounder. When're you fighting Errol Flynn?'

  See what I mean? There was no getting away from it. Larry knowing didn't mean they were talking about Browning vs Flynn down at the cannery (he'd probably picked something up from Belinda who used to kid around with him), but still, it was worrying. My only consolation was my fitness. If I couldn't out-fight Flynn, maybe I could out-run him. Strength came back into my legs right then, and I sucker-punched Larry lightly and shouted, 'Race you back to the car.' I gave myself a head-start and he only just beat me.

  I showered at the gym and drove back to Casablanca thinking about Flynn, Belinda and my sinking bank balance. Mr Beer had refused to replace the gearbox on the Olds or buy new tyres and a new battery. I shelled out. Belinda's tastes were growing more expensive, and I needed New York clothes and London shoes if I was going to look the part I wanted to play. It all added up. Plus the fact that Eben Cartwright and Abel Buzzacott were getting seriously behind in their rent. So I had a lot on my mind when I pulled up in the driveway beside the house.

  A man stepped out of the shadows as I opened the car door. 'Mr Browning?'

  He was tall and well built and for a split second I thought it was Flynn. To do myself credit, I put up my fists – with the car keys between my fingers as a knuckle-duster. 'Who wants to know?'

  'Take it easy, sir.' He flipped open a wallet and showed me a badge that suggested he was a member of a society that admired the American eagle. 'I'm Agent Peter Groom, FBI. I'd like to have a few words with you.'

  'About what?'

  'Let's get back in the car and take a ride.'

  'Why?'

  He kind of shooed me into the driver's seat and I obeyed meekly. Groom was pale-faced, like an easterner, and about thirty-five years old. He had a lean, disciplined look that commanded respect. He wore a light grey suit, hat to match. His shirt was discreetly striped, there was a neat gold pin holding down his plain tie, and you had to look hard to see the gun bulge under his left armpit. For no good reason I drove back to the beach.

  Groom pointed to the parking lot behind the marina. It was almost deserted; a few seagulls were picking disappointedly at cigarette butts. 'This'll do.'

  I pulled in and stopped, facing the flat, grey ocean. The sky was overcast with rain coming on. I lit a cigarette, and Groom wound his window down. I said, 'Let me see the buzzer again.'

  He showed me the badge, which looked genuine. 'I can give you a number to ring where you can check my credentials, or we can go over to Burbank and I can introduce you to a few people. But I don't think all that's necessary, do you?'

  He spoke in a harsh New England accent. He wore some kind of university insignia on his watch-chain, and everything else about him was right. If he wasn't FBI he was something else, possibly worse. 'No,' I said, 'that won't be necessary.'

  He took out a notebook and turned the pages, which he covered with neat copperplate. 'We know quite a bit about you, Mr Browning. You entered this country as a seaman in 1919.'

  'Legally,' I said.

  'Of course. But then you really got around. I only have a summary here, but it seems you entered again from Mexico, and some time later from Canada. I don't think these other entries were quite as legal as the first.'

  I smoked my Lucky down and didn't say anything.

  'You were a principal in a firm known as Aussie Air. You might be regarded as an undischarged bankrupt. According to information from, ah . . . , I imagine you'll know the source, you were married in Australia.'

  'Rupert MacKnight,' I said. 'That's your source.'

  'Right. I'm glad to see we're communicating. That makes your marriage to Coral Smith in Red Springs, California in 1930 bigamous.'

  This was getting too hot; I wanted a drink badly. 'How the hell did you find out about that?'

  'Fingerprints. You don't have a valid work permit or a valid driver's licence. Did you have any trouble with the law back in Australia, Mr Browning?'

  I threw my butt out for the seagulls – this was long before we heard of this nonsense about littering. 'Well, not . . .'

  Groom shut his notebook. 'Of course you did, your type always does. We've got an awful lot on you, Mr Browning. Enough to shift you out of this country so fast your pants'd catch fire.'

  I smelled a deal. I lit another cigarette. 'I'm not admitting anything. I want to consult my lawyer.'

  'Who might that be?'

  I floundered and reached back into my memory. 'Abe Kurtz of Red Springs.'

  'Mr Kurtz was disbarred from the practice of law in 1932 for jury rigging. He's selling real estate now. You're in trouble.'

  I drew on the cigarette and sucked the smoke down, trying to stay calm and work out what was going on. Everything Groom said was true, but was it worth the attention of the senior FBI man he appeared to be? That was the right question I felt sure. 'What do you want from me, Mr Groom?' I said.

  He let out the sort of bark New Englanders use for a laugh. 'You're not as dumb as some folks think.'

  'I hope not.'r />
  'No, sir. Not dumb at all. And you're right, we do need something from you.'

  'What?'

  He held up his long, blue-veined hand and examined his wedding ring. 'Don't rush things. In return for your co-operation, I guarantee no action will be taken against you for your wanton violation of the laws of this country. You won't be deported, Mr Browning, or go to prison.'

  It was the first mention of prison and Groom dropped it in just at the right moment. He had all my attention. 'What do you want?'

  'Staying in your house are two men, Eben Cartwright and Abel Buzzacott. Correct?'

  'Yes.'

  'I have reason to believe that they are members of a clandestine organisation whose activities are not conducive to peace and harmony in society, especially this particular segment of society.'

  'What segment?'

  'The movie industry is an essential part of the fabric of American life.'

  'What clandestine organisation?'

  'I'm not going to tell you. I don't want you to make judgements or guesses. I just want you to get close to Cartwright and Buzzacott, get into their confidence. Can you do that?'

  It sounded fairly harmless. 'Sure.'

  'Good. I'll want reports from you on their statements and activities. How well do you know them as of now?'

  'Not well. I collect their rent, when they pay it, which hasn't been too regular lately.'

  The notebook came out. 'Have you ever heard them say anything unusual or suspicious.'

  I began to regard the whole thing as a joke; it suddenly seemed very amusing to please a man who held a gold pen poised over an FBI notepad. 'Cartwright once said something about having a talk with me.'

  'About what?'

  'His principles.'

  Groom scribbled. 'Good, that's good. You have that talk, Mr Browning, and let me know everything that's said.'

  'Is that all?'

  'By no means. I'm not offering you this amnesty for nothing. You have to go along with these men in whatever they may be doing, even if it's illegal. That's what undercover work is all about.'

  'Illegal. You mean bank robbery and such?'

  'I don't specify.'

  'And are you offering me amnesty on that too? What if I get caught robbing a bank or kidnapping Daryl F. Zanuck's son?'

  Groom settled back in his seat. 'In that event, we'd just have to see what we could do.'

  23

  It wasn't hard to start up a conversation with Eben Cartwright.

  'Er, Eben, about the rent.'

  'I'm sorry, Mr Browning,' Eben said, 'I'm temporarily short of funds.'

  'I thought you taught school in East L.A.?'

  'I quit. I've got a higher purpose.'

  'You've got a higher rent, too. You're supposed to be paying for Abel's room, but I haven't had a cent. Does he have a job?'

  'There's not much he's fitted to do, but he'll be my right-hand man when the time comes.'

  'What time?'

  Cartwright stared at me as if trying to read the secrets of my soul. 'I hope I can talk to you about that one day.'

  We were standing on the ricketty balcony at the back of the house – the place where Belinda had first propositioned me. The view was nothing in particular, just houses, scruffy palm trees and a glimpse of the tops of the oil derricks. Eben shot the cuffs of the rather soiled shirt he wore under his black suit jacket and waved his hand at it all.

  'What do you think of this place? This Los Angeles?'

  'It's all right. You can make a living.'

  'It's godless and soulless. It's run by . . . the wrong element. It's headed down the wrong road. And it could be so glorious! The movies that could be made here. Did you ever see Birth of a Nation, Mr Browning?'

  'Well, a long time ago.'

  'Now, there was a movie. I should just say it was. Am I right in thinking I heard you say on the telephone, pardon me for the intrusion, that you weren't a Catholic?'

  A harmless religious nut, I thought. 'That's right.'

  'And that you don't allow nigras in this house.'

  I nodded.

  Eben clapped me on the shoulder. 'That's good, that's good. I take it you'll be giving the Jew his marching orders pretty soon?'

  'Eh?'

  'The Jew. Spielberg. I assume you're learning boxing from him for your movie career. Fine sport boxing, as long as it's kept clean of the wrong element. When you've learned all you can from the Jew, you'll send him on his way.'

  'I'm not sure about that,' I said with a bit of acid, 'he pays his rent.'

  'Ah, the Hebrews always pay. But can they ever pay for what they once did? That's the question. Well, it was nice talking to you, sir.'

  I felt I needed a little more to give to Groom, although I was pretty sure he'd be satisfied that Cartwright was a religious crazy, nothing more. I held the door open for Eben who almost bowed at the courtesy, but as if it was his due. 'You said something about your principles, Eben. I'd like . . .'

  He turned to give me the soul-searching look again. His dark eyes were deep in the shadowed sockets – Universal could have used him in horror features. 'You're interested in my principles?'

  'Yes.'

  'Get rid of the Jew, and we'll talk again.'

  I called the number Groom had given me, and he nominated a meeting place – a bridge over the sluggish Los Angeles river. We met there a few days later, and I gave him a full report on the conversation with Cartwright. He made a lot of notes and was impressed at my recall. I've always been able to remember conversations (if I've been sober at the time), I suppose because my mind isn't cluttered up with useless information.

  'So you see,' I said, 'he's just a harmless crackpot. He and Abel're probably going to start one of those tinpot churches – the Church of the Bleeding Cross or some such rubbish.'

  Groom, today in a light blue suit that set off the Californian tan he was starting to acquire, closed his notebook with a snap. 'He's far from harmless. You have to do it.'

  'Do what?'

  'Get rid of Spielberg in order to gain Cartwright's confidence.'

  'But he's my friend.'

  'Friendship sometimes has to be sacrificed to a higher good. In our organisation it happens every day.'

  'You're sounding like him, like Eben.'

  'Don't get me wrong, Browning. I'm not totally out of sympathy with Eben Cartwright's goals, but I have my orders and I'll carry them out, whatever my private feelings.'

  'I wish I understood what was going on.'

  Groom waved away a fly and took out his pocket handkerchief to dab at some sweat on his forehead. 'November, and it's still warm. It doesn't make sense.'

  'Like what you're telling me to do.'

  'Just do it, Browning, or you know the consequences.'

  'What happened to the "Mr" before Browning?'

  Groom tucked his handkerchief away and put his notebook back in his pocket. 'It doesn't do to be on too friendly terms with an informer. It makes for sloppiness. Ring the same number when you have something to report. This is very lucky for you. It's all working out very well.'

  'Yeah, great,' I said. 'The same number. Isn't that a bit sloppy?'

  'I'll decide what's sloppy, Browning. By the way, what's all this I hear about you and Errol Flynn? I'd say you were over-matched.'

  'I don't understand, Dick.'

  'I'm sorry, Larry. It's not me, it's Beer and the owner. They want to re-plaster and paint. Christ knows the place needs it.'

  'Yeah, but why my room first? I gotta fight in three days. Why can't you start in Buzzacott's room? He could move in with his cousin for a coupla days.'

  'I'm sorry, Larry. I'm just doing what I'm told.'

  His hangdog look almost broke my heart, but survival is the strongest instinct of all. I helped Larry pack up his few things, clothes, boxing gear and his thin scrapbook, and drove him to the YMCA. He was silent and for him, with his usual sunny nature, sullen.

  'It's those rednecks,' he said as he got o
ut of the car. 'I know it is. They got it in for me 'cause I'm a Jew. Hell, half this town is Jews.'

  I wanted to say something to comfort him and myself, to say he could come back when . . . but how could I? All I could do was shake his hand. 'I'll come to the fight, Larry. I'll be at ringside.'

  'You'll see a fight. I'm mad.' He slung his bag across his shoulder and walked into the 'Y' leaving me feeling like the heel of the year.

  The first person I saw back at Casablanca was Abel Buzzacott. He was carrying a cardboard box and coming out of Spielberg's room. I stopped him and said, 'What the hell are you doing?'

  'Moving into the Jew's room. Eben said it'd be all right.'

  'Did he?' I felt like kicking the buck-toothed little cretin down the stairs and only just stopped myself doing it. 'We'll see about that.'

  'Yup, Eben, he wants to see you too. He's out in the yard. Said to tell you.'

  I ran down the stairs and went through the back door. Eben Cartwight was sawing some light wood into lengths. He put the saw down and held out his hand. 'I want to thank you, sir.'

  I ignored the hand. 'You tricked me. You just wanted to get a better room for your half-wit cousin. Well, I'm not going to stand for it.'

  'Don't fuss yourself. You'll understand when the time comes.'

  'You keep talking about a time coming. What d'you mean? The goddamn second coming?'

  'Don't blaspheme, Mr Browning. It isn't worthy of you. I'll make you a bargain – just you tell me a few things and I'll do the same.'

  A hammer and nails were lying on the cement near the wood. I wanted to use the hammer on his head, but I could see Groom's gold pen and the blank pages of the notebook. I calmed down, promising myself a good shot of bourbon when I'd got what I needed from him. 'Shoot,' I said.

  'They tell me you're from Australia. That right?'

  I nodded.

  'Your poppa and mama, where were they from?'

  'Australia, born there. But I suppose you mean further back. Well, Ireland mostly, some Scottish in there, too.'

  'That's fine. What's this White Australia policy I hear about?'

  'It keeps out cheap labour. Australia's surrounded by Chinese and natives of one sort or another. If they were allowed in, the place'd be overrun by people who'd work for nothing.'