by Stuart Woods
“Right. I think it might even be a good idea if you could find an anti-Communist property you could write and direct, one that you could live with, morally.”
Sid poked at his steak. “Well, if nothing else, Rick, you’ve shown me what I’m missing by sticking with the party crowd.”
“What I want for you, Sid, is what you once had, plus a great deal more. You have a fine talent, one that shouldn’t be squelched, and you have the capacity to do even better work.”
“I’m going to have to think about this, because I won’t be able to get it out of my mind. It’s a big step, and a complete break with my past.”
“It’s going to cost you some friends, Sid, but eventually make you some new ones. Why don’t you do this: talk with Hy, and let him meet with these people and see what kind of a deal he can come up with. Once you know exactly what’s expected of you, then you can make an informed decision about what to do.”
Sid sighed. “All right, Rick. I guess I can do that without committing to anything.”
“Good. By the way, I’m sending Hy a novel I’d like that client of his in Maine to adapt. It’s called Dark Night.”
“I’m sure he could do that; dark night is where he is right now.”
“There’s a sunrise around the corner, Sid.”
“We’ll see.”
47
Tom Terry pulled into a parking space in front of Jimmy’s, a cop bar on Melrose, hopped out of the car and walked into the joint, looking for Lieutenant Ben Morrison.
“I’m right behind you,” Ben said, poking him between the shoulder blades with a finger.
“Don’t shoot until I’ve had a drink,” Tom said. They found a booth and ordered.
“How’s the picture business?” Ben asked.
“I think it must be okay, but somehow I don’t think of myself as being in the picture business. I’m something else; I’m not sure what.”
“Private eye? Philip Marlowe?”
“Hired gun, jack-of-all-trades…I don’t know. Every day is different.”
“That can’t be bad; it’s what I’ve always thought was the best thing about being a cop.”
“Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I really like the work. I just never know what it’s going to be. At least, they haven’t asked me to kill anybody.”
“Well, you may have to kill Hank Harmon, if you want justice for your girl.”
“What are you talking about, Ben?”
“I’m talking about having no case against her. I can’t prove she’s not telling the truth.”
“Have you talked to her again?”
“She came in yesterday with her lawyer and allowed us to print her.”
“And?”
“And her prints are not a match for the ones we got out of Susie’s car. One set was Susie’s—we got them off her corpse—but the other? Who knows? Close your mouth; it’s hanging open.”
“Did you check her arms and chest for scratches or scarring?”
“Yep. Nothing there.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Neither did I. Like you, I made her for the crime right off.”
“Holy shit. I pretty much promised my people that Harmon would go up for murder.”
“Not unless we get a major break. A witness that saw her dump the body would do nicely.”
“How about a witness that saw her walking home from Vance Calder’s house?”
“That would be a big help, but we’ve come up dry there. None of our patrol cars or the Beverly Hills department’s saw anybody like her. We even talked with the garbage truck drivers on that route. Nothing.”
“Ben, it’s not like she planned every detail of this. She came home, found Susan there and went nuts: beat her up, hit her over the head and strangled her. Spur-of-the-moment murders are untidy; the killer always makes a mistake, usually several mistakes.”
“You’re reading from my book,” Morrison said. “I’m with you all the way. I’m just telling you that, if that’s the way it happened, the Harmon girl, once she’d killed her girlfriend, did absolutely everything right. Or maybe she’s just very, very lucky.”
“Nobody’s that lucky,” Tom said. “Was there anything at Calder’s house besides the prints in Susan’s car?”
“We got Harmon’s permission to search her place, and we had a dozen guys go over it; didn’t find a thing.”
“What about at Vance Calder’s place?”
“Same there. Oh, there was one odd item that cropped up.”
“Tell me.”
“The place is beautifully gardened, you know? Lovely plantings, everything kept in tip-top shape by a Japanese gardener.”
“Yeah. I saw it.”
“Well, there was one anomaly: around to one side of the house, next to the garage doors, there was a thick bed of ferns. It looked like something big had wallowed in it, like a deer had slept there.”
“A deer? In Beverly Hills?”
“All right. Maybe a bum caught a night’s sleep there; what do I know? Something mashed down the ferns, messed them up good. The gardener replaced them after we released the premises; it looks like before, now.”
“Makes no sense.”
“You’re telling me.”
“It’s a shame Harmon went for a lawyer; I’ll bet she would have broken, if you’d sweated her.”
“Maybe, but she’s a very cool customer.” He paused. “Or she’s innocent.”
“My money’s on cool.”
“It’s your money.”
“Ben, the papers haven’t said much about Harmon; maybe it’s time her cover was blown.”
“Cover?”
“She’s a dyke, for Christ’s sake. She’s got stuff to hide.”
“I guess, but maybe your girl Susie had stuff to hide, too. I mean, she lived with Harmon for several months, and I’m sure you noticed there was only one bed in the apartment. You think your studio would want that sort of thing brought out about their dead movie star?”
Tom sighed. “You’re right; any heat we brought on Harmon would land on Susan, too, and my studio definitely would not like that. Her picture just went into wide release.”
“What’s wide release?”
“Sorry, that’s studio speak. The picture opened at Christmas in four cities, so it would be eligible for Academy Awards. ‘Wide release’ means it opened all over the country, probably a couple of thousand theaters.”
“Look, Tom, even if Harmon did it, it’s not like she’s a danger to the public. She had her heart broken when her girlfriend jumped ship for a guy, and she reacted badly. She’s not going wild in the streets. She’s gainfully employed at RKO, and the people she works with like her.”
“Management wouldn’t like her if they knew she was a dyke.”
“Aw, c’mon. If any studio started firing three-dollar bills, they wouldn’t have any people left to make the pictures. The last thing they’d want is to have a spotlight thrown on who’s queer in the business, and that’s all firing her would accomplish. As it is, even the scum at Confidential haven’t managed to scrape up enough for a story, let alone a cover. I hear they’ve given up.”
“Was there anything new in the final M.E.’s report?”
Morrison shrugged. “There were some signs of sexual assault. There was some bruising in the anus, and something that might have been a human bite on her vulva. They can’t be sure about that; it might have been an injury when the body was being disposed of.”
“You mean she had something up the ass, and somebody bit her pussy? Is that a dyke thing?”
“Well, I’m told the girls use dildos from time to time, but we found nothing of that sort in Harmon’s apartment. As to biting, I’ve seen that a fair amount in regular folks.”
“Did you talk to any of her other girlfriends?”
Morrison shook his head. “It’s a tight-knit sisterhood,” he said. “Nobody talks about nothing. All we got was what a great gal ol’ Hank is.”
&nb
sp; “Well, shit,” Tom said.
“Yeah,” Morrison replied.
48
Sidney Brooks and Hyman Greenbaum arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel half an hour early for their appointment.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” Hy said and led Sid into the Polo Lounge.
Sid had not set foot in the place since his appearance before the committee, and he did not particularly want to be seen there today, but it was midmorning, between the breakfast and lunch crowds, and the room was nearly deserted. They ordered coffee.
Sid was very uncomfortable about what was coming; he had wrestled with himself about it, and finally he had been able to rationalize what he was doing. Hy had already talked to the Motion Picture Industry Council, a committee that was the first step in the rehabilitation of a blacklistee. Hy said that some of its members had known Sid and thought well of him and that they were all decent men.
“Sid,” Hy said, “I’ve been talking with these people for weeks now, on the behalf of one client or another—sometimes on behalf of just friends—and I’ve found them to be reasonable. They’re FBI agents, for the most part, or ex-agents; they’re just doing a job, and they’re not anti-Communist nuts.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Sid said.
“When you talk to them, don’t be confrontational.”
“I’m not normally a confrontational person, Hy.”
“I know that, but it won’t do your case any good to get angry and upset.”
“Are they going to try to upset me?”
“Probably not. Try and give complete answers to their questions without running off at the mouth. Don’t give them just yes and no; that would make it seem like you had something to hide.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“If they ask you a question you don’t know the answer to, just say that, but if you know the answer, tell it truthfully. You’re not going to be under oath, that’s part of the deal I worked out, but if you lie to them it could well come back to haunt you.”
“I understand.”
Hy looked at his watch and called for the check. “This is not going to be all over today; this is just the next step, but it’s a big one. These people have to be able to go back to the committee with an outline of the testimony you’re going to give. After your testimony, we’ll still need to do some PR. You’re not going to wake up the next morning off the blacklist; it will take time, but it will happen.”
They walked into the back garden of the hotel, where the hotel’s most private quarters, the cottages, were located, and Hy led him to a door and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man in shirt sleeves and a tie and suspenders.
He smiled, “Good morning, Hy. Thanks for coming.”
“Good morning, Roy. May I introduce Sid Brooks?”
“Hi, Sid. How are you?” Roy said. “Come on in. Would you fellows like some coffee?”
“We’ve just had some, thanks,” Hy said. “I see you’re comfortably quartered here.”
“Oh, we’ve just been loaned the place for the day.”
Roy led them into the living room, where three other men were seated. They all stood up and shook hands politely when introduced. Sid immediately forgot their names.
“Have a seat, fellows,” Roy said. When they were all settled, Roy began. “Sid, Hy has told me that you’re ready to talk to us as part of the rehabilitation process. What we want to do this morning is to listen to your story and let you know what’s expected of you.”
“Thanks,” Sid said. “I’d certainly like to know that.”
“We realize that you may feel that you’re informing on your peers, but I hope by the time we’re through, you’ll feel better about it. Your testimony before the committee last time was very brief, and that’s a good thing, because you won’t be in danger of contradicting yourself. Now, let’s begin by asking you some of the questions that you might be asked during your testimony. You’re not under oath; this is all very informal. From time to time, we may interrupt you with suggestions about the way you couch your answers.”
“All right.”
“Sid, when and where did you first join the Communist Party?”
“In 1935, in New York.”
“What were your reasons for joining?”
“Well, we were in the depths of a terrible depression, and things were very bad. I suppose I had the feeling that things weren’t working as well as they should in the country, and the party seemed to offer an alternative to the Republicans and the Democrats. Their proposals seemed to me idealistic. For instance, I was attracted to their position on racial equality.”
“All right, Sid. Let’s remember that some of the committee members, like Congressman John Wood of Georgia, are not going to be receptive to comments about the lack of racial equality in this country, so in answering, you might want to avoid mentioning that.”
“All right.”
The questioning continued for more than an hour, with occasional comments from the men present. Sid found their suggestions helpful. Finally, Roy handed Sid a sheet of paper with six names typed on it.
“As Hy has no doubt told you, you’re going to have to identify some of the people you met at party functions,” he said. “We’d like to suggest these names, all of which are already known to the committee.”
Sid looked at the list. Three of the names were New Yorkers, and another three were living in California. “All these names are familiar to me,” he said. “I met the first three in New York at party-sponsored social events; the last three were all among the nineteen who were originally subpoenaed.”
“Are you personally acquainted with them all?”
“Yes, though I’ve never been close to any of them.”
“Are they all members of the Communist Party?”
“You have to understand that when you meet people at party-sponsored events, no one ever says to you that he’s a Communist.”
“Have you ever attended a formal party meeting where any of these people were present?”
“I was at a meeting where the first man was present,” Sid said.
“Are you willing to testify to that?”
“I suppose so.”
“What about the others?”
“The other two New York names were commonly thought of by the people I knew as party members, but remember, no one ever flashed a membership card. In fact, I was never given my party card; it was held in the local organization’s files.”
“All right. We understand that. In fact, we’ve seen a photostat of your party card; don’t ask how.”
This surprised Sid, but he didn’t say so.
“What about the three from California? Were you ever in a party meeting with them?”
“Yes, all three, but the meetings were held after we were subpoenaed, for the sole purpose of discussing our legal defense. Actually, after I came to California, I never attended a regular party meeting. I drifted away from the party.”
“All right, let’s do this; give us an account of each party-sponsored function—cocktails, even—where you saw any of these individuals.”
Sid wracked his brain and managed to come up with some answers. “Some of these things were fund-raisers for Soviet relief during the war, when the Russians were our allies. Sometimes petitions were circulated.”
“Sid, were you acquainted with the actor Alan James before his death?”
“Yes. We were in the theater together in New York; he appeared in leading roles in two of my plays there.”
“To your knowledge, was Alan James a member of the Communist Party?”
“Yes. He was. We both joined at the same meeting.”
“Did you continue to be close to him after he came to California?”
“No. Alan came before I did and established himself sooner. We didn’t often work on the same productions, and we just drifted apart, I guess you’d say.”
“Was Alan James a hard-core Communist?”
“No. I’d call Al more of a s
ocial Communist. I think he joined mostly because people he knew were party members.”
“Did you have occasion to see him shortly before his death?”
“Yes. We had dinner the evening before he died. He called and suggested we meet for dinner.”
“What was the subject of your conversation that evening?”
“Alan had decided to become a friendly witness, but he was very conflicted about it.”
“Was he considering not testifying in a friendly manner?”
“No. I think he was fully committed to testifying, but he felt badly about naming friends of his.”
“Do you know if you were one of the friends he would have named?”
“Yes. He told me that. I think he felt he owed me an explanation before he named me.”
“Did you part on good terms?”
“Al got very drunk at dinner, and I had to drive him home and put him to bed. He was in no condition to be on either good or bad terms. Apparently, he woke up the following morning and ended his life.”
“Do you think he felt guilty about becoming a party member, or guilty about naming people he knew?”
“I think he was guilty about both.”
“The committee would probably prefer it if you emphasized his guilt over party membership.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think he felt all that guilty about joining. I believe he took his own life because he didn’t want to be thought of as an informer by his friends.”
“Can you shade that a bit in your testimony?”
“I was told not to lie to you today; I haven’t.”
Roy made a note on a pad, then he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Sid, was your wife, Alice, a party member?”
“No. She was not.”
“Was she a sympathizer?”
“No. She attended one or two of the fund-raisers with me, but she never approved of the party. She tried very hard to get me to be a friendly witness before the committee. When I failed to do so, she filed for divorce.”
Roy smiled. “That’s pretty much what she told our investigators in New York.”
