Blacklist

by Jerry Ludwig

  “If there’s anything else I can do for you,” he says.

  “Thanks.” He pats my cheek, but as he moves toward the hallway, I call after him. “Harry, there is one thing—”

  He pauses in the doorway and looks back. “Tell me.”

  “Are you going to give David Weaver a job?”

  He didn’t expect that. “What do you know about that?”

  “Wendy told me you mentioned you might when she saw the two of you having lunch.” I don’t mention that she also told me about that pig Joe Shannon saying vile things to David. Before he can answer, I add:

  “You couldn’t help Teddy, but you can help David.”

  He looks at me thoughtfully. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  Then he goes. I sit behind my desk and stare at the papers he gave me. The top page reads “Last Will and Testament of Wendy Diane Travers.”

  So terribly final. She’s gone.

  CHAPTER

  11

  DAVID

  So I’m stretched out on the bed in my room at the Chateau, staring at the ceiling. The room is tiny to begin with, but it feels as if the walls are closing in. I’ve spent the last ten days here in Wonderland looking for a job. The people I called are Teddy’s old friends and colleagues, those who used to dine and rollick at our family table, who now are in positions to hire me. I can get all these former “uncles” on the phone. My calls are promptly and warmly returned. At least the first time. None of them leads anywhere. I’m getting desperate. I have to find something. The funeral cost more than I expected, so my bankroll has dwindled. Not enough left even for a plane ticket back to Europe. The room here is paid up through the end of the week. After that I could be sleeping on the sand in Santa Monica.

  Part of my problem finding a job is timing. The murder of Wendy Travers has cast a pall on the town. Everyone I’ve talked to winds up dwelling on her death. I’m surprised that I feel the same way. I keep reminding myself that she was one of the enemy. An enabler, an exploiter, a betrayer. Yet what repeatedly seeps into my consciousness are fragments of childhood memories: Wendy was the only one of my parents’ friends who really paid attention to Jana and I when we were kids—she taught us how to ride bikes, play tennis, gamboled with us at the rented summer house in Malibu while the adults were busy solving the problems of the world. But then she became a snitch. So is there a moratorium on all that followed because she’s dead? What would Teddy say about the irony of a woman who sold out her friends for money and now has been killed by a degenerate thief?

  Teddy. It always comes back to him. As if fingering a string of prayer beads, I keep reviewing the past with him. Remembering the good days and the other days in Paris.

  * * *

  When we relocated from Mexico to France, Teddy and I lived in a crumbling fourth-floor walk-up hovel in the Marais neighborhood of Paris, not far from the legendary Père Lachaise Cemetery. He made contact with the Blacklisted writers and directors already there scrambling for a living on the fringes of the French film industry. It was a close-knit community, sharing meals and tips on screen assignments, backing each other up financially and emotionally. Despite the hardships it was an uplifting experience. Some of the exiles had children, so I had some social life. But most of the kids were emotionally shaken up by their expatriation, and I certainly was, too.

  But Teddy immediately got in the swing of things. One of the fastest writers in Hollywood, he now had to write three times faster in order to net a pittance. It was as bad as Mexico. Deals based on handshakes, no written contracts, so if you got stiffed there was no recourse.

  Teddy went like the wind. “Typing for francs,” he called it. Working quickly, he used to say, “This script isn’t for reading, it’s for writing.” He never looked back. But hoping to shake me out of my depression after Oaxaca, he suggested I proof one of the scripts for typos. I also found some gaps in logic and details dangling. With trepidation, I mentioned that to him.

  He yelled, “Story conference!”

  And he stopped typing and listened to what I had to say and then said the points I raised were good ones. He changed the script. Soon my job expanded. “Why wait until the script’s finished to fix the screwups?” he asked. So he began using me as a sounding board while working out sticky story points. And more and more of the suggestions I scribbled in the margins went into the scripts verbatim. I’d never felt so close to him. He valued what I was saying. Soon we were developing scripts from scratch. Both getting our bearings in this new world. He started calling us “The Team of Weaver & Weaver.” The closest he ever came to referring to “The Team of Weaver & Vardian.”

  Then I received a notification from the L.A. Selective Service draft board. I had just turned eighteen, so they hadn’t wasted any time. I had been classified 1-A and ordered to stop by the American Embassy. Teddy’s passport was expiring shortly so he came along with me.

  At the embassy they told me that as I wasn’t a student or a conscientious objector, there would be no deferment. They’d prepare a travel voucher to fly me back to Fort Dix, New Jersey for induction.

  “You’ll be in Korea before you know it,” the clerk predicted.

  While waiting for my voucher and travel orders, I went down the hall with Teddy to get his passport renewed.

  The woman at the desk gave Teddy a form to fill out. When he finished, she ushered us into a small inner office. Not a good sign. A portrait of Eisenhower on the wall was looking down on a bored consul behind his desk. She handed the form along with Teddy’s old passport to him.

  “Sorry, Mr. Weaver,” he said after checking a folder, “according to the Department, your passport is not eligible for renewal.”

  The old passport still had a few weeks before expiration, but he refused to give it back to Teddy. The best he could offer him was what they were giving me—one-way passage back to the States.

  “I’m Blacklisted,” Teddy told him, “I won’t be able to earn a living there.”

  The man shrugged. “The Department doesn’t recognize there is such a thing as a Blacklist.” Then added, “Tell me, Mr. Weaver, do you hate your country so much that you just can’t bear the thought of going back?”

  That’s when I went ape shit. An instant eruption. “This man is a decorated war hero! He was wounded defending his country, you little ass-wipe!” I would have gone over the desk after him if Teddy hadn’t pulled me out of there before the Marine guards came.

  So that’s where we were: I went off to fight for my country while he was unofficially but effectively declared a man without a country. Teddy told me not to worry about him, “I’m a survivor, pal, it’ll all work out.” But I knew that meant hiding in the shadows, dodging and weaving, begging bureaucrats for green cards and visas. I wanted to kill someone. Soon after, the U.S. Army taught me how it’s done.

  * * *

  The phone on the dresser in my room at the Chateau jangles me back into the present. “Yeah,” I say listlessly.

  “Hey, kiddo”—Harry Rains’s voice fills my ear—“had to do a quickie trip to New York, sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. We never really got around to talking about you. Feel like doing another lunch tomorrow?”

  Of course I agree. I didn’t think I’d ever hear from him again, but he sounds as if we have unfinished business.

  * * *

  Hillcrest Country Club was Hollywood’s answer to the L.A. Country Club, which prided itself on rejecting anyone from the film industry. All Jews, and even major movie stars, were undesirables. “We don’t accept actors for membership,” they told movie hunk Victor Mature, who assured them, “I’m no actor—and I can show you a dozen movies to prove it.” They turned him down anyway.

  So the Hollywood people, particularly the Jewish comedians, created Hillcrest, on Pico across from 20th Century Fox, for golfers, tennis and pinochle players, with a good restaurant boasting a roundtable where Danny Kaye, George Burns, Jack Benny, Milton Berle, and even Bing Crosby and Bob Hope w
ould frequently laugh it up together.

  That’s where I’m having lunch today with Harry Rains.

  I arrive first and the maitre d’ ushers me to Harry’s table. In a moment, Harry arrives in golf togs. He’s just finished playing the course, suggests we order drinks and steaks. Our drinks appear almost instantly. He holds up his glass as if making a toast.

  “Now where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?”

  “Harry, it was my fault. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Shannon was way out of line, kiddo. I called him and told him that.” He gestures at the room. “You’ve been here before, right? Teddy and Leo were members.”

  I nod. Suddenly understanding why Harry picked Hillcrest for this meal. I thought he was ducking the commissary again because of what had happened. But in Hollywood society this is an even more public endorsement. To make it even clearer, Harry calls over to the comedians’ roundtable:

  “Hey, you goniffs, say hello to David Weaver, Teddy’s boy.” That gets a rousing response from the group. I wave to them. Then Harry leans closer.

  “When we were talking last time, I tried to explain to you how it was. I know you didn’t agree with everything I said. I could see it in your eyes. You were thinking, ‘Harry the Fixer, persuading decent men to sell out their principles and their friends.’ I know that’s what Teddy thought.”

  “He didn’t blame you. He felt everyone makes his own decision.”

  Harry’s eyes mist. “Teddy was so very special, I miss him like crazy. He and Leo, they were among my first clients. Valerie introduced us. We were all like family.”

  He shakes his head as if to clear it. “Do you know what was really at stake back in those days? Behind the scenes in Washington, they were talking about relocation camps for American Commies and their families, just like World War II when they rounded up the Japanese, locked ’em up and threw away the key. I was trying to protect your dad from that. He never could understand that.”

  Harry leans even closer, sharing a secret.

  “We didn’t know it at the time, of course, but the Committee never needed any of the names. They’d had undercover agents working as dues collectors for the Party for years and years. So they had the entire Los Angeles membership list way before the hearings began. They just wanted to show us all who’s boss. Kiss the ring and they’d let you waltz away.”

  That stuns me. “The bastards,” I mutter angrily.

  Harry waves his hand irritably. “Oh hell, it’s a dirty chapter in the history books now. But you’ve gotta put that shit behind you, David. We have to get you started on your life.” He starts munching on a breadstick, offers me one. I decline. “What do you want to do, kiddo?”

  It’s the question I’ve been waiting for. “I want to write,” I say. “I worked with Teddy on eleven screenplays in Paris and Rome. He said I’ve got the makings of a good writer.” I’m about to tell him about the spec screenplay I’ve been working on, but he’s not interested.

  “Okay, write. You don’t need me for that. Do it on your own. Studio doesn’t have staff writers anymore. I want to give you a job where you can learn.”

  “Well, on Teddy’s last picture, the one he directed, I worked as a production assistant.”

  “That’s what I have in mind. But not on a two-bit Italian flick. On a big movie, a major production with a top filmmaker, someone who can show you the ropes. We’ll pay you next to nothing, he’ll run your ass off, but it’s a chance.”

  “Sounds great.” But now I don’t know if I should accept it. “Joe Shannon threatened to go after you and the studio if you hired me. I don’t want him to make trouble for you.”

  “Let me worry about that. Shannon runs his column, not my studio.” I’m knocked out by Harry. For Hollywood, where cowering before major gossip columnists is a tradition, it’s a very brave stance. “There’s only one wrinkle in my offer—the director you’d be working for is Leo Vardian.”

  “Hell no! I’d never work for him! I couldn’t. How can you even suggest it?” Then I hear my tone. “Didn’t mean to jump down your throat, Harry, but it’d be a total betrayal of Teddy.”

  “It’s a door into the business for you, David. Time to be practical. That’s what I always told Teddy. At least give the idea a chance. None of us are the same as we were ten years ago. You’ve changed, maybe Leo has, too.”

  I shake my head, but Harry urges. “Look, go see him. Take the meeting, you never know what might happen. Isn’t that what Teddy always said?” I remember, it was almost a motto. “I phoned Leo last night. He says he wants to meet with you first. Up at the house.”

  “Sorry, Harry. I don’t think there’s anything I can talk to him about. Appreciate your thinking of me.”

  “You don’t have to decide this second, kiddo. Mull it over a bit.”

  The steaks and salads come and we eat and chat about the old days. Harry tells a couple of very funny new stories about Teddy in the wild man times. He signs for the meal and we walk out past the comedians’ roundtable.

  “Gentlemen,” he says, “how goes it?”

  Groucho Marx leers at him. “Harry Rains—but he never pours.”

  It gets a laugh from the gagsters. But Harry tops him, signaling to the waiter. “In honor of Teddy’s boy—the next round is on me.”

  They all hold up their glasses. “To Teddy’s boy,” they chorus.

  Wow, that feels good.

  * * *

  We emerge into the driveway in front of Hillcrest and the parking attendant races over with the car keys. Harry tips him ten bucks and leads me the few steps to his car, parked in the number one spot. The Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce.

  “Nice wheels, huh?” he says with pride.

  “Yeah. Must be a problem, though, parking it on the streets. Don’t you worry about getting scratched or dinged?”

  “If you can afford a Rolls, you don’t have to worry. Not that I ever did. When I was a kid, the first car I had was a Buick heap; I ran up a helluva score in parking tickets. Parked in the red zone, the white zone, the yellow zone, it was kind of a thing with me—gray people park in gray spaces. Part of my nobody-tells-me-what-to-do attitude. Wasted a lot of bucks I didn’t have on parking fines. But what the hell? Back then I was concentrating on more important things.” He looks at me. “Kinda like you are now. Think about the offer, will ya, kiddo?”

  We hug, he gets in the Rolls and takes off. I find my jalopy in the self-park section and drive toward the Chateau. Thinking of nothing else but the offer. Even eating in Schwab’s and sleeping in a broom closet, I can’t hold out much longer. My money is running out fast. Not enough for a plane ticket back to Europe. But—Leo Vardian?

  Back in my room, I sprawl on the bed again. The nightstand radio is playing—the Drifters singing “There Goes My Baby” while I continue to turn the proposition around in my head. If I meet with Leo, doesn’t mean I have to take the job. What’s the harm in talking? If I go up to the house, I might get to see Jana and I can say hello—or good-bye. I decide to flip a coin. Heads I go see Leo, tails I don’t. I miss the catch, coin rolls under the bed. So I have to decide for myself.

  I dial the number. Harry’s perky secretary puts me right through. “Hey, David.” Harry sounds as if I’m the call he’s been expecting. “What’s up, kiddo?”

  “Just—I just forgot to say thanks for the lunch.”

  “My pleasure.” He waits. He knows, but he wants me to say it.

  I suck in a chestful of air and plunge. I tell him I’m willing to talk to Leo. I’m almost gagging, but Harry is pleased.

  “Good decision, kiddo. I knew you’d see the light.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  DAVID

  This time when I drive up to the familiar house on Stone Canyon I don’t park across the street in the darkness. I pull right into the circular driveway. My heart’s trip-hammering as I ring the bell. I’ve come ten minutes early. Hoping that Jana will answer the front door.


  She does. She’s smiling. I’m smiling. Like the old us? Maybe. She looks casual but great, dressed in a maroon tracksuit and spotless sneakers, hair pulled back and secured by a black barrette. Lipstick, no other makeup. This close to her I inhale the lavender soap smell I know so well. My mom used to wear the scent and Jana wanted to be just like her. What I’d like to do is scoop Jana up in my arms and make a run for it. Let’s get out of here! But I’m forgetting this is her home.

  “Hey, c’mon in,” she welcomes me. “He’s expecting you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a little early. I don’t mind waiting.” Particularly if you wait with me. I want to say out loud, “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever for this moment,” but I’m not sure who Jana is anymore.

  “You don’t have to wait. He’s in the study working. You know how that is, when he’s writing he loses track of the clock. So he’ll think you’re right on time.”

  She leads the way like the lady of the house, which I guess she has been since Leo got sick. Teddy told me in Paris that he heard Jana’s stepmother had divorced Leo years ago.

  “How’s it feel being back?”

  “Little spooky.” I don’t know if she means back in town or back in this house. The same answer works for both. The house appears almost exactly the way I remember it. But behind the sumptuous sofa in the living room there’s now an original Picasso. An agonized distorted face from his Cubist Period. “Place looks pretty much the same,” I say.

  “More or less,” she says. “The studio built a screening room for him out back near the pool, plus a vault to store prints of his movies and the wine collection.”

  “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and your own temperature-controlled golden oldies.” That gets another smile from her. So we can still tease about Hollywood’s excesses. What else has survived from the happy part of our past?

  We stop at the closed door to the study where Teddy and Leo used to work. I can hear rapid-fire typing.

  “He’s still jet lagged after flying back from Africa,” she says softly, “so he might be grumpy. Don’t let him scare you.”