TWO O’CLOCK, EASTERN WARTIME

by John Dunning

“We had a picnic. A great Indian summer day in the middle of November. He was off that day and I was working a show that night but I had the day free. We had been promising my kids we’d take them on an outing, so we did, way down the beach near the lighthouse. It was a perfect day—after the season, the beach was wild and deserted and we had a grand time. There wasn’t a hint of anything wrong. We were out all day and got back to town around four o’clock.”

  “And that’s the last time you saw him, when you dropped him home?”

  “I didn’t take him home. He asked me to drop him at the post office north of town—he had something to mail but we had come out too early in the morning to do it then. I told him I’d wait and run him home but he said no, the Christmas rush was starting, the line in the post office was longer than his walk home. I got my last look at him in my mirror as I was pulling out. He was waving to me. I remember thinking how I’d love to have that image in a photograph, him standing there with his hat in one hand, waving with the other. I felt a rush of sadness, couldn’t explain it and still can’t, almost like a black cat crossing my path. Then I saw some people from the station and the feeling went away. I knew it was silly. I’d see him tomorrow, just like always.”

  “What people did you see?”

  “George and Peter Schroeder, actually. They must’ve pulled in right behind us.”

  Now another cat crossed her path. The implication had been slow in coming but she was far too smart to miss it once she’d put it into words. George was dead. Peter was missing. Carnahan was gone, and now perhaps the links to Kendall didn’t seem quite so tenuous. In her eyes he saw new trouble growing, and with it a hint of fear.

  ( ( ( 23 ) ) )

  BACK at the station, Rue was waiting for him, sitting in his chair with her legs crossed primly.

  “Becky called me in. She said you wanted to see me.”

  “I wrote the script,” he said. “The one we cooked up on the beach. I told Kidd you were interested in the wife, and for some reason he thinks I should be the one who reads you for it.”

  She accepted this like an employee reporting for work. Reasons didn’t matter. A decision had been left to him and it was a part she wanted badly without ever having seen a line of it. “So let’s do it,” she said.

  They went to the small conference room just off the hall and he gave her her first look at it. She sat at the table and began her reading cold—not a hint of the old camaraderie, not a frivolous word—but she got better as she went along. Occasionally she looked at him as if asking for direction, but he only nodded to encourage her on. What did he know about acting? . . . how could he tell her how she must do it? But suddenly he did know. Who would know better than the man who’d written it?

  “Let’s try it again,” he said. This time when her eyes probed his face, he too had abandoned their friendship. The role was hers to win but she would have to win it. Hazel was a call away. Hazel got all the choice, difficult parts. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He said, “Give it a stronger heartbeat,” and she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  “Give it more fear, right from the start,” he said. “Remember, she sees the face of evil long before he does. She knows where it’s going.”

  She nodded and did it. She nailed it. There in a room no bigger than the one where the Gestapo had interrogated Georgie Schroeder, she gave him what he wanted. Her voice was the essence of fear.

  “Let me try it again.”

  “No, I think you’ve got it.”

  She was still unsure. “I want this part.”

  “I’ll talk to Maitland.”

  “I want this. I can do it better.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Save it for the air.”

  By five o’clock he had finished another script. He read it in complete amazement, the unfamiliar dialogue and strange images flowing through him as if for the first time. It brought his arms to gooseflesh, without question the best thing he had ever written. A dozen times during the day he had forced himself out of the Carnahan dream to look down on a new page that he remembered writing only vaguely. The power flowed and he drew from it, and he thought he could work forever. The power flowed, the cycle was endless, the energy never stopped. He thought he had come here with nothing but he’d had what he’d always had. He had everything.

  ( ( ( 24 ) ) )

  THE Tuesday morning staff meeting was crowded. Kidd came in precisely on time and introduced some new faces. Monte Braxton was a writer-director just in from Chicago. Bruno Zylla had been a composer-conductor at NBC-West in Los Angeles. His orchestra would be here on Friday. Vick Waters and Bernie Roberg were writers who would work on continuity and special projects. “Mr. Ten Eyck is being relieved of continuity for a time, to work with Mr. Maitland.”

  There was a stir in the room.

  “I think you all know by now that Mr. Ten Eyck has written us a play for Saturday night. It’s a fine piece of work. It should make us some waves in the city, if we can get people to listen. I’ve been on the phone about it, and I think I can persuade Susan Daniels and Rick Gary to come down and do the leads for us.”

  Rue looked up as if she’d just been cut.

  “I know this is going to disappoint some of you. This will be our first big splash and we badly need the experience and name recognition that they can bring us.” He looked at Rue. “If you’ve got anything to say, I’ll be happy to hear it.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say. What would I have to say about it?”

  Jordan held up his hand. “I’ve got something to say.”

  “I see fire in your eyes, Mr. Ten Eyck. I appreciate that, but if we can get Susan Daniels and Rick Gary, I think we should do it. They are two of the best names in New York radio and they’ll assure us an audience just by their presence.”

  “I know who they are. But you asked me to read Miss Nicholas for the wife and we did that in good faith. I think she’s going to be great.”

  “I’m sure she would be, and I apologize. I asked you to do that before I knew that Miss Daniels and Mr. Gary might be available.”

  “You’re missing my point.” Jordan rose from his slouch at the back of the room. “Sure, you can buy an audience this Saturday, but what happens to that audience when those people go back to New York? Are you going to persuade this Daniels and Gary to give up their networks and move down here? I don’t think they’ll do that. Sooner or later you’ll have to make it or break it with your own people.”

  Kidd looked around the room. “Any other comments? . . . Miss Hart, you look like an opinion just waiting to be asked.”

  “I agree with Jordan, sir.”

  “Count me in that camp,” Stoner said.

  “Mr. Barnet?”

  “I’ll be the devil’s advocate and go with the network people. They’ll give it instant credibility. Frankly, I’m surprised they’ll even consider this.”

  “People will consider all kinds of things if you pay them for it.” Kidd pointed at Hazel. “Miss Kemble.”

  “I just want it known that I can do anything Susan Daniels can do.”

  “Anyone else? . . . Speak up, nobody gets shot at sunrise here.”

  From the center of the room Maitland spoke. “We’re all professionals, Jethro. The question of name recognition is a valid one, but you know Jordan is right. These people will be here for one night only and then we’re starting from scratch again. We’re going to have to earn our audiences week in and week out.”

  “If we do keep it in-house, who will you choose for the boy?”

  “Brinker seems most likely.”

  Jordan raised his hand. “I think you’ll need Jimmy in some of those Nazi roles. He’s too good with dialect to put him anywhere else. Stallworth and Eastman can do some of those, but I think Brinker’s got to be considered for the speaker of the Hitler Youth Movement and maybe one of those Gestapo interrogators in the flashback.”

  “Then who does that leave us for the lead? We really are thin on air talent here
, Jethro.”

  “I’m aware of that. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  Suddenly Rue said, “Maybe Rick Gary will come down and leave Susan Daniels at home,” and the room exploded with laughter.

  Becky said, “I think she deserves the role for that comment alone, sir,” and the laughter went on.

  Kidd waited it out. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. But I want to be fair. Dedrick, can you audition the staff today?”

  “Of course,” Maitland said.

  “And give me an answer by five o’clock.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right, then. It’s your call to make.”

  Over in Studio B they began. An air of excitement came over the soundstage: Jordan could feel it as he sat alone watching them read his words. Even Eastman and Stallworth knew they had something they had not seen here in years. Hazel complained that she had not been allowed to compete for the lead, but Maitland shut this down at once. They had no time for grumbling: the part he had for her was small but choice. She would play Gretchen, the Nazi scarf peddler in Yorkville. She had been Rudy’s childhood friend, but now as the story opened she was selling him out to the wolf pack.

  Pauline would play Rudy’s mother: “a German voice laced with Americanisms,” Maitland instructed. Eastman and Stallworth would vary the one-liners of the mob. Brinker, for the purposes of this audition, would read three important roles, including the hero.

  The first reading went well. Becky sat on a stool and timed them, and at the end said, “Steady as she goes, mates, it’s going to be right on.”

  They went through it again. Rue rose to Maitland’s direction and got better with each reading. They broke for lunch early, at eleven thirty. “Everybody back here at one,” Maitland said. “We’ll have a few director’s nitpicks, then we’ll run it through from the top and I’ll go give Jethro the good news.” Rue caught Jordan’s eye, mouthed the words “Thank you,” and blew him a soft kiss.

  A small group of Goodfellows went to eat at the fish house. They sat at a table on the roof and there was such goodwill and open affection among them that Jordan forgot for an hour all the times when he’d been alone. There was a feeling suddenly that anything was possible, nothing was out of their reach.

  Rue said, “So, Jordan, when are you going to write us something new and exciting?” Everyone laughed, but the table got quiet when he told them he had already finished another script. “It’s for the Negro show. But there are a couple of white parts that might be pretty good for a rising young actress like yourself.” He shrugged. “I know that’s never been done, white players backing up a Negro cast.”

  “That doesn’t bother me,” Rue said. “But Harford doesn’t pay for that show, we all know that, and it’s against my religion to work free. It’s just not a good idea to give it away; that leads to all kinds of bad stuff. So having said that, what’s it about?”

  He told them about Sarah Mapps Douglass, the Negro abolitionist whose friendship with the white Grimké sisters in the early 1800s had fired his imagination last night. He had written it for Ali Marek, but the two white women could be a challenge for Rue. He saw her in both parts, tempering her voice just enough to pull it off. “There’s one tricky scene where the sisters get into a good-natured argument. Lots of instant voice changes, lots of nineteenth-century mannerisms. Lots of vinegar, I hope.”

  “It does sound perfect for Rue,” Livia said. “She can argue with herself for once and we’ll all sit back and see who wins.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Brinker said, “I think you should do it. I’d do it myself but women are a little out of my range.”

  Jordan said, “It would really expand what I could do with it if I had some white voices to play with. There’s no way Emily Kain can handle this, she hasn’t got the experience or the whiteness. You’ve got to have a sense of white propriety to pull that off. But I’ve got to be careful. The last thing I want is for them to think the whites are taking them over.”

  “If you could only get Kidd to pay me even a dollar for it,” Rue said. “Anything to keep it professional.”

  “I think Kidd will pay you,” Becky said.

  “How do you know? Damn it, Becky, now what’s going on? Have you been talking to Kidd about this behind our backs?”

  “I had no idea there was even a script until just this minute.”

  “Then how do you know so much? Here we go with the secrets again.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you what I know. But if you blab this around I’m going to be furious.” She looked at Jordan. “This morning I heard Kidd talking to payroll. Your cast gets paid as of last Sunday. The checks will be in your envelope this Friday.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. Ten dollars apiece. Less than scale but ten more than they ever made before.”

  “Are you serious? They’ll be rich! This is great news!”

  “Just remember, you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “What about Waldo? He’s got to remember to pay Waldo. I can’t give out those checks unless there’s one for Waldo too.”

  “What about you, Rue? Will you work for ten dollars?”

  “Hell, yes. Jordan’s got himself a genuine white woman, two for the price of one.”

  Maitland was still on the soundstage when they returned at one o’clock. He sat with Zylla, working on the maestro’s script for the musical score. Leland would work the rehearsals on organ in the absence of the orchestra, to give Maitland a sense of timing and pace. “Dedrick’s a heavy rehearser,” Rue said softly. “He’ll be changing stuff right up to airtime.”

  They began again. Maitland stopped often for suggestions on music or sound patterns, for new interpretations of individual lines. He coaxed Pauline into what he wanted, a good German mamma who loved her boy. Hazel as usual was perfect: she gave them a version of the scarf woman so true to the original that Jordan found it chilling.

  At four thirty Maitland sent Becky to fetch Kidd. “Okay, people, let’s give him a show,” he said, and everyone got in place as Kidd came in and sat facing the soundstage.

  The run-through was perfect. Becky clicked her watch and said, “Twenty-nine sixteen,” and Kidd nodded curtly and got up from his chair.

  “I don’t need to ask what the verdict is. Miss Nicholas sounds superb.”

  Rue smiled, a little out of breath. “Thank you, sir.”

  “This is it, then,” Kidd said. “What did you decide about the lead?”

  “We still need someone,” Maitland said. “Brinker’s good but Jordan’s right, we need him too much in those Nazi roles and I don’t want to spread him any thinner than that. I know Rue was kidding but I’d like to try to get Rick Gary and give Susan Daniels our regrets.”

  “I talked to them both this afternoon,” Kidd said. “Gary will come with or without Miss Daniels, so it looks like we can have the best of both worlds. But he can’t get here till Saturday afternoon. You won’t have time for much more than a quick table reading with him before the dress.”

  “That’s okay, he’s a pro, he knows what to do.”

  They began to break up. Kidd pulled Jordan aside as the cast drifted out. “Mr. Harford would like to see you tonight, if you’re free. Just a friendly chat over dinner. Casual dress, no frills.”

  “Casual’s about the best I’ve got.”

  “Seven o’clock, then. Come over to the office and ring the bell, someone will come let you in. I may join you, or maybe not. I’ve still got a mountain of work on my desk.”

  He sat at his desk in the empty bullpen, still tingly from the day, still caught in its spell. He closed his eyes to rest a few minutes, and the pictures began again.

  He was in that meditative state, half awake, half asleep. He was aware of the clock though he didn’t see it. He knew he’d need to get moving soon: go home, get a shower, change clothes. But when he opened his eyes, he grabbed a sheet of newsprint and rolled it into the typewriter.

  He had
a title for a story. “Dark Silver.”

  Suddenly he had the story as well. It had no ending but that didn’t matter. It was a river of life.

  It went like it always went: quickly, explosively.

  Dark Silver was the name of a racehorse. The story would be a continuation, a weekly half hour with plenty of time to work in the characters. Open ended, sprawling, rich with detail.

  He roughed out an outline, the action of the first five chapters, and his racetrack family came to life at once. He would need five weeks to set the central hook. To tell how this family of struggling racetrackers had had a succession of crippling setbacks, and now pinned the hope of their stable on an old stakes horse named Dark Silver. Five weeks would give him the luxury of getting the five main characters established, with a half-hour chapter devoted to the problems of each, while the larger conflict would slowly develop and build throughout.

  Lee Brewer was the father, the central character. But he decided to begin with Nina, their fiery eighteen-year-old daughter. A great part for Rue. He would back into the main story in the second week, but for now Nina had the most immediate problem. She was desperate to become a jockey, which would break that all-boys clan and flout tradition. The entire action of the first episode would be set on the day of her license hearing before the Nebraska Jockey Club. Her brother Sam would support her, Will would be less enthused, and the sarcastically affectionate exchanges between these three would make them all sympathetic in different ways.

  He sketched out a few more characters.

  Melanie, their mother, who had been a schoolteacher twenty-five years ago. Pregnant with Will on their wedding night, he decided. He didn’t know how such a thing could be used but it struck him as true and he wrote it down. Pauline would play this role.

  Gill Dockett, the unscrupulous trainer who was Lee Brewer’s archenemy. His son Al Dockett, cowed by the old man and thus a bully, in love with Nina, desperate to impress her, doomed of course to failure. Kyle Nelson, Lee’s best friend and most serious rival in the claiming wars. And Job Hendricks, the veterinarian: a wise old hand who’d always been a listening post for the three young Brewers in times of trouble.