by Jerry Ludwig
I started out terrified they’d hospitalize him, now I’m scared he may kill them. He slams the leader against the side of the porch and when the thuggish boor tries to get up his right leg folds. He starts to crumple, but David grabs the front of his T-shirt and holds him up as he draws back a fist, about to deliver a hammer blow, when I yell, “Dayviddd! Enough!”
Just then we all hear the sound of an approaching siren. Now everyone is on the move. The gate crashers hoist up their leader, whose leg won’t support any weight, and half-carry him off. Car engines are starting, drivers gunning away, as Rowan steps up beside me. He’s wearing his glasses again, but they’re off-kilter. “You okay?” I ask. He nods. David joins us.
“Thanks,” Rowan says.
“Did he break your glasses?”
“Just mangled one of the stems. It’s bent all out of shape.” He smiles at David. “But not as bad as that crasher.”
David just nods. He’s still a little out of breath, and still looks slightly glazed. I’m still upset and confused at what I’ve just seen. Who was that automaton, that killing machine I just saw in action? I don’t even know that person.
* * *
David and I wait with Carol and Rowan until the cops arrive. It’s routine for them, just another party in the hills that got wild. They jot down the particulars, including our names and addresses. No one has a clue as to who the intruders were.
Then I’m driving us back to the Chateau. We travel down the hill for a while in silence, until David softly asks: “Did I scare you before?”
We’re still able to read each other. “Yeah, kinda—it reminded me of what happened to Wendy. I mean, I appreciate your helping Rowan. It was very brave of you. And that martial arts routine. Wow!” No response. So I add, “You’re very good at that stuff.”
“I was taught by the best.”
“When it was happening, I—didn’t know if you could see me or hear me—or anyone. It was as if you were in a world of your own. Where nothing could reach you.”
“That’s where you have to go. To make it.” This is upsetting territory for him. He gropes for words. “I wasn’t out of control, Jana. Not really. I wasn’t. Oh, maybe for a second here and there, but—please, don’t worry, see it used to be an issue, but I’ve got a handle on it.” He squeezes my shoulder, but I keep my eyes on the dark road illuminated only by my headlights. “Hey, inside it’s still the guy you grew up with. It’s me. Honest.”
I dart a glance at him, I see the little boy face I know so well. But I know if I don’t keep gripping the wheel my hands will be shaking. I drive down the twisting road. Trying to understand what these last years have done to him. To both of us, I guess.
CHAPTER
23
MCKENNA
I’m at my desk at home writing checks for the monthly bills, looking forward to a Sunday afternoon backyard barbecue with Kathleen and the boys at their house, when the phone rings. I hear my nephew Donnie’s voice. But he sounds very shaky. He tells me this is the one phone call they’re allowing him to make.
* * *
The main office of the Santa Monica police department, including the jail, is located behind City Hall. I’m alone, waiting in a holding area, as the air lock on the reinforced inner door hisses and slides open. A jailer brings Donnie out. My heart aches to see him. He looks so scared. No color at all in his cheeks.
When he sees me the lights go back on in his eyes. I see his urge is to run and grab my waist the way he used to do whenever I arrived at his house when he was little. Now he’s a teenager and too old for that, and too frightened to make any sudden moves. But the jailer gently prods him forward. Donnie walks to me. He doesn’t know what to do in these circumstances, so he just stops in front of me.
“Hey, Donnie,” I say softly.
He looks up at me, glances back at the jailer. Then, awkwardly, trying to act grown up, he holds out his hand as if to shake mine. I take his hand and use it to pull him close. I hug him tight and he hugs back.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
* * *
“I didn’t really want to go riding with them,” he’s telling me, “I just wanted to play basketball.”
We’re driving north in my Mustang over the Sepulveda Pass into the Valley. Donnie is telling his story as if it’s a Shakespearean tragedy, rather than a dumbass teenage caper, but I’m not about to let him off the hook. I’ve already heard it all from the station captain, who, as luck would have it, I’d previously worked with on a kidnapping case with a happy result. I’m silently pleased that Donnie’s details match up with the captain’s account. I’ve always trusted him to tell me the truth and I want it to stay that way.
What they both agree on is that the Ford sedan that Donnie and his two older pals, Glenn and Thom, were riding in belongs to Glenn’s parents. This morning they let Glenn drive to the schoolyard to play ball and pick up groceries at the supermarket on the way back. Instead, he took Donnie and the other kid for a joyride that ended with the car up to its hubcaps in the sand on the Santa Monica beach. A lifeguard called a tow truck, a cop car happened by to watch and josh the kids. Until one of the cops noticed the half-drunk bottle of bourbon on the backseat floor.
“They’re good guys,” Donnie says about these two prizewinners he’s been hanging out with, “despite what Mom says,”
“Yeah, great. Look where they got you.”
“We were celebrating. Glenn just passed his driver’s test. And when I climbed in the car I thought we were only going a few blocks.”
“Doesn’t your mom have a rule about you never riding with new drivers?” He nods, shamefaced. “But you figured she’d never know. That’s not only bad judgment, but flat out sneaky.”
“I know, I’m real sorry.”
“Where’d the booze come from?”
“Thom’s dad’s liquor cabinet. But I just pretended to be swallowing, so they wouldn’t think I was a geek.”
“You swallowed enough for it to register on the Breathalyzer.”
“Didn’t the cop say it was under the level of—”
“You’re all under age, Donnie, anything is too much. Particularly in a car. It’s a crime called Driving Under the Influence.”
He nods abjectly. “I know, I’ll never do it again.” Then he asks, “Do we have to tell Mom?”
“We sure as hell do,” I tell him.
* * *
Now we’re in the manicured backyard of their small Sherman Oaks house. Kathleen’s rose bushes are flourishing; gardening is her way of blowing off steam that builds up on her job. Usually I’m in charge of the Sunday barbecue. But today, kid brother, Patrick, who’s out of earshot, is doing the honors. My sister, looking stern as the judges she faces all week long as a public defender, and I are sitting on the back steps, while Donnie tells his mother everything.
When he finishes, Donnie and I both wait for Kathleen’s reaction. She gazes at her elder son’s misery, then finally says, “Go help your brother with the barbecue. We’ll talk later.”
Slump-shouldered, he walks off. Kathleen is looking after him, so I can’t see her face. “I think he’s real sorry. I gave him what-for on the ride here. Swears he’ll never do it again.”
She turns to look at me. I know that look. It’s scary.
“Did you put up bail for him?” she asks. Keeping her voice low.
“Turns out, it wasn’t necessary.”
“Because?”
“The captain’s an old pal. And Donnie wasn’t driving, the kids all agreed on that.”
“So you went to the Favor Bank and Donnie walks?”
“It’s not a federal offense, Kath.”
“It took a federal officer to get it swept under the rug.”
I’m on the hot seat and I do not like it. Got to try and put the proper slant on this. “Would you rather have your son sitting behind bars?”
“You had no right to do what you did! He reached out for you, ahead of me, and I can see why. Uncle B
rian’s got clout, he’ll fix it for me.”
“C’mon, he’s just a kid. Kids make mistakes.”
“Hopefully they learn from their mistakes. What you taught him is, when the going gets tough, you’ll weigh in with your heavy badge and make it all go away. That’s not a lesson I want him to learn.”
“Rather have him go through the lousy justice system instead?” That ought to shut her up, but her response is instantaneous:
“Yes, as his mother, that’s exactly what I would have wanted. Actions have consequences. I don’t want him to think there are shortcuts if you’ve got a G-man in the family.”
“I think you’re overreacting, Sis. You should have seen his face when the jailer brought him out. He was scared shitless.”
“Good! He should be. You should have bailed him out and let it go at that. It’s what I would have done. It’s what I want you to do now. Call that pal of yours and tell him not to wipe it all off the police blotter. We’ll guarantee bail and produce Donnie in court.”
“Kath, aren’t you being a little too severe—and maybe a bit vengeful just ’cuz he called me instead of you?”
“Keep it up, Brian, and you’re not gonna get any barbecue today. This is very important to me.”
“That’ll mean Donnie has a police record and—”
“He’s got a good lawyer. Me. He’s never been in trouble before. So he’ll get probation—”
“—and it’ll be a blot on his record!”
“Until he’s eighteen. Then juvie records are sealed. I think it’s an important lesson.”
“What lesson is that, exactly, I’d like to hear.”
“To thine own self be true.”
I snort. “Don’t go quoting Shakespeare. What’s that got to do with Donnie?”
“Everything!” She gestures over at Donnie. “He just said he knew better when those big boys talked him into getting in the car. But he didn’t want to look bad in front of them. Then they started passing the booze around. Again, can’t let himself look bad, so maybe just a little. He sold himself out, and you enabled him to wiggle away. In my book, that’s a big deal.”
I don’t have an answer. I realize she’s right. And she sees that she got through to me.
“It’s an important life lesson,” she says. “One we all have to learn sooner or later, right? C’mon, those burgers must be done by now.”
* * *
Happily, we have a terrific barbecue. That’s one of the things I love about my sister. When something’s over, it’s over. On the trip back to my place, I start thinking ahead to how my life can work if I manage to get the D.C. job. Got to stay close with her and the boys. Well, I can catch rides on the Military Air Transport Service and fly out here, and she and the kids can visit me back there. Won’t that be a kick!
CHAPTER
24
DAVID
It’s Monday morning again, start of another work week. Yesterday Jana and I slept away most of the day, then we went to see a festival of Chaplin shorts at the Silent Movie Theater on Fairfax. It was good to laugh together and unwind. She went home to Stone Canyon last night, and now I’m rolling down to Schwab’s for breakfast. I stop at the newsstand. Lead story in the Times reports U.S. citizenship has been returned to five thousand Japanese-Americans who lost it during World War II. Nineteen years after the internment camp gates opened at Manzanar. Better late than never. I buy the paper and the trades and take my usual counter stool.
Mary Hanlon, my favorite waitress, saw me coming and has already toasted a bagel. She delivers it with my coffee and a teasing grin:
“Morning, Casanova,” she teases. I’m puzzled. “Joe Shannon’s column.” Mary points at my unopened Film Bulletin. I flip to the second page and this leaps out at me:
“… Ain’t Love Grand Dept.: Leo (“The Fastest Director Alive”) Vardian’s daughter Jana is skulking around town with Leo’s sleazy scut-boy, David Weaver, son of the late, unlamented Scumunist Teddy Weaver. What do the Young Lovers do for pillow talk? Probably reminisce about how her Daddy blew the whistle on his Daddy during Leo’s behind-closed-doors executive session with HUAC nine years ago…”
So I sit there just staring. Even the dead aren’t safe. Teddy’s getting ripped apart again. Feels as if a javelin has been plunged into my chest. This is Shannon’s revenge. Probably with a data assist from McKenna. Shannon is too cagy about libel laws to print this crap unless it’s true. Snickering to the whole town what is agony to me. But Shannon is only the torturer. It was Leo! We had always blamed Okie and director Eddie Dmytryk, who both named Teddy in public session. But Leo came first. Teddy would have died before he betrayed Leo, but Leo sold Teddy out so he could make more movies! God damn Leo!
“Can I warm up that coffee for you?” Mary Hanlon asks. I shake my head. Drop some bucks on the counter and head for the pay phones. Dial the studio, ask for our set. The second AD answers.
“Steve,” I say, “it’s David. Won’t be in today. Tell Leo … I’m sick.” Partial truth. “No, tell Leo—I quit.” That’s better. “Wait, while you’re at it, tell Leo—tell him he can go fuck himself! Unquote. Yeah, that’s exactly what I want you to tell him!”
I slam down the phone. There goes the tic in my cheek. What do I do now? I know what I want to do. Go kick the shit out of Leo in front of the entire cast and crew. In front of the whole town. Thousands will cheer. It’s an irresistible idea. So I jump into my car and zip toward the studio. I’m fuming. For me and for Jana. And most of all for Teddy and Ellie. I let you both down. Trusted Leo the asshole. Thought it had changed.
I make the turn off Glendale Boulevard and roll toward the main entrance into Panorama. There’s a studio parking sticker on my front bumper and the gate man usually waves and lifts the steel arm. Not this time. He emerges from his booth.
“Sorry, David, you can’t come on the lot.”
“Who says?”
“You’ve been barred. Mr. Vardian’s orders.”
The black rage roars through me. “Open the damn gate!”
He orders me to back up and leave. I stomp out of my car, leave it blocking the entrance lane. “I’m gonna call Harry Rains, he’ll clear me through!” I grab for the phone on the gate man’s desk and he grabs for me and we scuffle. He must have pressed an alarm button, because suddenly, in addition to the honking cars clogged behind mine, three more studio guards are rushing up and yanking at me. I contain the demon enough to stop short of swinging at them and I let them push me out. I’m sweating from the struggle at self-control. Barely managed to stuff the pin back in the live hand grenade.
“Don’t blame me,” the gate man yells after me, “blame Leo.”
Good advice, but I’m already doing that.
* * *
I’m back at Schwab’s drinking black coffee and brooding. I’ve been phoning Jana constantly, but her office says she’s not there and they don’t know where she is. I’m desperate to talk to her. To someone I can trust. Keeler would be a possible, but he’s trapped in Leo’s orbit. Don’t want to involve him. Then I think of a person I can turn to. Maybe the only one. I dig in my wallet and find the business card Peter Zacharias handed me at Teddy’s funeral. I haven’t been in touch with him since that day—and I know why. But today’s the day I reach out to him.
* * *
The big bus emblazoned TOUR THE MOVIELAND HOMES lurches to a halt in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The guide is first off and says her cheerful “’Bye now” to all the descending passengers. Last person off is the driver.
“Wondered when you’d show up,” Zacharias says to me.
Dark eyes still needle sharp. But he looks even thinner, if possible, than at Teddy’s grave site. I hear no rebuke for my silence during the past weeks. Just a big hug for my reappearance.
“I could say I was just passing by.…” I joke, hugging him tightly. He feels almost brittle.
“Who gives a damn why? You’re here, that’s what’s important.” Then he studies m
e. “You in a hurry, Duveed? Come for a ride, no charge, we can talk along the way. About what’s bothering you.”
I feel like I’m being tossed a life preserver.
* * *
Loaded with new tourists, the bus tools up the Strip. The guide is cooing into a microphone as she points out Ciro’s and the Trocadero, and then we’re in Beverly Hills. I’m seated in the rear, and as we travel all our heads whip back and forth like at a tennis match. “There’s Dean Martin’s stately Colonial mansion!” Zacharias turns a corner onto Baroda Drive. “Here’s Gary Cooper’s home; he named his independent production firm Baroda Productions” and we’re gawking at the cattle-baron-size ranch house. Another turn and the bus pauses at Alan Ladd’s imitation Spanish hacienda, “See the mailbox—it’s an exact miniature copy of the house.” It’s like a world tour of architectural plagiarisms. We park at the vast estate formerly owned by the late silent-screen comedian Harold Lloyd, and everyone goes off to tour the spacious fountain-studded grounds and staggeringly huge house—except me and Zacharias.
We lean against the side of the bus and he offers me a Lucky Strike. I shake my head, he lights up, inhales, coughs, and spits. Just like Teddy used to do. “Okay, tell me, boychik.”
Where do I start? “You want to hear the best or the worst?”
“Any way you like.”
“Best is—Jana and I are together again.” He nods approvingly. “And I have, well, I had a job in the business. Quit this morning, but—I’ve been working for Leo.” It’s an explanation and an apology for why I hadn’t called Zacharias. It also feels like a confession that deserves punishment.
But he isn’t administering punishment. “You’ve been busy,” he says. Without rancor or reproach. “Save you some time, I still read the trades. I saw Shannon’s column this morning.”
