by Peter Corris
'You go along with that?'
I shrugged. 'Never thought much about it. I guess so.'
He grabbed my hand – no avoiding it this time – and shook it hard. 'Mister Browning, I got a very good feeling about you. I think we've got a lot in common. Some night soon I want you to meet a few friends of mine.'
'That's progress,' Groom said over the phone. 'That's real progress. You've got to play along.'
'It could be dangerous.'
'Not so sure he's harmless now, eh?'
'I don't know.'
'Only one sure way to find out.'
That night I drank, the next night I spent some time with Belinda, still looking over my shoulder at any tall, well set-up man who came into view. The night after that I went to the fights at the Figueroa. Larry Spielberg was in the ten-round wind-up before the main event. I cheered and yelled and won some money as Larry pounded a slow light-heavy by the name of 'Reb' Claymore into jelly in five rounds. I tried to fight my way through the crowd to congratulate him, but either he didn't see me or he didn't want to. I left halfway through the main event and went home to drink a portion of my winnings.
'You're distressed, brother,' Eben Cartwright said to me next day.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say 'hangover' but I just nodded.
'There's a meeting tonight will lighten your soul. I want you to come.'
'What sort of meeting?'
'Its out of town a piece. I'd be glad if you could drive Abel and me.'
That was good and bad news. I have a general dislike of the country, which I feel is much more dangerous than the city – highways, muggers, policemen and all. Still, if I was in control of the transport, that was a safeguard, and I had no choice. 'I'll be happy to,' I said.
We set off soon after dark, driving north into the citrus orchard country in the valley. We drove along straight roads through the orchards, until we turned off onto a series of dirt roads running past small mixed farms that looked to be struggling to make a living. A quarter mile ahead, a man stood in the middle of the road swinging a lantern.
'Follow him,' Eben said.
The man left the road and walked down a track towards a small farmhouse. I followed the lantern light, and when the man made an angry signal I dipped my headlights. He indicated that I should park behind the house. I pretended not to understand and parked where I could turn easily and quickly if I had to.
Eben opened the door, stepped out and shook the lantern-swinger's hand. 'Judd,' he said.
Groom had told me to memorise as many names and faces as possible. I started with Judd who was a tall, thin individual with ears that stuck straight out from his head. We went into the farmhouse, which was essentially a one-room shack with burlap curtains serving to petition off a couple of beds along one side of the room. There was a lantern hanging from a beam like the one that had been used to signal on the road. Three men were sitting around a table, not speaking. They stood up when Eben Cartwright entered.
'Sit down, brothers,' Eben said. 'Judd, hang up the lantern so we can all get a good look at our new brother here.'
I stood on the dirt floor feeling foolish while they looked at me and I looked at them: hard, country faces, yellow teeth, home haircuts and work clothes. Eben rattled off names, but I can't recall any of them, only Judd.
'Pretty smooth feller,' one of them said.
'He's with us,' Eben said, taking a seat at the table and gesturing for me to do the same. Abel Buzzacott stood by the door. 'He hates niggers and kikes, just like we do. Where he comes from, they don't even allow niggers into the country. Isn't that right, brother?'
I nodded.
'Powerful good idea,' another man muttered. 'We useta have 'em under control in Calhoun county, but now . . .' He shook his head regretfully and other heads moved in sympathy.
I knew it was time for me to do something. I took out a pocketknife and began carving my initials into the rough deal table. 'Niggers and Jews'll take this country over if white folks don't do something about it, 'I said. 'It ain't my country, I'm from Australia like brother Eben says, but since I've been privileged to be here I've found that America is the greatest country on God's green earth. My folks hail from Ireland which is the greenest country on God's green earth . . .' I was running out of steam and sense. I drew a breath and stuck the knife half an inch into the table top. 'I swear I can't stand to see the niggerfication and kikification of this sweet land of milk and honey.'
To a man, they stood up and cheered. They clapped me on the back and said what a fine fellow I was.
'By God, Eben,' Judd said, 'we got us a real firebrand here.'
Cartwright smiled broadly. 'Sure we have. I knew you boys'd be impressed. Brother Richard is the key to our success at this place in time.'
I pulled the knife out of the table and went on with my carving. 'What do you mean, Eben?'
'We have all sworn an oath,' Cartwright said. 'An oath you will swear, too . . .'
'Hold hard, brother,' one of the men said. 'We don't know much about this feller. He talks good but . . .
Cartwright didn't like being interrupted. 'This man acts,' he snapped, 'he turns niggers and other trash away from his establishment, and he took my advice and ee-jected a Jew was living there.'
The unconvinced one opened his mouth. 'Why. . .'
'He was learning boxing from the Jew,' Cartwright said. 'You understand? He was hitting the Jew with his fists!'
There was some muttering around the table about Jews and boxing and niggers. . . Max Baer, Joe Louis. One of the men sucked his yellow teeth and applied to Cartwright for permission to speak. Eben gave him the floor.
'Got me jest one question, Eben. I thought this was an American outfit.'
'I'm on my way to being an American, 'I said. 'But what you're in here is a worldwide fight. There's a guy in Germany name of Hitler feels the same way we do, and let me tell you I've been in places where they do things right. Any of you ever been to South Africa?'
Heads were shaken.
'By God, they do it right there. The word for a nigger in South Africa is munt, that means a pile of . . . excrement.'
'That's in the Bible!' Judd shouted.
The doubters fell silent. Abel Buzzacott said grace and we had coffee and biscuits. A Bible was produced and preparations were made for my swearing-in. I was asked to wait in the lean-to kitchen at the back of the shack. I stood in the darkness listening to what sounded like a trunk being opened, and then the rustling of cloth. After a time Cartwright called, 'Come in, brother.'
I went back into the room. The five men were standing in a line with their arms folded across their chests. They wore white robes that completely covered their bodies. On their heads were high peaked cloth hoods with slits cut in them for the eyes and mouth.
24
I don't remember much about the mumbo-jumbo that followed – it was all to do with the Bible and brotherhood and swearing on parts of the anatomy of live and dead mothers. I did my part, intoning away and rolling my eyes like the best of them. I was only thankful that there was no mixing of blood – I wouldn't have cared to risk taking on the mental and physical disabilities of that bunch. After the oath-taking there were more prayers and more coffee and cake. I was dying for a drink and a cigarette, but there was no alcohol on the premises and, although a couple of them smoked pipes, I got the feeling that they regarded cigarettes as instruments of the devil. In that they were right, of course.
Eben, Abel and I pushed off around midnight.
'Great bunch of fellers,' I said, hoping to have my memory refreshed about a few names, 'especially that tall guy with the squint. Ah . . .'
Neither of them volunteered a name. Eben spoke only to give me directions; Abel sat in the back sniffing, hawking and spitting out the window.
Eben sent Abel off to bed as soon as we reached the house. There was something strange about his movements. He didn't act towards me like a brother who'd just sworn an eternal oath of loyalty
, secrecy and all the rest. As for me, I was anxious to get the night over.
'Well, it's been interesting, Eben. I'll just say goodnight now.'
'Come up to my room, and let's talk a spell.'
'It's late.'
He took hold of my arm. His fingers were surprisingly strong, and short of punching him out then and there, I had no alternative. We sat on the bed in his room under a fly-speckled light. There were several photographs tacked to the walls over the patches of peeling plaster and paint – family groups and church congregations, and one or two of men with spade beards and women in neck-to-knee dresses.
'Well, Mr Browning, what did you make of our little gathering?'
'I'm all for it,' I said. 'The Ku Klux Klan is the conscience of this country. It. . .'
'Hush. We're not what you'd call a properly constituted chapter of the Klan. Not yet. That's what this's all about.'
'Oh?'
His deep-buried eyes took on a glow that was almost reddish, mad-looking anyway. 'I'm aiming to be affiliated. I'm aiming to make the Klan a power in this part of the world. To do that we have to make some folks in the south sit up and take notice. Do you follow me?'
'Er, not exactly, Eben.'
He whacked his bony fist into the palm of the other hand with a noise like a pistol shot. 'We have to do something! Something to get their attention. Give some of those lazy Grand Wizards in Georgia and Louisiana the message that here in Los Angeles the fight is on!'
I tried to look enthusiastic. I nodded vigorously and did some fist-whacking of my own.
'We'll get funds and supporters. We can organise, reach into the schools and churches. We can grow!'
'Magnificent, 'I said, 'but what can we do? What?'
Suddenly, the light died in his eyes. 'Do you think I'm a fool, Mr Browning?'
'No, Eben, of course not.'
'I know you're an actor, sir. Maybe you're a pretty good one. Anyway, it's hard to tell when an actor's acting and when he isn't. Right?'
'Yes, but. . . '
He patted my knee. 'Just don't fuss yourself. I trust you and I've got me a little insurance as well. That's the way this business works. Take Abel for an instance. Now he's strong in the faith, but just in case he isn't, I know things he did back in Georgia that'd put him in the prison farms, choppin' weeds an' diggin' ditches, for the rest of his days. And he knows I know. I'd never tell, 'course I wouldn't, but it never hurts to have a strong grip on a man.'
'I see. But you've got nothing on me.'
'What if I was to tell Larry Spielberg's buddies at the cannery that you threw him out of this house on account of he was a dirty Jew?'
My jaw dropped; the dark eyes were searching my face like raking spotlights. It was a mild night, but I started to shiver.
'But, as I say, don't worry. I'm sure you're with us all the way, and there's grand things ahead. When they make a real movie about the Klan, a true movie, well, I leave it to your imagination who'll be in line for the major roles.'
It sounds ridiculous now, of course, and a silly thought crossed my mind as he spoke. You'll need blacks and Jews to play niggers and kikes, but, sitting there in that bare bedroom with Eben Cartwright, it was more terrifying than funny. He took out his fob watch and checked the time.
'It's late,' he said, 'but not too late to tell you exactly what we're going to do.'
I met Groom two days later in a bar in Santa Monica. It seemed that I'd spent a lot of those forty-eight hours in bars. 'They're going to plant fiery crosses on the front lawns of selected Jews.'
'Who?'
I was half-drunk and angry. 'Haven't you been listening? These crazy would-be Ku Klux Klansmen.'
Groom sipped his lemonade; he was the type to regret the repeal of the Volsted Act. 'I meant, which Jews?'
'I want another drink.'
'You've had enough.' Groom took out his notebook and gold pen. 'You're almost there, Mr Browning . . .'
'So it's "Mr Browning" again, is it?'
'It can be. Names, please.'
'Selznick, Zukor, Goldwyn, Mayer. . . everybody.'
'When?'
'Starting tomorrow night.'
'Who's first?'
'Mayer. God help me, I'm supposed to drive them around. They've got these wooden crosses wrapped with rags. They're going to soak the rags in gasoline. Madness. All right Mr G-man, how're you goin' to stop 'em?'
'We're not going to stop them. At least, not until they've got one of the crosses well and truly burning. Will they be wearing the robes?'
'Sure, but. . .'
'Where does Mayer live?'
'In Bel Air. The big moment's set for 11 p.m. Lunatics, the lot of them!'
'Great, that's just great. You've done this country a great service, Mr Browning, or you will have by the time tomorrow night's over.'
'You want me to play along?'
Groom nodded. 'Right up until we move in.'
'Then what happens?'
'We'll look after you. Will you do it?'
'What choice do I have? I'll do it on one condition?'
'Which is?'
'That you buy me another bloody drink.'
In a way, it's comforting to have no alternative courses of action. If I didn't play along with Cartwright, he'd set Larry Spielberg's fish cannery mates on me; if I didn't play along with Groom I'd go to prison or be deported or both. I had to do what I had to do. Comforting, but not very. After Groom left I spent the rest of the day drinking in the bar. Around eight, I drove to Culver City (God knows how I got there, the other drivers must've all avoided me), to find consolation in the arms of Belinda Douglas.
Consolation wasn't what Belinda was all about. Parked outside her apartment building was a big, white Cadillac convertible with the top down. I stood and looked at it for a long time and must have sobered up enough to climb the stairs quietly. Belinda's windows were open and the sounds that were coming from inside were very familiar. When she made love Belinda had a way of grunting faster and faster as she experienced the pleasure all through her body. From the pitch she was at just then, I calculated she was feeling it in her knees.
I re-negotiated the stairs and went back to the Cadillac. A lot of drinking gives you one capacity in particular. I eased open the driver's door of the Caddy, unbuttoned and emptied my very full bladder all over the white leather upholstery. It made me feel better, not as good as Belinda was feeling maybe, but better than her boyfriend would be feeling when he sat down to drive home.
25
I slept around the clock and felt like hell when I woke up the following afternoon. Just in case something had changed, or there was an angle I'd missed, I reviewed my options while I stood in the shower for twenty minutes. I came out clean, refreshed but still, as they say now, between a rock and a hard place. I ate something and drank coffee. I smoked. My stomach was twitching, and I made frequent trips to the bathroom. Duluth was back in gaol, I was alone in the house with Cartwright and Buzzacott. Several times I went outside and contemplated disabling the car. But where would that get me? They'd probably send me out to steal another one.
Some time after nine, Judd arrived carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper. You didn't have to be a Harvard man to guess what it was. Eben called me up to his room and we did some praying. I have to admit that I felt I could use all the help I could get. To myself, I changed the words of the prayers from 'prosper our enterprise' and 'aid us in our cause' to 'don't let there be any shooting' and 'please, please let me get out of this mess'. I got some genuine help in the form of a few stiff shots of bourbon. If Eben noticed, he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't notice; the gasoline can we loaded into the trunk of the Oldsmobile, along with the ragwrapped cross, leaked a little and made the car smell like a Molotov cocktail.
Abel unwrapped the bedsheet robes and hoods and put them lovingly on the back seat of the car.
'I'm doing the driving, right?' I said, 'no need for me to wear a robe.'
'You'll wear one,' Cartw
right said. 'Let's go, brothers.'
We took Venice Boulevard east and went north on La Brea to Bel Air. Abel Buzzacott and Judd sat in the back. Cartwright was ice cool beside me, telling me occasionally to slow down and tch-tching when I drove badly and nervously, which was often. It was a fine night, which was bad luck. If it had been pouring as it sometimes is in Southern California at that time of year, they wouldn't have been able to light the crosses. No such luck. No flat tyres, no cops stopping to ask to see my non-existent driver's licence. No earthquake.
These days, non-residents found in Bel Air are likely to be strip-searched by security guards every block or kept under surveillance from a helicopter, but back then it was just a place in the lower reaches of the mountains where rich people lived in big houses. Mayer's place had a fairly narrow frontage for the area, not more than a hunded yards, and the house was set fairly close to the road. The shaven, manicured lawn in front wouldn't have been much bigger than a football field.
'What in the name of the Lord Jesus is going on here?' Cartwright stared at the gleaming cars parked in rows on the broad driveway that led to the house. The house itself, a sort of miniature castle in white, was all lit up.
'A party,' I said, feeling relief flood through me. 'They're having a party. We'll have to call it off.'
'A Jew party,' Cartwright bit the words off and spat them out. 'Couldn't be better. Let them all see the wrath of the Lord.'
'But there's bound to be people around, guys parking the cars, guests arriving . . .'
'Hebrews and flunkeys,' Cartwright said. 'Besides, Abel's got the text for the occasion. Haven't you, Abel?'
I turned around and saw Abel struggling into his robe. Lying beside him on the seat was a sawn-off shotgun.
'My god,' I said.
'Is stronger than theirs.' Cartwright handed me a hood, and the nightmare began in earnest. Judd took the cross and soaked it in gasoline. He rattled a box of matches in his pocket under the robe and wiggled the wooden mallet.
'Ready,' he said.
We crouched behind the car, four men in white robes with twenty-five yards to cover to reach the garden shrubs and another twenty-five to the centre of the lawn. No front fence. We scuttled into the thick, scented bushes. From there, I could hear the sound of music from the house. I stared through the darkness at the bright windows and saw figures moving behind them. I peered to left and right, but I didn't see Peter Groom. I didn't expect to. Maybe it would suit his purpose to let a couple of crosses burn before he nabbed Cartwright. I wished I'd known about the shotgun.
