Hollywood and Levine

by Andrew Bergman

  I lit up a Lucky and looked out the window. Across the street, a small boy was riding his tricycle around a backyard littered with the artifacts of poverty: the rusting, blind carcass of a Plymouth, a broken washing machine, a small mound of soda bottles and clothespins. The kid looked very happy.

  Davis cleared his throat and began speaking in a schoolteacher’s humoring tone of voice. “Mr. Levine would probably like to know why the congressman and I wished to see him this morning,” he began.

  “It’s LeVine,” I told him. “Like Hollywood and Vine.”

  “That’s an unusual name,” he replied with a salesman’s smile.

  “So’s P. J. I don’t think I ever met one before.”

  “Patrick Jefferson.”

  “Very patriotic.”

  He chuckled moderately and I flashed an extremely charming and engaging grin. Congressman Nixon smiled. Wynn nervously tapped his fingers together. Lemon and Caputo watched their knees.

  “Lieutenant,” Davis said to Wynn, “are we all going to discuss this matter?”

  “No.” He snapped his fingers at Lemon and Caputo. “Fellas, go wait in the hall.”

  The two cops nodded heavily, like horses, then arose and left the room, leaving the four of us to sit in silence.

  “Okay, LeVine,” Wynn finally said. “We’re going along with you. Adrian was murdered.”

  The three men looked at me for guidance and wisdom.

  “What am I supposed to say, thank you?”

  “Of course not,” Davis answered smoothly.

  Nixon spoke up for the first time.

  “You’re from New York City, Mr. LeVine?”

  “That’s right, congressman.”

  “I have a great many friends there,” he informed me.

  I nodded and kept my silence. Wynn coughed. We sat quietly on our chairs, as polite and apprehensive as young girls waiting to be asked to dance.

  “Why do you think Adrian was murdered?” Davis finally asked.

  “I don’t think I ever said that definitively. What I said was that murder was not to be ruled out.”

  “And you think it was ruled out?” he went on.

  “Everything Lieutenant Wynn told me indicated that it was, yes.”

  “But perhaps the lieutenant was giving such indications for a reason?”

  “Perhaps. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Davis didn’t want to ask him and Wynn didn’t want to be asked. The reason was plain enough: Wynn hadn’t pursued the homicide angle because he had been told not to. Davis knew it and was being a chump to grill me about it.

  “All right then,” the investigator continued. “Let’s say that you suspected Adrian might have been murdered.”

  I was getting bored.

  “Listen,” I began, “if this is leading somewhere, why don’t we skip the prelims and get to the main event. That’s what the fans paid to see.”

  “Keep your shirt on, LeVine,” said Wynn, stuffing a pipe into his face.

  I shrugged in the direction of Nixon. He batted his eyelashes, then leaned over and reached into a black briefcase, his long fingers extending from an oversized sports jacket that covered his arm almost to the first knuckle. He removed a yellow legal pad from the briefcase, then balanced it against a crossed knee.

  “I like to keep a record,” he said to no one in particular. I couldn’t quite get a handle on the congressman. He seemed painfully shy and looked, from a certain angle, like a college debater. But he also had the shifting gaze and blue jowls of a baby-faced con.

  “Let me assure you,” Davis said curtly, “that we’re heading for what you call the ‘main event.’ And let me remind you that you are addressing individuals entrusted with a top-level congressional investigation.”

  “Into communism in the movie colony?” I asked.

  Davis nodded solemnly. “That is correct. So let me ask again why you suspected that Walter Adrian might have been murdered.”

  “Because suicide didn’t wash.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just didn’t seem like him. I didn’t think it was impossible, just unlikely.”

  “Did you think, perhaps, that he had been killed by a Communist agent?”

  I know that I shouldn’t have, but I smiled. A big, wide, fat-pussycat smile. After overhearing that bizarre conversation yesterday, I knew the way these birds were thinking, but it still sounded like a hashish dream to me.

  “You’ve seen too many movies,” I said.

  Davis pulled his chair closer to mine and began raising his voice.

  “Mr. LeVine, we are acquainted with your background and your sympathies. Thus, we are not surprised by your cavalier, mocking dismissal of the Red menace. However, let me warn you …”

  I decided to cut him off. “Hold it right there, okay? Fine. Now you want me to answer questions about the deaths of Adrian or Carpenter and I’ll answer them to the best of my knowledge and ability. In fact, to cut right to the quick, I’ll tell you right off the bat that I don’t see any double knock-off engineered by the Communists, the Red menace, or Red Ruffing. That’s one thing. As to my ‘background,’ Wynn already tried that number, complete with FBI files and it was a horse laugh then. I again cheerfully confess, mea culpa, to having signed a petition protesting the frying of those two poor organ-grinders in Boston and, yes, it was me who sent that rice and bean money to the Spanish refugees. As an added bonus, I’ll also reveal that I voted for Roosevelt the first two times and nobody the last two times, and that I miss Fiorello LaGuardia.”

  Nixon was taking it all down.

  “That’s two ‘l’s’ in Fiorello,” I told him, rising from my chair, “and a capital ‘g.’”

  “Yes, I know,” he answered politely.

  “Why are you standing, LeVine?” asked Wynn.

  “Because I’m leaving, unless we get to the point.”

  Davis waved his hand.

  “Sit down, LeVine,” he said. “You’re in no position to walk out on us. I don’t want to pull rank, but this, ex officio, is part of a congressional investigation. If you don’t want to talk to us now, we’ll call you into sworn session. You might prefer that, I don’t know. I thought this would be easier.”

  I sat down. Davis turned to Nixon.

  “Congressman, I wonder if we should show Mr. LeVine the Bureau memo on the Carpenter matter?”

  Nixon pursed his lips in thought. “I think that would be advisable,” he said with a judicious nod of the head. The congressman reached those long fingers into his briefcase—I swear he could have used his sleeves for mittens, they were that long—and extracted a pink sheet of paper. He studied it, nodding all the while, then rose from his chair and handed the sheet to Davis, whispering into the investigator’s ear.

  “Of course,” Davis said out loud, as if on the telephone. “Absolutely.”

  Nixon stopped whispering. Davis studied the sheet. Wynn got up and looked over his shoulder, without much interest. I beamed at Nixon, who returned a tight-lipped smile.

  “Lovely weather out here,” I told him. “It’s my first trip to these parts.”

  “Oh, is it?” he answered brightly. “Well, this is the best weather in the world. I was in the Navy, you know, and we went all over the world, but this is the best weather. Quite frankly, I almost regret getting elected to Congress and having to be away from the sunshine so much.”

  “Tough break,” I concurred.

  Davis leaned forward and handed me the sheet. It was a memo, on FBI letterhead.

  TO: P. J. DAVIS

  FROM: CLARENCE WHITE

  RE: CARPENTER HOMICIDE

  Highly placed operatives in the Hollywood CP have indicated to us that Dale Carpenter, like Walter Adrian, was murdered on orders direct from the highest levels in Moscow …

  “Wait a minute,” I said to Wynn. “Did you know all the while that Adrian had been murdered by Moscow?”

  Wynn shrugged and Davis looked embarrassed.

  “No, he
did not,” the investigator said, “and I will tell you why. This is highly, highly secret information. When the FBI first learned of the true facts behind Adrian’s death, it was necessary to keep that information at the very top levels of the Bureau and the House Committee on Un-American Activities. The police were not informed.”

  “They were just told to lay off the case and call it a suicide?”

  Davis ignored my question.

  “But the murder of Carpenter,” he continued, in a voice of doom, “which was more obviously an instance of homicide, made it imperative that tight cooperation and absolute trust between the Committee, the Bureau, and the L.A. police would be necessary to keep the lid on.”

  “Which is why Carpenter’s death is attributed to robbery?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Davis.

  “You going to dig up a suspect?” I asked Wynn.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he answered dryly.

  “Lot of publicity. You’re going to have to stick it to someone. Don’t you have a boxcar full of Mexicans for occasions like this?”

  Wynn did not appreciate my needling and told me to shut up.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Nixon interjected. “I think Mr. LeVine should finish reading the memo.”

  I returned to the pink sheet.

  It was reported that Carpenter, like Adrian, was about to renounce his Party membership and expose the inner workings of the Communist apparatus in the motion picture industry. There is no certainty as to whether the two homicides were committed by a United States or a Soviet national, but the former seems a more likely probability, as it is doubtful that the Russians would risk discovery.

  The key Hollywood CP members—such as Wohl, Arthur, and Perillo—are reportedly in panic and are being kept under surveillance. It is unlikely that local Party members will cooperate with your Committee’s efforts. The familiar Soviet pattern of methodical terror as a means of enforcing discipline is evident.

  The memo was initialed “C.W.”

  “Who’s White?” I asked. “He’s the same guy who put together that memo on me.”

  “Clarence White,” Davis said solemnly, “has never been seen by any of us. Dramatic as that may sound, it is true. He is chief of the undercover unit that has been investigating subversion in Hollywood since the middle of the war.” He watched my eyebrows rise and smiled. “Oh yes, Mr. LeVine, for that long. You see, the unit was studying the possibilities of German subversion out here. Early on, it perceived that the real threat was coming from the left, not the right, and it began concentrating on that side of the fence. There are memos White wrote in 1944 that are absolutely prophetic. Of course, no one was listening to him then. He was considered something of an eccentric, in fact, and was almost switched to another assignment.”

  “Had White been listened to, a great deal of hardship, a very great deal,” said Nixon, emphasizing his words with an umpire’s sweep of the hands, “could have been avoided.”

  “So White has infiltrated the Party in some manner?” I asked.

  “He’s chief of the Bureau unit studying subversion in Hollywood,” Davis said, “and that’s all you need to know.”

  He got up and began pacing, a little theatrically, I thought.

  “What exactly is your function in this matter, Mr. LeVine?” he finally asked.

  “I’m conducting an investigation of Adrian’s death on behalf of his widow.”

  “Do you plan to help us?”

  “Insofar as you are investigating Walter’s death, perhaps. But I’m not on a Red hunt.”

  “This has become a matter affecting the domestic security of the United States, Mr. LeVine.” This was Nixon and there was now a distinctly unfriendly edge to his voice.

  “That’s your job,” I told him, “not mine. I’m a private dick checking out a friend’s murder. Period.”

  Nixon leaned over and began rummaging through his briefcase. Davis sat down and cracked his knuckles. Wynn went over to the window. Looked like the party was breaking up.

  “All right, LeVine,” Davis said. “You can go.”

  “Anybody going to follow me?”

  “No,” the investigator said firmly, “but you may come to regret treating this matter so lightly.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you just might.” And that was all the answer I was going to get. Davis gestured toward the door. “Good afternoon, LeVine.”

  I stood up. “I’m waiting for Wynn. He’s my ride.”

  “He’ll be with you in a moment,” Davis said evenly. “Just step out in the hall. Lieutenant Wynn will join you after he speaks with us.”

  “Wonderful,” I told him, then walked over to where Nixon was seated. “So long, congressman.”

  Nixon got up and extended his hand; it was quite wet. “Thank you for your help, Mr. LeVine,” he began earnestly. “I would like to make one observation, however. A great many people from the East—sincere, well-meaning people, I’m sure,” and here he shook his face for emphasis, “seem to think that the House Committee is going to conduct some kind of ‘witchhunt.’ Nothing could be further from the truth.

  “People from the East—and I’m not condemning them, you understand—many of them say ‘Oh, these are just a bunch of politicians looking for the headlines, looking for votes.’” He wouldn’t let go of my hand. “Mr. LeVine, I wish that were true. I wish it was just something for headlines, for the papers.

  “But you see,” and now he looked me straight in the eye, “it isn’t like that at all. Mr. LeVine, America is facing the greatest national security crisis in her history. That’s why people in positions of responsibility and public trust, people like myself, for instance,” he blinked a few times, “are taking this matter so very seriously. I’m not criticizing you in any way, Mr. LeVine. You have your right to disagree and that’s what makes America great. What I am saying is that your right to disagree will be endangered if the Soviet program for world domination progresses any further.”

  Nixon let go of my hand.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I told him, and left the room.

  It was a relief to stand outside with Lemon and Caputo, leaning against the wall like kids outside the principal’s office. The two cops were stupid, but at least they weren’t crazy.

  11

  It was around 1:30 when I returned to the Chrysler. It was parked in front of the police station. Wynn had remained in a foul temper all the way back and was glad to be rid of me. He and the department were being manipulated and he knew that I knew it. I was a walking and kibbitzing reminder of his impotence.

  So Wynn just dropped me off with a final “Stay out of my hair!” and I climbed into the Chrysler. All dressed up and no place to go. The morning’s activities had been a diverting political science lesson, but I had learned nothing of use, nothing I could take in my hands like a divining rod and follow around. I was traveling on vapor, on hunches and guesswork tied together by baseless assumptions. The lack of solid leads this far into the case set my teeth on edge.

  I sat unhappily in the car, attempting to devise an agenda for the remainder of the afternoon. Two obvious, though probably futile, tasks came immediately to mind: first, to get in touch with Johnny Parker and find out why the late Dale Carpenter had leaned on his bell yesterday afternoon, and second, take a shot at getting the full story behind the Denver Post clipping. I didn’t really expect results on either.

  Hunger asserted itself at that point and the tourist in me decided to have lunch at Schwab’s Pharmacy, the landmark on Sunset where star-struck off-duty carhops and ushers sit nursing phosphates, waiting for Fate’s sudden tap on the shoulder. The rarity of such taps hasn’t hurt Schwab’s business any; the joint remains one of America’s most crowded waiting rooms.

  Surprisingly enough, the food is pretty good. I wolfed down a steak sandwich that had nothing to be ashamed of, and spent another half hour over coffee and apple pie, dawdling until I felt I could reach Parker in his office. It was ten past
two and he would still be hovering over his peach melba with Barbara Stanwyck or Patt O’Brien.

  A fortyish waitress with chemically-induced blond hair and a kind, disappointed face filled my coffee cup for the third time, then started speaking to a small, round man beside me.

  “I’m up for a bit at Metro,” she told him. “A Bob Taylor picture.”

  “Gee, ’at’s great,” the fat man said. “‘At’s terrific.”

  It was too depressing, even for me, so I got up and thumbed through the fan magazines for a few minutes.

  At twenty after, I paid my tab and asked the cashier for a couple of bucks in change. The cashier was not pleased with my request, but complied. The third phone booth from the left was empty and I took it, shutting the door and activating a rattling fan.

  I was stacking up my change when a well-groomed man of thirty rapped on the glass. I pushed the door open.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I’m expecting a call from Universal,” he said in a querulous, combative voice.

  “There any other booths free?”

  He looked down the row of wooden cubicles, then smiled and leaned forward.

  “Yes, there’s one near the end you can take.”

  “Fine,” I told him. “Call up Universal and tell them you moved.” I shut the door in his face and dialed Warner Brothers.

  I had been wrong about Parker. He wasn’t at lunch with the stars. He wasn’t even in California.

  “Mr. Parker is in New York for a round of story conferences,” his secretary told me.

  “When is he expected back?”

  “He’ll return on Monday.”

  “Where could I reach him in New York?”

  She asked again who I was.

  “LeVine, the detective investigating the Adrian suicide.”