Browning Without a Cause

by Peter Corris

  I pressed back against the wall and slowly levered myself up. The alley spun around a few times, but then it came back to rest in a more or less manageable condition. I took a few tentative steps forward in the direction of the street and didn't fall over. Encouraged, I stood and took out a handkerchief, spat and used it to clean up some of the blood. I was still on my feet and the headache wasn't much worse than with a bad hangover. Maybe it was association of ideas, but the best move at that point seemed to me to get myself into a bar and my hand around a glass of whisky.

  I found my way into the bar beside the liquor outlet which had been my original target. More American in decor and service than Mexican, the bar served whisky and beer as well as tequila and white rum, and I took a shot of rye and a stein of draught into a quiet, dark corner as aids to my recovery and to considering my options. Experience had taught me that, when travelling alone in foreign lands, the first and most important question is always: how much money do you have? I had the grand sum of one hundred and twelve dollars. Not bad for Mexico, where at that time you could live pretty well for two dollars a day as long as you didn't mind eating tortillas and drinking rotgut tequila. I'd got used to something better and wasn't comforted.

  Something else Raymond Chandler had said came back to me: whisky can make your head feel worse but you feel better. This was more understandable than most of his remarks and I was experiencing the truth of it. The rye was dulling the pain only a little but enabling me to think more clearly and quite fast. The thoughts were not encouraging. I was in trouble. By now, the FBI must know that I had helped Lucky Luciano escape. My dealings with the Feds20 had convinced me that they were a bunch of insecure prima donnas, incapable of keeping their word for more than twenty-four hours at a stretch. I could expect no mercy from them and, if I was tossed into a Federal prison with the other Mafia hoods, after the part I'd played with Stompanato, my survival chances were lower than a dachshund's knee.

  'Another shot and chaser, Senor?'

  I must have been slightly concussed. I'd finished my drinks and wandered back up to the bar without realising it. I put the glasses down and stared at myself in the mirror behind the bar. Not too bad — the beginnings of jowls but what can you expect at fifty-five?21 The hair on one side was crusted with blood and there were stains on the shoulder of my jacket but they're used to that sort of thing in Mexican bars. Their attitude is, if you can stand up and pay you're fit and well.

  'No,' I said. 'Telephone. Have you got one?'

  He pointed to the end of the bar where the phone sat on top of a stack of US directories. 'Many Americanos come in here,' the barman said. 'Sometimes they forget their telephone numbers. We have the books for Los Angeles, Chicago and New York.'

  'That's good thinking,' I said. I put a dollar on the bar and got a fistful of Mexican change. I realised that I was leaving a trail so clear and wide Al Hibbler22 could follow it, but I had no choice. I had to assume that Luciano and the boys had boarded their boat and that it would take some time before they sent anyone to remonstrate with me for the rude way I'd treated the boss, if they ever did. I shovelled money into the phone and dialled the number for Sherman House, praying that Louise would answer and not some gung-ho junior G-man. She did.

  'Louise, it's me, Dick. Can you talk? Is there a tap on the line?'

  'Dick, where in hell are you? Of course I can talk. How would I know if there's a tap on the line? It'd be wonderful if there was.'

  'What d'you mean?'

  'Dick, it's been so exciting! FBI men running around all over the place. We heard shots. You're not hurt are you?'

  Nice of her to ask. As well as aching, my head was now spinning. I was having difficulty believing that I was talking to my wife, my partner in life and the Sherman House Dramatic Skills Academy.

  'The FBI men said you helped some gangster escape. They didn't tell me who he was. I showed them the cabin and they put fingerprint dust everywhere and took away a lot of cigar butts.'

  'Jesus, Louise. What did you tell them?'

  'Nothing, which is what I know. I said there was a Mr Lewis staying there. An elderly gentleman.'

  I burst out laughing, drawing a sharp look from the barman and hurting my head. 'They must've loved that — an elderly gentleman. What else?'

  'Nothing. They were really very sweet. I think they were relieved that they didn't have to shoot at anyone. Everyone at the party thought it was great. Jimmy was terribly impressed.'

  'Jimmy?'

  'James Dean of course. He wants you to get in touch with him. Have you got his number?'

  This was madness but I didn't know how to stop it. 'No, I haven't got his bloody number.'

  'Be nice. Here it is. And this is his number in the valley, not just his paging service.' I snapped my fingers and mimed a writing action to the barman. He whipped a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled on a drink coaster as I called out the numbers.

  'Got it,' I said. 'Look, I don't understand any of this. Why are you sounding so chipper?'

  'Because this place is already on the way to becoming famous, notorious, whatever you want to call it. We've had the newspaper and radio people around, television too.'

  I had to ask the same question. 'What did you tell them?'

  The operator came on the line saying something I didn't understand. I put more money in the slot and the line cleared. If she was listening and understood English this was going to make her day.

  'I didn't tell them anything at all because I didn't know anything. Mr Silkstein told me that was exactly the right thing to do.'

  'You've spoken to Bobby? How did he get into the act?'

  'He called me. News like this travels fast. He says we can expect enrolments to double. Dick, are you there? Dick…'

  I'd jammed the phone close to my ear and jarred the cut. The pain was intense and tears were seeping from my eyes. The barman looked at me curiously and I signalled for another shot. He brought it quickly and it helped to steady me.

  'Listen, Louise, are you saying I can just stroll back home and no one will care?'

  'Oh, no, darling. No, you can't do that. Not yet. I'm sure the FBI would do something terrible to you. I told you, they think you helped…'

  'I was kidnapped.'

  'But you were driving. I saw you.'

  'Did you say so?'

  'Well, yes, but…'

  I groaned and the barman looked inquisitively at me. I shook my head. I had enough trouble without getting pie-eyed. Louise apologised for making me out to be the wheel man but I hardly heard her. I was desperately trying to think of what to do, where to go and how to get there. Nothing came.

  Louise must have sensed my desperation because she took over. 'Listen, darling. I'll contact a lawyer and talk to him about your case. Get some advice. You'd better stay in Mexico for a while until I do. I'll wire you some money. Where should I send it?'

  I had to laugh. With the FBI and very possibly the mob keen to know my whereabouts she was asking me to provide an address. But the lawyer and the money sounded like good ideas. I told her to send me some cash by mail, addressed to Richard Kelly care of General Delivery, Tijuana, and to make sure no one saw her doing it. I said I'd call her when I'd got the money and figured out my next move. All this had sobered her down and she asked if she shouldn't come down to look after me. She had no idea of how these things worked. I told her no, urged her to see the lawyer and get the business running as hot as she could and to believe less than half of what Bobby Silkstein told her.

  She told me she loved me and I had another drink on the strength of that. The barman gave me the drink coaster and I shoved it in my pocket.

  11

  I booked into a small backstreet hotel and set about changing my appearance slightly. It wasn't so difficult. I have a heavy beard and have always been able to present a very respectable growth within five or six days. It used to be dark but a lot of grey had crept in. There was a good deal of grey in my hair as well but I kept it at b
ay with a dark rinse. All I had to do now was wash my hair frequently and not use the rinse. The first wash hurt like hell and set the cut bleeding but I'm a quick healer and I managed to stop the flow and avoid having to get it stitched.

  I used the name Kelly at the hotel and kept pretty much out of sight. I cleaned the blood from the linen jacket but I didn't wear it. In a secondhand store I bought a well-used Panama that provided shade and further disguise. Tennis shoes, a faded blue work shirt and a leather jerkin transformed me from an affluent Californian into an Americano, one of many hanging around Tijuana for reasons best not looked into. The next step was to acquire identification I could use at the post office to collect my money. Not hard in a border town where document-forging is always a thriving concern. By judicious enquiry in the right places, by which I mean certain cantinas rather than the American Express office, I located the right man. For twenty-five dollars he doctored my Californian driver's licence so that Richard K. Browning of Sherman Oaks became Richard Kelly of San Francisco.

  After four days I changed hotels, moving to Coahuila Street where every second building is a brothel, and carrying my few belongings in a canvas holdall. When I looked in the fly-spotted mirror the face I saw was unrecognisable as the one that had crossed the border. Paler, thinner and older, much older, with grey whiskers and white above the temples. Stoop the shoulders a little, and the prime-of-life tennis and riding coach changed into someone with many more years on the clock — a bullfight buff, a racetrack addict, maybe even a cut-price Ernest Hemingway.

  I fronted up to the post office a little after siesta when everyone is still waking up and things are a bit slip-shod. Still, I looked it all over very carefully before making my move. The street sellers looked like street sellers, the clerks looked like clerks and the bums looked like bums. There was no one hiding behind a newspaper, no shiny shoes under frayed denims, no tilted forward sombreros with peep holes in the brim. I marched up to the counter and printed my name on the slip provided. The clerk reached back into the K pigeonhole and thumbed through the letters, selecting one that was much fatter than I'd expected.

  'Identification, Senor.'

  I handed over the licence and he barely glanced at it before flicking the letter across. I signed for it with a flourish and strolled away. If anyone had been on to me, now was the time to strike. The hair on the back of my neck bristled as I crossed the polished floor towards the doors. So far, so good. A tall, slim woman dressed in a white sharkskin suit was mounting the steps and I gallantly held the door open for her.

  'Thank you.'

  'You're welcome.'

  She must have been close to six feet tall in her high heels. Her hair was a glossy black falling to her shoulders, and her impassive face was pale and perfect in every feature. Although the afternoon was still very hot, there wasn't a drop of perspiration on her face. Her walk was a sexual act. I goggled, hanging on to the door, quite forgetting that I was supposed to be alert for danger. Nothing happened. It was as if people had stopped breathing. Every male eye in the place was on her as she strode across to the counter. At that moment, I doubt that J. Edgar Hoover himself could have kept his mind on the job. I stumbled out of the building and down the steps into the street, clutching the envelope and needing a drink. I've talked to other men about this phenomenon and most agree that, at a few times in their lives, they've seen women that have made them tremble with desire and fear — for me, this was one of those occasions.

  I returned to my senses after wandering along the streets for several minutes. I found a bar, ordered a beer and sat down to open my envelope. Louise had sent five hundred bucks which was a little disappointing but not too bad. Her letter was brief and to the point. She'd do what we agreed on the phone and wait for my call. She loved me and missed me. The bulk of the envelope was due to several newspaper clippings she'd enclosed. I didn't keep them because a sure way to blow a false identity is to carry around things about the person you're pretending not to be. But I memorised the cutting from the San Fernando Post.

  The headline read, FBI IN RAID ON DRAMA COLLEGE, and the article went on to describe in the most vague, general and ultimately inaccurate terms what the reporter thought had happened. His problem was that he didn't know and no-one was going to tell him. He had me down as 'English born Richard Browning', very offensive to an Australian of Irish convict descent, but as things stood, the more confusion generated about me the better. The list of my film credits was a dog's breakfast of half-truths and outright lies. The story didn't allege that I'd been involved in any wrong-doing but the implication was clear. I could see Louise's point though, the whole thing had a racy air that smacked more of mystery and adventure than criminality. A small, blurry photograph of yours truly was a comfort — no one could possibly have identified me from it. There was a great picture of Louise in tennis gear putting all she had into a forehand drive. It was a beautiful thing to see, Louise's forehand, and the photograph made me yearn for her.

  I sipped my beer and considered my options. I could stay put and hope that Louise's mouthpiece could smooth the way for me to go back to the States. One thing against this idea was that in all my dealings with them I'd never known a lawyer to do anything quickly, unless it was to present his bill. Another was that if the mob decided I needed some education, Tijuana was the place they'd begin looking. I could take a holiday in Mexico for a while, improve my Spanish and become an expert on tequila. Somehow, that didn't appeal to me. I just knew I'd get into trouble.

  I reached into my pocket for some money to pay for the beer and along with the change and small bills came the drink coaster with James Dean's number scribbled on it. I'd completely forgotten about it and it was a wonder I still had it. I suppose I'd been careful about what I threw away. The numbers were faded from several days rubbing up against other things but still readable. Louise had said he wanted to talk to me and I couldn't think of a single other person in that category who wouldn't want to do a bit more than talk, like hit or shoot. Why not? I found a phone and rang the number.

  'Yeah?'

  'Is that James Dean?'

  'Depends on who wants to know.'

  'This is Dick Browning.'

  The surly, up-you tone disappeared. 'Hey, Dick. That really you? Where're you ringin' from?'

  'I'm in Mexico.'

  'Mexico! Hey, wild!'

  'Louise said you wanted to talk to me. If it's about the key to your motorbike, I took it because I thought you were too drunk to drive. I think I've still got it. I'll mail it to you.'

  There was a slight pause while he digested that. Stars don't like to reminded of their mortality, although the smarter ones realise that it's good for them for it to happen once in a while. Dean was definitely in that category.

  'That's ok,' he said. 'Guess you were right. I don't remember much about what happened after the Feds arrived. Reckon I had a few more drinks. Anyway, I got a spare key. But hey, that was a wild show you turned on. What's the story?'

  'It's a long one and I can't really give it to you on the phone. I've got to lie low for a while, you understand.'

  'Sure, but look, the job offer I made you holds good. In fact, it holds good in spades.'

  'What job offer?'

  'You don't remember? Shit, man, I want you around when we're on location in this shit-eatin' town in Texas. I can fix it so's you'll be on the payroll — personal assistant, adviser, somethin' like that. What d'you say?'

  I could see some advantages — camouflage, influential associates, income. On the other hand I knew from experience that one definition of hell is being at the beck and call of a movie star and movie-obsessed people. But it was the best thing on offer. 'Where is this place?'

  'Little town called Marfa in the middle of Texas. Goin' to be damn hot. They tell me it's near El Paso, if that means anything to you. So, you interested?'

  'Yes, sure, Jimmy, I'm interested. When're you planning to be there?'

  I heard the click of his lighter and t
hat deep sucking sound he made on a cigarette. 'Flying out day after tomorrow. Going by way of Phoenix and someplace else. You get there and we'll have a ball, man.'

  'Ok,' I said, 'I'll be there. Thanks, Jimmy. But there's one thing — I'll be Dick Kelly, not Browning. Understand?'

  The giggle. 'I understand. And say, Dick, how about you bring up a pound or two of that good Mexican weed, huh?'

  The operator cut in. I didn't have any more coins and the line went dead. I hung up and my first impulse was to forget the whole thing. Dean was an erratic character, just as likely to tell me to go to hell if I turned up, especially without any marijuana, and I had no intention of going into the drug smuggling business. Against that, I'd be back in the States, able to contact Louise and monitor how things were going on the legal front. It was still the best deal on the table.

  I walked to the railway station and made a study of the routes and schedules. I had two choices: cross the border and travel by rail through California, Arizona and New Mexico into Texas or stay in Mexico and travel by bus to some point along the border. I felt I wasn't quite ready for the USA, so I bought a ticket to Mexicali where I could cross at Calexico. It was going to mean some boring waiting and some sweaty discomfort, but a lifetime of moving around, mostly under duress of one kind or another, had taught me that it's not the journey that counts, it's arriving in one piece.

  Back at the hotel I noticed the difference in the desk clerk's manner at once. Where previously he had been slovenly and careless, barely noticing who came and went, now he was alert and a trifle too quick to hand me my key. I didn't say anything but my nerves were jangling as I went up the first flight of stairs. My room was on the second floor and I ran along the corridor on the floor below to the bathroom, climbed through the window and dropped into the alley. From the first time I ran out on a hotel bill in Sydney in 191623 I've made a habit of surveying the entrances and exits. It sometimes seems to me that I've gone out through windows and fire escapes more often than doors and front steps.