Hollywood and Levine

by Andrew Bergman

“Rachel, I don’t think anybody …” Goldmark began.

  “What does the detective say?” Mrs. Wohl stared at me with those red, frightened eyes.

  “I don’t blame you for being upset, Mrs. Wohl,” I said in my best bedside manner. “But please understand that you and your husband are not ‘prime suspects’ or anything of that sort.”

  Milton Wohl looked up from the table, his eyes magnified and dreamy behind the thick lenses.

  “I understand that, LeVine,” he said softly.

  “But the danger?” said his wife. “Leaving us exposed …”

  “You’re in no danger,” I assured her. “Unless you know something you’re not telling me.”

  “Like what?” asked Goldmark.

  I shook my head.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” I was being coy, of course, but there was no reason to share what I had learned about Parker and White. “It seems to me, however, that Carpenter was killed over a matter of knowledge. As for Walter, I have to assume the same, but I don’t have a shred of evidence to support it.”

  “But you’re sure of it?” asked Goldmark.

  “Yep.”

  The slender agent poured himself some more tea.

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s no other reason for him to have been murdered.”

  Helen had been staring off into the garden, a fork pressed contemplatively to her lips. She turned to me.

  “Unless it was a mistake,” she said coolly. “What I mean is that someone thought Walter knew something that he didn’t know, or thought he was going to do something that he wasn’t going to do. Or just thought that he was someone else.”

  She put the fork down and lit up an Old Gold, all eyes upon her. Especially mine. Maybe the lady had hit a bull’s-eye; it was possible that the uncertainty, the nagging lack of clarity, in Walter’s death, could be explained by something as simple as a mistake.

  “What do you think about that, Jack?” Helen said to me and me alone. There was a small light of triumph in her eyes and a note of relief in her voice. If Walter’s end had resulted from a slip-up, the dense and suspicious air she had been breathing would certainly be lightened and purified.

  “I think you might be right,” I told her.

  The Wohls and Goldmark were by now thoroughly confused, but the hell with them. They’d find out sooner or later, if they didn’t know now—and their ignorance was a matter of conjecture. I got up and walked over to the window. A couple of jays were having a confused brawl; it ended after a five-second flurry of blue and feathers. I turned and leaned against the sink.

  “I’d like to ask you folks just one question,” I began, scratching my cheek. “How long have you all been out here?”

  Goldmark lit himself another cigarette.

  “Living, working?” he asked.

  “Both.”

  “I’ve been here since ’32,” said Wohl. “With Rachel. My first screen credit was in ’33. Night Stop.”

  “I remember it,” I told Wohl. “About the bus that breaks down.”

  The writer beamed.

  “That’s right! Jesus Christ, I didn’t think anyone remembered that one. The studio certainly doesn’t.”

  “I saw them all, good and bad. Goldmark, when did you come out here?” I sounded as genial as the host of a quiz program.

  “1937,” the agent said.

  “From where?”

  “Pittsburgh. I was a press agent for KDKA radio and they really had me running my butt off. The money wasn’t bad but it was Pittsburgh and even when it’s sunny all you see is black smoke. Gets to you.”

  “I’ll bet. Then what?”

  “Then I came straight out here and hooked up with the Morris office—the William Morris Agency. That was in July of ’37. During the war I worked for the Information Office, and opened my own shop after V-J Day.”

  “Larry’s represented me since ’39,” said Wohl.

  Rachel Wohl nodded.

  “I remember,” she said. “It was about the time of the Nazi—Soviet Pact.”

  “No connection, I hope,” I said pleasantly.

  Goldmark guffawed, but the Wohls did not find the remark amusing. Helen covered her smile with a napkin.

  “The rest of your group,” I continued. “How long have they been here?”

  “What do you mean, ‘group’?” Rachel Wohl asked coldly.

  “Political group.”

  “How does he know everything?” Mrs. Wohl demanded of Helen. She was furious, shaking.

  “Rachel, for God’s sake.” Wohl got up and walked with her to the far side of the kitchen. “Excuse us,” he said over his shoulder.

  Goldmark got up and came over to me.

  “You think it was one of them?” he asked in a whisper, his face mere cologne-scented inches from mine.

  “One of the Wohls?”

  “No, not them necessarily. One of the group.”

  I shrugged, all plodding professional ignorance.

  “Who knows? I’m just trying to get an idea of the field.”

  The agent’s eyes narrowed.

  “I thought you knew that a long time ago.”

  “Hell no. My knowledge is pretty limited.”

  “I figured you were right on top of it, Jack.” Now he was beginning to rag me. “Way ahead of the cops.”

  “Nope,” I said amiably. “You overestimate me.”

  The Wohls returned to the table and sat down. Rachel Wohl blew her nose and wiped at her shining eyes.

  “I really don’t want to cause any more pain,” I told all of them. “But your group, Milt, everybody’s been around since 1932 or thereabouts?”

  Wohl frowned and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He stared at the ceiling.

  “Since ’32,” he mumbled.

  “Take your time,” I told him, walking to the refrigerator. I pulled out a bottle of club soda and poured myself half a glass.

  “No,” Wohl finally said. “I’ll tell you, LeVine. Carroll Arthur has been in Hollywood since the twenties and he started coming around in, say, ’36. But are you interested in the length of political activity or how long they’ve been in Hollywood?”

  “The politics is secondary. Helpful but secondary. Don’t tell me any more about the politics than you want to; I understand your position right now.”

  Wohl shot a sharp glance at Goldmark, who snuffed out his cigarette and lit another. Everyone was just electric with anxiety.

  “I appreciate that, LeVine,” Wohl said. He played with the remains of a pastry on the plate before him. “Carroll Arthur, late twenties, like I said. Sig Friedland is an Austrian refugee. He lived in England for a couple of years and made his way here in … 1941.” He looked to his wife. “Was it ’41?”

  She nodded.

  “’41, early ’42 the latest.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Go on, Milt.”

  “Now Dale Carpenter had been out here since the thirties,” the writer continued, “but his political involvement dates from the early forties.”

  “Since the invasion,” said Mrs. Wohl.

  “Which invasion?” I asked.

  “Since Hitler invaded the Soviet Union,” Wohl told me. “The Nazi-Soviet Pact was a pragmatic, time-saving move, of course, but at the time it caused an uproar in the progressive community. A great many people dropped out; almost no one joined up.”

  “But things livened up when the Germans went galloping into Russia?” I asked.

  “Sure.” Wohl relaxed a bit, happy to be discussing history rather than murder—a fine distinction at best. “See, people realized that Stalin had only been buying time. With the Allies dawdling over the establishment of a second front, seemingly content to let the Soviets absorb enormous losses … well, the Nazi-Soviet Pact, in retrospect, made a whale of a lot of sense. People woke up.”

  “Henry made a big difference at that point,” Mrs. Wohl interjected.

  “Absolutely. When Henry came in it gave us a big
boost,” Wohl agreed.

  “You’re talking about Henry Perillo?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” said Wohl. “Henry not only possessed a great deal of theoretical knowledge, but he had great practical know-how in terms of organizing. His union background was invaluable.”

  I resumed my seat.

  “But you belong to a union, too, right?” I asked.

  Wohl smiled.

  “There’s a great deal of difference between the Writers’ Guild and the craft unions. We’re still babes in the woods.”

  “Not quite,” said Goldmark.

  “In any case,” I said, steering the conversation back to where I wanted it, “Perillo came late to Hollywood?”

  “Sometime during the war, Hon?” the writer asked his wife. “’43, ’44?”

  “Late ’43,” said Mrs. Wohl.

  “Uh-huh,” I said matter of factly. “You have any idea where he was before?”

  The Wohls searched each other’s faces and came up empty.

  “Wasn’t it Denver?” asked Goldmark. “I vaguely remember something about Denver.”

  Rachel Wohl, teacup at her lip, nodded emphatically.

  “You’re right. Larry’s right, Milt. He had been active in union-organizing in Denver.”

  “So he was in Denver until ’43?” I asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” said Wohl. “He’d been traveling. But that goes into areas he’d have to discuss himself.”

  “Of course,” I assured him. “But you say he galvanized your group when he got here?”

  “Definitely,” said Mrs. Wohl. “He broadened our scope, was heavily involved in the Popular Front move, but always had a clear sense of the ultimate goal we all were shooting for: a world of economic justice.”

  “You’d say he was the leader?” I asked.

  “We have no leaders, Mr. LeVine,” Wohl said quietly, but with some force. “Henry helped us clarify our thinking.”

  “And despite his relatively late arrival, he was accepted wholeheartedly?” I went on. But I had asked one question too many.

  Wohl’s eyes floated uncertainly. “Do you suspect Henry Perillo of something, Mr. LeVine? If so, I wish you’d come out and say it.”

  It was time for me to fold my tent and steal across the darkening sands.

  “I don’t suspect him more than anyone else.” I casually lit a Lucky. “It’s just that since he was the last to come to Hollywood, his background contains the largest number of unknowns.”

  Everyone sat pondering the sense, or nonsense, of my words.

  “Henry is beyond reproach,” said Mrs. Wohl.

  I shook my head. “Ma’am, I’m not even beyond reproach.”

  There was some light laughter. Nobody falling into the aisle, just some chuckles and smirks of relief. Helen began clearing the dishes and I was pleased to help her. It cued Goldmark and the Wohls to shuffle their feet and get up.

  “Helen, we’ll be running,” said Wohl.

  The redhead turned to her husband’s friends.

  “What can I say?” she told them. “For looking after me, for taking the time to baby-sit … I’m such awful company, I know.”

  Wohl kissed her. “Hush,” he said affectionately. “You’re a dear girl and you’re doing remarkably.” He looked at me. “What do you think of the courage of this girl, LeVine?”

  “She’s terrific,” I told him.

  “See?” Wohl said, almost gaily. “And he’s one of those hard-boiled detectives.”

  “He’s not so tough,” Helen said with a smile.

  Wohl laughed but his wife stared at me with a peculiar mixture of loathing and awe. I held out my hand to her.

  “Sorry to have upset you. It certainly wasn’t my intention.”

  “I know,” she said without much conviction, then turned and gave Helen a dutiful kiss.

  “You going to Zack’s tonight?” Goldmark asked Helen.

  “Probably,” she said.

  “Fine. See you there.” The agent kissed her.

  There was a final chorus of good-byes and be-wells as Helen walked the trio to the front door.

  By the time Helen had closed the door and returned to the kitchen, I had gone through her personal directory and come up with Perillo’s home address and phone number, copying the digits onto a matchbook.

  Helen curled up on the banquette. I leaned against the sink.

  “Who’s Zack,” I asked, “and what’s tonight?”

  “Zack Gross, the producer. He’s having a meeting-party kind of thing, ostensibly to discuss the HUAC developments.”

  “You going?”

  “I’d like to, if you’ll come with me.”

  “I have an errand to run first. What time does it start?”

  “Nine. What’s the errand?”

  “I have to see a guy.”

  “That’s very helpful, Jack.” She patted her hand on the banquette. “Sit with me for a minute.”

  I did so and received a hug as my reward.

  “How did the police treat you?” Helen asked.

  “I didn’t lose any teeth.”

  “I see,” she said evenly. “Are you going to tell me anything?” Helen was getting annoyed and I couldn’t really blame her, but while the case was at such a delicate point, it seemed foolish to load her with details. They would only make her jumpy.

  “I think I’m on to something, but I’ve got to work it out. Trust me.”

  “It’s not a matter of trust, Jack. I just don’t enjoy ignorance. It’s dangerous.”

  “So’s knowledge.”

  “Oh Jack, come on, let’s not play word games.”

  “All right. What specifically do you want to know?”

  “What do the police think?”

  “They don’t think. Their hands are tied on this one. The FBI is running the show.”

  Her eyes grew big, that wonderful jaw dropped just a trifle.

  “Really? The FBI?”

  “Really. An FBI man named Clarence White is in charge. Ever hear of him?”

  She shook her head.

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now I’ve really got to blow.”

  Helen wrapped her arms about my chest and squeezed.

  “One more minute, Jack.”

  She slid up on the banquette and kissed me, lightly. Then with a little more force, nibbling on my bottom lip.

  “I still have thirty seconds,” she whispered.

  She pressed closer to me and my brain began passing all the appropriate signals down the line. The green lights began flashing, the vat began bubbling. But LeVine is a dutiful fellow.

  “Time’s up,” I said, disengaging myself with a final peck on her broad brow. “I can assure you that I don’t want to go, but it’s important.”

  “Cock-teaser,” she said with a grin. “You’ll pick me up at 8:30 or so?”

  “I’ll try, but if you don’t hear from me by, say, 8:15, go with the Wohls and I’ll meet you there. What’s Gross’ address?”

  “Number 384 St. Cloud. It’s in Bel Air.”

  “That’s very fancy?”

  “You won’t believe how fancy. Incredible. Gross married money and made a lot on his own; he’s produced a lot of biggies.”

  “But he’s political.”

  “Carefully so. A good liberal type.”

  She got up and walked me out to the hall. I took my hat out of the closet.

  “As ever, don’t let anyone in you don’t recognize,” I told her.

  Helen leaned by the door; a teen-aged girl saying goodnight to a study date.

  “You won’t tell me where you’re going?”

  “Not to worry.”

  She looked into my eyes and suddenly all traces of the teen-ager vanished; the widow, seeking revenge, reappeared.

  “Do you suspect Henry Perillo, Jack?”

  What the hell.

  “Yes I do.”

  She looked down at the floor, arms folded, and let her syste
m absorb the news. Then she looked up, composed and even.

  “He’ll be at that party tonight,” she said.

  “That’s okay. If you feel you can’t talk to him without developing a tic, then duck him.”

  She compressed that beautiful mouth.

  “You really think it’s Henry? I just can’t believe it.”

  “I have suspicions, but nothing substantial. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She opened the door for me.

  “Try and be back soon, Jack. I’d like to go to Zack’s with you.”

  “I’ll try. Listen to the radio, relax.”

  “You just take care of yourself.”

  We kissed and then I left the house. She stood in the doorway and I turned to wave good-bye. We waved for a long moment, reluctant to part.

  I think we both knew what we were in for.

  12

  Perillo lived at 3410 The Paseo, in L.A.’s Highland Park district, a pleasantly scruffy working-class neighborhood of mongrel dogs, rust-brown children, and amiable Mexicans repairing and scrubbing their 1936 Fords. I arrived at seven and it seemed that everyone had just completed supper: dishes were being scraped and the porches and yards were filling up with racing kids and mutts. A guitar was being strummed melodically and laughter fell like light rain. It was an unlikely turf to stalk someone I thought guilty of murder, an unlikely turf to do anything but have a few beers and welcome the night.

  The Paseo was a short residential street that ran a few blocks and ended on a weed-covered hill. I drove past Perillo’s house very slowly; the driveway and curb were empty, but the house was positioned too high up for me to see if the lights were on or off. So I continued on past the house, turned back down to Verdugo Road, and stopped in at a tavern called El Sombrero.

  The Sombrero was as dark and quiet as if it had closed. Two gentlemen were either sleeping or praying at the bar; the moon-faced Mexican bartender was seated on a stool, reading a scratch sheet and chewing contemplatively on a beef jerky. I ordered a draft and asked if the phone was working.

  “Only if you put a nickel in,” he joked in softly accented English.

  I walked to the back and called Perillo’s home. His phone rang a dozen times before I hung up and sauntered back to the bar. My beer was waiting. I was parched and the brew went down in three swallows.

  “This place liven up on weekends?” I asked the bartender.