TWO O’CLOCK, EASTERN WARTIME

by John Dunning

  Even Dulaney had heard of Corwin, resident genius on the Columbia Network, who was said to be producing the first real literature of the air. Dulaney had always wanted to hear one of Corwin’s programs but had never been next to a radio when they came on.

  They stood in the Santa Anita mail room filling out change-of-address forms, and he told Kendall he’d think about it. Maybe he’d write and ask Ober about it when they got up to Tanforan.

  The next night Kendall had a radio playing in the tack room. On Monday they heard A Tale of Two Cities with Ronald Colman playing his role from the movie. Dulaney knew Dickens well and he figured they’d caught the heart of it, dressed it up with music and sound, and made it play in his mind, all in sixty minutes, less gab time for Lux soap. He stood in the shedrow and filled his water cup as the guillotine fell, and he looked off to the Hollywood hills, fifteen miles away, where they were doing it at that exact moment, and he was touched by the miracle of it.

  They pooled their money, $75, and bought a car: a bright red Essex twelve years old with a radio that played. On a warm Sunday night they drove north looking for work. They listened to a mangy love drama, then an all-girl orchestra that reached across the country from Cincinnati. It was WLW, Kendall said: “Greatest signal in the universe. You can’t flush your crapper in Dayton without WLW comes out of the pipes.”

  What amazed Dulaney was the versatility, the scope. You heard something great, then something so bad it almost hurt your ears to listen. Bad or good, it never stopped. Radio consumed material like a runaway fire. It burned words like tinder.

  They arrived at Tanforan, just south of Frisco, but again the horses had been moved out and Japanese families were living in the stalls. A cop had replaced the guard at the stable gate and the place had the air of a concentration camp. Dulaney walked around the compound and watched the processing through the high wire fence. New arrivals were unloaded from a truck while a fat man in uniform called their names. “Mr. Ben Doi,” the man said, and Mr. Doi stepped forward and his eyes found Dulaney’s through the wire. The woman who was probably his wife looked at no one. Their children faced the terrors of the camp with brave, dry eyes. The little girl saw Dulaney watching and waved shyly, and suddenly he felt a streak of indignation. What had these Japs done to be yanked out of their homes and locked in a barn still reeking of horse turds? I will write about this, he thought.

  It looked like racing was finished on the coast. They heard that Bay Meadows might still have a meet, and Longacres might open if a man wanted to go to Seattle on the chance of it. But there was plenty of work; the depression was over and they had no trouble finding jobs. Kendall had their mail routed to general delivery and they slipped into new lives away from the horses. They were working half days in a labor pool, giving Dulaney five good hours to write. At night Kendall would come and dole out what mail there was; they’d eat supper together and perhaps later they’d listen to the radio and talk about heading east. Soon there’d be a summer lull on the air as the big-time comedians and the established crime shows took their eight-week vacations. This was the time to try something new.

  It was a daunting prospect to a high school dropout who had never seen the inside of a broadcast station. He put off writing to Ober and started another racetracker story. Then he got arrested, and now it would be a while before Ober heard from him about anything.

  ( ( ( 4 ) ) )

  IN the morning he was taken to the same room, where Kendall was already waiting at the same table. Kendall looked pale, like a man who’d slept with a goblin. Or a bottle. Dulaney felt heartsick in the face of news that was sure to be bad, but when Kendall spoke, it was not about Holly at all. “What’s going on with you, Jack?”

  “What’s going on how? What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Yesterday you asked me what’s going on with me. Now I’m asking you the same question. There’s something you haven’t told me about.”

  Dulaney fought back his impatience. “That could be anything. There’s a lot two fellows won’t know about each other when they haven’t been together six months yet. Hell, Marty, you know I’m not the confessor type.”

  “I’m not talking about your love life.” Kendall’s eyes were red and watery.

  Again Dulaney wondered if he’d dropped off the wagon and he decided to ask straight-out. “Are you drinking again?”

  “Not a drop, Jack. I swear, I haven’t had a drink the whole year.”

  “Then what’s wrong with you?”

  “I just need to tell you something. I’ve been thinking about it for some time now, but I don’t know how to get at it.”

  Kendall was sitting half turned in the chair, looking at Dulaney in profile. He’s in pain, Dulaney thought: somebody worked him over.

  “What happened to you, Marty? You look like you can barely sit up.”

  “I took a fall, that’s all.” But as their eyes met, the truth came out: Kendall shrugged and said, “I got mugged last night.”

  Dulaney started to speak but Kendall cut him off. “That guard’s not gonna give us all day.” But again as Dulaney waited the seconds ticked away.

  Finally Kendall said, “The road does funny things to two guys. After a while you grow on each other. You know what I’m saying?”

  Dulaney nodded, but warily.

  “So what do you think, Jack? Am I your friend, or just some goombah you’re killing time with?”

  Kendall was looking straight into his eyes now and Dulaney understood what he wanted. Acquaintances came and went; a friend was for life, and Dulaney had never made friends easily. You never knew about each other until you had passed some test of fire together.

  The question hung in the air and now Dulaney had to grope for an answer. What he said was half-assed but the best he could do. “I think we’ve got the start of a good friendship. There’s no telling where something like that can go.”

  Kendall gave a dry little laugh.

  “These things take time, Marty. But I do believe we’ll be friends.”

  Kendall looked at his feet. “Well, I’ve come to think of you as my friend, even if you don’t quite feel that way. But maybe it’s time I moved on.”

  “If that’s how it is, I can understand that.”

  “There’s nothing I can do for you here. I’d just be marking time. Maybe later, if you wanted to look me up.”

  Dulaney just watched him. Something was eating him, you could see it working on him. The lie, Dulaney thought: he’s trying to get rid of all the stuff he’s been lying about.

  “I want you to remember this,” Kendall said. “What I told you about radio is God’s truth. You could set that world on its ass. You already know how to make words live. And you’ve got one other thing. You make people want to do their best for you. I hear Corwin’s got that. Maybe that’s why he directs his own stuff so well. People give him everything they’ve got. This is all gospel now, straight from the heart.”

  “I never doubted that. At least I know you believe it.”

  “Hang on to that thought because now I’ve got to tell you something that hurts. You’ve already guessed it, I haven’t been square with you. We didn’t just meet by accident. I was sent to find you.”

  Dulaney glared across the table. “You found me months ago. Why am I just hearing about it now? And who the hell is this who’s taken such an interest in my habits?”

  Kendall shook his head. “I’ve got some more thinking to do before I decide to tell you that.”

  “Did somebody rough you up on my account?”

  Kendall said nothing but his silence said much.

  “Who beat you up, Marty?”

  “Just a thug. Some goddamn mulligan. I don’t know who he was.”

  “But you know why he did it. Don’t deny that, I can see it in your face. Somebody sent him to work you over. Something about me.”

  Dulaney thought about old enemies, but none he could remember would have gone to such trouble. Suddenly the guard stirred and Dula
ney was aware of the time. “What about Holly?”

  “I don’t know. She seems to be the cause of it.”

  Dulaney absorbed this in a long moment. “This is hard for me to imagine. In all these months you never once mentioned her name.”

  “You weren’t supposed to know.”

  “Know what, for Christ’s sake?” Dulaney’s anger was so strong now that Kendall could barely look at him.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. It was just an acting job to me. That’s how it started. Then we got to know each other.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “I did it because I needed the money. I didn’t know you or this woman.” Kendall tried to look away but Dulaney gripped his arm.

  “Tell me about the letter.”

  “She . . . said she needed something. Something you’ve been holding for her. She had . . . gotten herself in some kind of jam. Butted heads with somebody, made herself a powerful enemy.”

  This sounded unreal. It sounded calmly terrifying. It grew like a virus, gripping him tighter with every heartbeat.

  “What was it she wanted?”

  “Don’t you know that?”

  “How the hell would I know? When was this letter mailed?”

  “Postmark was February.”

  Three months ago. She had been in trouble three months ago and had written him for help.

  “Where was it mailed?”

  “Someplace called Sadler, Pennsylvania.”

  Her hometown. The weight of it grew as he sat thinking. “This changes everything,” he whispered.

  Kendall didn’t seem to hear, or understand what he meant. “Listen, Jack, if you want my strong advice, I say send her what she wants. Tell me where it is and I’ll take care of it for you today. Maybe it’s some little thing her father sent.”

  Again this startled him. “How do you know about her father?”

  “That’s not important now. We’re gonna run out of time.”

  Dulaney nodded at the guard, hoping to buy a few extra minutes. “I haven’t got anything of Holly’s,” he said. “Her father never sent me anything.”

  Kendall leaned toward him, his face flushed. “Jack, listen to me. Whatever it is, let’s give it up. These people aren’t fooling around. Man, I think that gorilla cracked one of my ribs.”

  “Who are these bastards? . . . You called the tough one a mulligan. In my lingo that’s an Irish hood.”

  “He’s Irish, all right.” Kendall swallowed hard and Dulaney could see the pain in his face. “He doesn’t matter. He’s just a thug.”

  Dulaney sat still, listening to time run down in his head. Three months ago she had been in trouble. Three months.

  “Time’s up, boys.”

  Dulaney said, “Just a minute, please,” and suddenly he had a hundred questions and no time for any of them.

  “Did you get my stuff out of the hotel?”

  “It’s in the car. But listen, Jack—”

  Dulaney held up his hand. “I’m coming out of here.”

  “How, for Christ’s sake?”

  “You can always run from a road gang if you’re willing to risk taking some buckshot.”

  Kendall closed his eyes and shuddered. “Are you crazy?”

  “You can help me, or not. Either way I’m coming out.”

  Suddenly the thing took another twist. Kendall leaned close and his voice was a trembly whisper. “You’re going to get yourself killed for nothing. Listen to me now, Jack. Listen! . . . There is no letter.”

  “Now what are you saying?”

  “There is no letter. There never was any letter. I was told to say that. I’m telling you the truth now, Jack. It’s all a ruse.”

  The deputy coughed. “Come on, boys, let’s wind it up.”

  Dulaney smiled and made a plea with his hands. “I’m coming out, Marty,” he whispered. “It’s up to you whether you want to help me or not.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Find out where the work camp is. Play that lawyer role you do so well, see if they’ll tell you where they took us. If you can leave the car on the nearest road east of the camp, do that. If you can’t, I’m out of luck and on my own.”

  Dulaney cocked his head. “This is going to be damned hit-or-miss but it’s the only chance I’ve got. I’ll run east in the morning, just as the sun comes up.”

  He stared into Kendall’s eyes. “This means you’ll be on foot. It’s a risk I’m asking you to take, but I’ll be in prison clothes and I’m gonna need that car.”

  He reached across the table and gripped Kendall’s hand. This was their test of fire.

  Kendall smiled, wary and pale. “That’s what I meant about you, Jack. You always make people do their best for you. Hope it doesn’t get you killed.”

  ( ( ( 5 ) ))

  BY the time he got to the county court it had all been reduced to a formality. He pleaded guilty and that afternoon a bus with barred windows came for the new prisoners and took them into the hills east of Oakland.

  Their destination was Camp Bob Howser, a cluster of barrackslike buildings surrounded by a wire fence with squat guard posts at two corners. He was given an issue of clothes, gingham gray, and made to wear a duck-billed cap. He never learned who Bob Howser was. Nobody seemed to care.

  The warden, a thin bald-headed man named Murf Ladson, was exactly what Dulaney expected. He walked in front of the ragged men cradling a shotgun and looking into each gaunt face. He stopped and looked at Dulaney and the look was as old as time, coming up through all the endless wars between authority and defiance. This one I’ll have trouble with, the warden thought, and Dulaney could see the thought in his face. The warden leaned close enough to share the last sour memory of his meat loaf and ketchup dinner. “Mess with me, big man, and you’ll wish to Christ you hadn’t.”

  So we are slaves here, Dulaney thought: sold down the river to the same mean-hearted overseer Uncle Tom knew. In another time it might not bother him. Now he’d kiss the devil’s ass for a greater gain tomorrow, but a primal loathing lingered between them.

  At the end of the line the warden turned to face the sorry crew the county had sent him. “The only thing that matters here is the schedule. We’re clearing land for a state road going through. If the state says get it cleared by July, I want it done by the middle of June. I always beat the schedule. Now, you boys get your asses on that truck. You got five good working hours left in the day.”

  They were taken into the hills. There were stumps to be cut out of the earth and burned, rocks to be broken and dug up. The men were watched by guards in plain clothes and the guards carried shotguns but there were no shackles. The men were mostly vagrants and drunks, not violent criminals. Few would ever muster the grit to make a break for it. Kendall was probably right: it was a little pocket of county corruption, with the judge getting kickbacks for free labor.

  The country was on wartime. The Daylight Savings Act had been passed in February, giving them an extra hour of daylight for the duration. This meant they could work till eight, and as the summer came on, the workday could be pushed back even later. The men were quiet and grim. Dulaney worked steady and hard and tried to make the guards forget he existed.

  That night there was a blackout. The truck had shades over its headlights that were supposed to make it invisible from the air if the Japs were flying over. The whole West Coast was nervous and Japhappy. As Kendall and Dulaney had come north from Los Angeles they heard rumors of a Japanese invasion coming out of every crack and doorway.

  At Camp Bob Howser the guard was doubled on blackout nights. It was Monday: the men would change clothes on Wednesday, and again on Saturday when they took their weekly gang shower. They ate in a smoky room with blackout curtains, a mix of flour and beans and ground meat ladled out of a pot by a Mexican cook. In their bunks the men lay soaked in sweat, staring into blackness.

  Somewhere in the night came the hum of airplanes.

  “Hey, Billy,” said a voice across the w
ay. “Them sound like Uncle Sugar’s planes to you?”

  “Sure they do, sure they do, why the hell wouldn’t they be?”

  “I heard the Nip planes got a different sound to ’em.”

  “Shaddap, Mac,” said a third voice. “Keep it to yourself.”

  Dulaney closed his eyes.

  He dreamed of Holly. And there was Tom, alive again.

  ( ( ( 6 ) ) )

  THEY were sitting on the steps of his old apartment house, listening to the Yanks play the Red Sox. DiMaggio homered in the sixth and Tom went to get some beer. But then he’d met some fellows who had a crap game going, and time got away from him.

  Holly and Jack talked into the evening and something happened. The air between them was charged with it. At seven o’clock Holly said, “I think we’ve been abandoned. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  Over supper in the neighborhood cookhouse he learned about her life. She lived on Keeler Avenue in a Pennsylvania coal-mining town, where her father had taught school for years. But classes were consolidated and the school closed when the depression came; their savings vanished, and with $900 remaining on the house, Holly learned about the threat of foreclosure.

  Her father went on the road looking for work. It was 1932, the cruelest year, the year of the hobo whore, when thousands of young girls sold themselves in hallways and sent the money home. Families broke apart but not theirs. Carnahan wrote them every week: sometimes he sent money, but there were days when all he could manage was the penny postcard. He sent that without fail, no matter how hard his life was.

  Holly was sixteen. Her mother was an invalid and their survival was largely up to her. She washed and mended for the miners; cooked and carried food to the mines. Corn bread, rice, and black-eyed peas. Hot bean soup dished up from a steaming iron kettle off the tailgate of her daddy’s old pickup. She could sit with the miners and put it away with most of them. A few years after her father left home, a photographer from Life came through and took her picture for a “Faces of a Depressed America” layout. She sat on the running board with her mud-streaked skirt pushed down between her legs, her hair limp from the rain and a steaming cup of soup in her hands. She didn’t know if they had ever put it in the magazine. It cost ten cents a week to find out, and that seemed pretty damned extravagant under the circumstances.