by Jerry Ludwig
There’s a caring warmth in her voice. “I’m not scared,” I say.
She knocks and opens without waiting for a response. Leo Vardian looks up, his hands poised in midair over the keyboard—still the old un-electrified Underwood. He appears startled.
“David’s here,” she says. She always called me David. Leo takes an unlit pipe from his mouth and gestures me forward. I enter the room where he and Teddy used to make each other laugh while they worked together, and Jana leaves, closing the door behind me.
The study seems unchanged, same books on the shelves, like the Henry Miller novels Jana and I would sneak in and scan for the hot parts. A golden Oscar on a shelf is new, so is the ornate plaque from the National Association of Theatre Owners for one of the Top Ten Grossing Pictures of 1957.
Leo is watching me as I examine the room. Not blinking, no expression, he just gazes steadily at me. He’s wearing a khaki safari jacket over a white T-shirt and faded brown slacks. His hair has gone steel gray and he wears it in a crew cut. But even bleary-eyed from jet lag, Leo looks a thousand times better than he did at the Ritz bar in Paris.
I take the client’s chair in front of the desk. Multicolored script pages cover the surface of the desk. The wastebasket overflows with crumpled discards; some have missed and litter the floor.
“Burning the midnight oil?” I say. Meetings always began with chitchat, Teddy taught me that. But Leo doesn’t reply. I try to think of something else, but nothing comes, and then Leo takes the unlit pipe out of his mouth.
“I’m a rotten stool pigeon son-of-a-bitch. Let’s get that over with. I did what I did. I can’t take it back. And if you can’t get over that, then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“Maybe we don’t.” This could be the world’s shortest meeting.
He starts again. “What you and Teddy went through, I could never have handled it—I’m not that strong. Always thought I was, turns out I wasn’t.”
“What the fuck? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Write off what you did as a genetic failure?”
Now I’m braced to get the boot. But he just gazes at me. Then he sets his pipe down next to the typewriter. No tobacco or ash in it, only the taste of an old habit he’s been forced to give up. “So where does that leave us?” he says.
“Guess that’s what I’m here to find out.”
“Okay, I made my bargain with the devil, someday maybe I’ll give you details, but what I got in return is the chance to make some movies. That may not seem much in the grand scheme of things. The only way I can justify it is to make good movies, maybe even a great one now and then. Pictures that are real, that hold a mirror up to show us who we really are.”
“The classic rationalization of a snitch.”
That stops Leo. He studies me again. Leo seems more interested in me now than when I walked in. He leans forward.
“Let me tell you about the job. You know that Jimmy Durante shtick where he’s so frustrated and overwhelmed that he throws up his hands and yells—”
“I’m surrounded by assassins!” I finish for him. Teddy and Leo used to do the bit together.
“That’s what making a movie for a major studio is like, David. So to buffer me a bit from the shitstorm, I need a slave. But a slave with a mind. Panorama will issue the weekly checks, but whoever takes this job belongs to me. Everyone else on the set is suspect, they work for the studio. I need someone who’ll do whatever I ask without question. I’ll answer later, if I feel like it.” He clamps the pipe between his teeth. “What do you think of that?”
He keeps hitting the ball back to me. So I try to return it harder than he sent it. “Why do you want to consider hiring me?”
“Actually it was Harry’s idea. But it interested me. Why do you think I’d want to hire you?” It’s like being with the shrink in Rome. Ask a question and he turns it around. Leo has spent time on the couch, too.
“You might want me as a walking Band-Aid,” I speculate. “Having me around protects a wound. Makes you feel better about yourself.”
“Possibility. Or?”
“Could be charity. Pity.”
“Not my style. What else?”
“Obligation. Maybe in the dark of night you feel you owe Teddy and this makes up for a little of that.” He nods as if claiming advance credit for a good deed he hasn’t performed. That rubs me wrong. So I lean forward. “That would make me a pawn in your game.”
He toys with his pipe. “You left out one possibility. You and I have a personal history. Having you around might be a reminder of the best part of my life.”
“Mine, too,” I mutter.
We gaze at each other in silence again. Then he leans back. “You served in Korea, didn’t you?” I shrug. “Want to sign on for this campaign?”
The implication being that this mission might be even tougher than Korea? Screw off! To be polite I wait a moment before saying no. During which I glance around the room again. That’s when I notice the framed photo half-concealed on one of the upper book shelves. It is the same photo of Teddy that was in the Variety ad.
“Nice picture,” I say.
“Yeah, isn’t it? I took it. That summer we all shared the beach house in Malibu.” He’s looking at it, a glisten in his eyes. “Except for Jana, I loved that man more than anyone else on earth.”
So now I know who took out the memorial ad. “Irreplaceable.” To my surprise, when I open my mouth to respond to Leo’s offer, I hear myself say, “Okay, I’m in.” The face in my mind at that instant is Jana’s.
He holds out his hand. I give him mine. “Shaking hands with the devil?” he inquires. A hint of a smile. No laugh. And I realize that’s the major difference between the Uncle Leo I once knew and the now-legendary Leo Vardian: there is scarcely any laughter left in this man.
When I close the door and start away down the hall, I can hear the rapid-fire typing begin again.
* * *
As I walk toward the front door I call out Jana’s name a few times, but no response. I’d hoped she would be hanging out waiting for the results of the meeting. Invite me into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, we would sit around and talk, fill in some blanks. Maybe she’d agree to marry me. Hey, why not? If you’re entertaining a fantasy why not make it the best.
After all, seeing her was the real reason I came. At least that’s how I justified it to myself. I don’t want to leave without saying good night, but searching the house room by room doesn’t seem right. Could she have left? I’m starting to crash when I step outside, and there she is, leaning against my rental car, waiting for me.
“You get the job?” I nod. “Congratulations!” Jana gleefully claps her hands once. “He owes me five bucks.”
“For what?”
“He bet he wouldn’t hire you.”
“Because?”
“He figured you’re too soft.”
“Not anymore.” She’s happy I’m going to be working on the same lot where she works. Every weekday. I start to tell her how pleased I am about that—when a car slows to a stop out on the road.
The driver shines a spotlight that catches me in its glare. When the black-tinted side window glides down, I see the face of the fat security patrolman. Attracted by the sight of me and my rental car up here sullying the Vardian driveway. He doesn’t see Jana until she steps into the glare and gives him a smiling all’s-well wave. He tosses her a two-finger salute. As he starts to roll onward our eyes meet. I give him a mocking half salute. He glowers as he closes his tinted window and continues deeper into the canyon.
I look at Jana again.
She’s studying me the way Leo did, as if trying to X-ray my thoughts. “Did you get the condolence card I sent to Mexico when your mom died?”
I could say, “We were moving around a lot,” or “A lot of mail got lost.” But I don’t want any lies between us. “Yeah, I got it. Thanks.”
“You didn’t respond.”
“Couldn’t think of anything to say.”
“Interesting word,” I say. Part of the HUAC vocabulary.
Even in the moonlight, I see her face redden. “Our families had turned into the Hatfields and McCoys. That had nothing to do with us, David.”
“I prefer the Montagues and Capulets. They got to wear flashier costumes.” Light and witty is what I was aiming for, but it comes out a putdown. The last thing I wanted. Not when we’re finally beginning to talk.
“God,” she flares, “I am so tired of this political bullshit. People cutting people down who were their lifetime friends, crossing the street when they see my father, or me, coming. When is it going to end?”
“Poor little rich girl.” Damn! It pops out of me, but she would have read it on my face even if I hadn’t said it.
“Screw you, Romeo,” she says. The wounded look on her face—as if I’ve betrayed her.
She strides away to her door, opens it, then turns. From that distance I can’t see if her eyes are wet, so the quaver in her voice hits me hard: “David, why does everything have to be so complicated?”
She shuts the door. Leaving me feeling frantic.
How did something that should have been such a happy moment erupt into a cluster fuck? I want her so much. Came here to reconnect with her and to turn down the job. But it all worked out backward. Helluva night’s work. I’ve got the job I desperately need but I doubt I can stomach—and I’ve just blown it again with Jana.
CHAPTER
13
MCKENNA
Basically the only thing I love about L.A. is the trio of family members I have who live here. My sister, Kathleen, is smaller than I am by six inches, as pretty as our mother was, same upturned nose and rosy cheeks. She’s also a tougher customer than I’ll ever be. She’s a public defender in the courthouse in Van Nuys. It’s a soul-fracturing job, but she’s very good at it. Despite the fact that she’s a bleeding-heart liberal and she says I’m on the opposite end of the political spectrum—we had more than a few heated discussions when I was chasing Commies—there is an unbreakable link between us. We know each other’s deepest, darkest secrets going back to our tortured childhoods.
She has two sons, Patrick is twelve and Donnie is fifteen, and they’re almost my kids. Their father, Vic Donnelly, was a fighter-pilot instructor at El Toro Marine base near L.A. during World War II; that’s when he and Kathleen met at a USO dance. After his discharge, they married and he became a building contractor. But the Marines called him back for Korea and he was killed in a dogfight in MIG Alley. I’ve been taking up the slack in the father department ever since, and glad to do it—cheering the kids at Little League, taking them all to Disneyland, listening to their guy stuff.
This Saturday morning, I’ve set up an outing for my nephews. A makeup for a family treat that backfired.
A few weeks ago, I had arranged for all of us to attend the West Coast premiere of The FBI Story, starring Jimmy Stewart. I’d been tech advisor on the picture and went all out, partly because I had a thing for the sexy script girl and wanted to show her how big a guy I was. I got Warner’s all sorts of Bureau cooperation, from helping locate vintage cars and obtaining special permits for the old-timey machine guns, to providing authentic Bureau badges of the film’s various eras. Clyde Tolson later told me Hoover got a kick out of that. I went on location to the Midwest and used Bureau muscle to clear away a lot of production complications. Smoothed away irritations with the local cops, sweet-talked some of the merchants who were nervous about even simulated bank robberies on their streets.
In gratitude, Warner’s provided four tickets—for me, Kathleen, and the boys—to attend the preem and an A-list after-party. We all even bought new outfits. The boys were so excited about the movie stars they were going to see. They bragged shamelessly to their friends.
Then two days before the premiere, I got a call from the veep of Warner’s publicity telling me he was so sad to report that the theater was overbooked and they had to ask me to give up my seats. “You know how it is,” he said, like one pro to another. They would send a messenger to get the tickets. Make it up to me another time.
“Yeah,” I said, “I know how it is.” Hooray for Hollywood! They never would have done that to me when HUAC was up and running. I hated the boys’ shock when I broke the news.
“We’re not gonna go?” Patrick said in wide-eyed disbelief.
“Forget it,” Donnie gruffly ordered his little brother, trying to conceal his own disappointment, “Uncle Bri did the best he could.”
It felt like I’d been hit in the solar plexus with a sledgehammer.
Today I’ve got a replacement that’s a guaranteed winner. I’m taking the boys to the firing range at the L.A. Police Academy where Bureau agents have shooting privileges. The kids are jazzed because, although they’ve fired .22s at amusement park shooting galleries, this is the real thing. I brought along handguns of varying sizes and kicks—plus a lot of patience for Donnie.
* * *
At first the boys are awed by the long row of outdoor shooting stalls with cops firing away for their yearly qualifying tests. I carefully tell them about range rules. Little Patrick is attentive, but Donnie is impatient to start blasting away. And that’s what he does.
Donnie is shooting from the hip the way he’s seen gunslingers do it in the movies. Wasting rounds.
“Aim, hold steady, squeeze gently,” I repeat again and again. He doesn’t want to learn, he just wants to be John Wayne.
Patrick, on the other hand, is soaking up instruction. So when their torso-shaped targets careen toward us for examination, Donnie’s outlined man has been spared. Not a scratch on him. The holes are all over the place, most not even within the silhouette. Donnie is embarrassed, more so because his little brother has done well for a first-timer.
“You’re a natural,” I tell Patrick.
“Were you a natural?” he asks.
“That’s what the FBI instructors told me. I’d never had a real gun in my hand ’til then.”
“How come I’m not a natural?” Donnie complains.
“First y’gotta listen to what Uncle Brian is telling you,” Patrick says.
To change the subject, Donnie asks me to demonstrate how to do it. I use the Army .45, the workhorse of all pistols, and empty the gun. The target comes back to us with all the holes in the heart zone in an area no wider than a man’s palm.
“Man, that’s real shooting,” Patrick says.
“Sure is,” Donnie agrees, and he’s better after that.
Later, driving in my Mustang back to their house in Sherman Oaks, we stop off at Dairy Queen. We sit at one of the outdoor tables and while Patrick licks the sides of his cone to catch the melting flow of vanilla, he looks at me questioningly.
“Uncle Bri, did you ever shoot anybody, I mean like kill ’em?”
I could give him a phony-baloney answer, but they are not little kids anymore. If I want them to talk straight to me, then I have to do the same.
“Once,” I said.
Of course, both boys want to hear. So I tell them.
“It was just after I came to L.A. You guys were real little then. One morning I was in my office downtown and we heard gunshots from only a few blocks away. A sniper—you know what that is?” They both nod. “Well, this crazy man was up in the bell tower of a church with a hostage. He was picking off people walking by in the plaza below.”
Their eyes are as big as saucers, but if I started, I ought to finish.
“Several of us G-men joined the cops and we took up positions in the street. I’d brought a long-barrel rifle. But the lunatic in the bell tower,” I am now back there in memory, “he was crouching so the wall of the bell tower protected his body. All I could glimpse of him, only for an instant now and then, was a tiny bit of his head, because he was hiding behind the hostage, this scared young girl. He’d peek out for an instant to fire down at one of the cops on the Plaza running to get closer to the tower.�
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I’m clicking off the vital stats as I saw them then:
“The distance from where I was—about three hundred yards and upward at a steep angle. Slight wind from the north. No sun glare. I asked the ground commander and got the go-ahead to take a shot if I had one. So I squinted and aimed, braced myself rock solid, until I caught a flash of movement. I put one bullet in the shooter’s left eye, without nicking the hostage.”
The ice cream is running down Patrick’s wrist, but he doesn’t seem to notice. There is a long silence. Then, Donnie says, “Wow.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have told them. I read their faces to see if they are frightened. But there’s something else there. Respect. So I add:
“The Bureau gave me a special commendation. Signed by J. Edgar Hoover.”
“Y’still got it?” Patrick blurts.
“It’s around my apartment somewhere.”
“Can I have it?”
“What for?”
“My scrapbook,” Patrick says.
“Didn’t know you had one—what’s it about?”
“You,” Patrick says.
I am surprised. There hasn’t been anything much about me in the papers for so long. The HUAC stuff was all behind the scenes.
“Mom had all these old clippings in a drawer,” Patrick says, “from when you used to catch bank robbers and kidnappers. I found ’em and she said I could have ’em.”
I’m embarrassed. He’s collecting material on me? I’m his hero? “Patrick, when I was your age, I had a scrapbook, too. But it got—lost.”
Patrick promises me that if I let him paste in the Hoover commendation he’ll never lose it. Then Donnie has a question:
“Did it make you feel bad, killing someone?”
“Sometimes that’s what you have to do.” And I let it go at that. But Patrick isn’t done yet:
“My grandpa, your father, he was a cop, too, right?”
“My stepfather. Back in Chicago.”
“Did he ever shoot a man in a tower or anything like that?”
