by Jerry Ludwig
“Big boots to fill, but somebody’s gonna have to do it.” Pure Okie, the crafty survivor. “Hey, look, I’m not sayin’ Teddy’s boy done it—’cuz I keep telling the lieutenant that I think the real target was me! I mean, I sleep here, Joey don’t, and then there’s the sign!”
“What sign?”
Gesturing for Okie to stay here, Alcalay leads me to the evidence truck. He brings out a glassine envelope with an 8x10 piece of white cardboard inside. There’s a smudge at the top of the card, but I’m struck by the two words block printed large in black ink:
THE INFORMER
The sign takes my breath away. I cough into my hand to conceal my excitement. My instinct has paid off. The sign escalates a tacky local murder into a sensational crime against the Blacklist. Guaranteed to rivet Hoover’s attention. I’m thrilled I talked my way in.
“It was hanging on the mailbox at the curb,” Alcalay says. “What’s your slant?”
“Title of a classic movie. Dublin in the thirties during the Troubles. Big dumb lummox sells out a pal who’s in the IRA They find out and kill him. Very Irish. Victor McLaglen won the Oscar,” I say. “But that title left here has a brand new meaning.”
“Shannon one of your local helpers?” Alcalay asks.
“We fed him information from time to time. And vice versa.”
“So he gave back, huh? Like an informer.”
Okie has edged closer. “Hey, that sign don’t refer to Joey. That’s me, tell him, Mac, that’s me.”
“He’s the World Champion Snitch,” I agree. “Okie, if you were the target how come you’re still here? Why weren’t you sleeping in there?”
“Just lucky, I guess, cousin. I was out at a screening on the Columbia lot of the new Liz Taylor picture. The one where the Spanish kids cannibalize her cousin. That gave the preview crowd a real appetite.” He hee-haws. “Big studio party afterwards at the Vine Street Derby. I stayed late trolling for items.”
“So you saw lots of people and lots of people saw you.”
“Hey, if I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’—I partied out and then came home and saw the blaze. The neighbors had already called it in.” He waves dramatically at the burnout. “Everything I owned in the world, up in smoke, all my clothes ’cept what I’m wearing.”
“Why was Joe here so late?” I say. “Doesn’t he wrap up the column by early evening?”
“Polishing his book, he’s been doin’ that a couple nights a week. How come all the questions for me, Mac?”
“Just want to make sure you’re in the clear.”
“Appreciate the concern, cousin.” A tight toothy smile.
“Hey, Lieutenant—!” one of the firemen calls from the debris.
“On my way,” Alcalay yells back. “C’mon, McKenna.”
We make our way to where the firefighter is pointing at a section of scorched floorboard with a soot-covered metal box bolted to it. It’s a closet safe, combination dial on the door. “The box is melted around the edges,” the firefighter says. “We can get a torch and try to pop it.”
“Handle with care,” I murmur to Alcalay.
“Just cut it loose,” Alcalay says to the fireman, “load it on the evidence truck. We’ll send it downtown to the Lab boys.”
Alcalay and I step back as the fireman starts working with his bolt cutters. Okie O’Connell shouts from the sidelines. “That’s Joey’s goody box.”
“What do you think’s inside?” Alcalay yells back.
“Who knows? The dark and dirty about the high and mighty.”
Softly, so our voices won’t carry, Alcalay asks me, “What’s your reading on O’Connell?”
“A good ol’ boy with a heart full of venom.”
“He’s got an alibi.”
“I’ve been to those after-the-screening bashes. Everybody’s so into boozing and schmoozing that you could walk out and come back later and nobody’d notice. I’d keep him on the list.”
“Think he’d knock off a guy just to inherit his gossip column?”
“In Hollywood? People have done worse for less.”
“And this notion that he was the real target?”
“Possible. But keep in mind, Okie loves the limelight.”
“No shit.” Then, “Send over a recap on whatever you’ve got on Okie.” Alcalay knows that the FBI doesn’t share unexpurgated files with other law enforcement agencies.
“I’ll throw in a rundown on this Weaver kid, too,” I say. “You gonna keep a lid on that sign you found? Might be useful later. Hidden clue, guilty knowledge, whatever.”
“Too late for that—a photographer from the Times got here when the sign was hanging on the mailbox.”
Something stirs for me. “Mind if I take another look at it?”
“Be my guest,” he says. “No extra charge.”
As the two of us stroll back to the evidence truck he says, “You adding this up the same way I am? The tote can of gas left inside means—”
“—the hitter wants the world to know it was not an accident.”
He reaches inside the truck and hands me the sign. This time I focus on the smudge at the top of the card, right under the fold of the glassine envelope. I shake the envelope and the card slips down a tad revealing a small notation in the same black ink. It reads: #2.
“Didn’t notice that before,” Alcalay says. “What the hell’s it mean? Number Two—who’s Number One?”
“Wendy Travers,” I say automatically. Then I examine what I said. “The gal who was bushwacked by a night-stalker up on King’s Road a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh yeah, Sheriff’s Department case, drug crime, no leads, but what’s that—”
“She was L. B. Mayer’s favorite writer. He always called her Number One. It was a nickname that stuck. Everybody in the business always kidded her about it.” Then I make the connection for myself: “Wendy was a cooperative witness for the Committee.”
“Another informer, huh?” Alcalay stares at me. “So you think Shannon may be the second scalp and she was first—and the asshole wants us to keep his score straight?” He sighs unhappily. “Now it’s definitely political. I hate political cases. So, among other possibles, we’re definitely looking to the Hollywood Blacklist crowd.”
“I can be a lot of help there,” I say.
“Chance for you to earn your keep,” Alcalay sneers.
He’s not about to ease up. Suddenly it comes to me, the physical resemblance now that he’s hefty, plus the bullying manner. Alcalay reminds me of Declan Collins. And I wonder if I really talked my way in, or was he playing me? He knew about the sign before I arrived. He had the upper hand, so could he have seized the chance to get back some of his own by making me grovel? Well, now I really do owe him one.
* * *
Racing to the office, I run several red lights on the deserted pre-dawn boulevards. When I hustle into the office the night crew are wrapping up. Pierson looks over in surprise.
“Sorta early for you, isn’t it?”
“Couldn’t sleep after you woke me up.” No time for details now.
The row of cubicles is empty. I plop down at my desk and pound out a telex. An encoded Eyes Only recap of Joe Shannon’s death and the connection I made to Wendy Travers murder. I send it directly into J. Edgar Hoover’s office, attention: Clyde Tolson.
Then I stroll down the hall, get myself coffee from the new pot the night shift leaves for the day shift. I go back to my cubicle and wait. It doesn’t take long. I expect Tolson, but when my phone rings it is Hoover himself, expressing sympathy for the demise of his “old friend Joe Shannon.” Hoover compliments me for getting on the case so fast. Particularly when we don’t have jurisdiction yet.
“I pulled a few strings and got invited in.” Never mind the humiliation.
Then Hoover says, “I want to know if this was more than just a lover’s tiff between a couple of homos.” Nothing like slandering a dead friend, but I voice a brisk Yessir. “But the linkup you established to the
death of that screenwriter woman who was a friendly witness makes this of extreme interest to us.”
Hoover’s message is clear. If someone is rubbing out people for cooperating with us, the FBI can’t let that go by. It’s bad for our business.
Hoover muses, “If you had to venture a guess, who do you think might have done it?”
“Mr. Hoover, it’s so early in the investigation—”
“Of course, Brian, but—we lawmen often have hunches.”
Flattered by his confidence in my prowess, and wanting to keep the direct contact with my supreme leader going, I say: “There are so many possibilities, sir, even—”
I hesitate, but Hoover nudges: “Yes?”
So I give him the slice of raw meat he’s after: “There’s the possible involvement of the son of a Blacklisted writer. Wendy Travers came to his father’s funeral recently. And the kid had a fistfight with Shannon just the other day.” I can feel Hoover’s pleasure through the line. “I was there at the time,” I add, feeding Hoover’s assumption I’m on top of all Hollywood activities of interest to the Bureau.
“A Red kid. Wouldn’t that be nice,” Hoover says.
“Of course, that’s just very preliminary.”
“Of course. I’m depending on you, Brian. You know these people.”
The call is over. I finish my coffee, ill at ease at having pointed a finger in David Weaver’s direction. Doesn’t feel like the kid’s style, but who knows? I’m sure Hoover recognizes it as just cop chatter. The important thing is my hunch was right: I’m in the game again and I’m going to make it work out. It’s my ticket onto the A-team in Washington.
CHAPTER
27
JANA
After David falls asleep in his room at the Chateau, I lie there beside him on the bed, still dressed, and my eyes never close, I can’t stop thinking about what Zacharias told him. That we all knew but didn’t want to know. It’s a mantra pounding in my head. Leading me off the edge of my world. Just before dawn, I can’t stand it any longer. Have to go home. Have to see my father. So I get up silently, leave David a note saying I love him and we’ll talk more later, then I tiptoe out and drive to Stone Canyon. Dad’s Mercedes is in front. From the driveway I hear the typewriter clattering in the study. It stops as I come down the hall.
Dad opens his door looking as haggard as I feel. My reflex instinct is to offer him sympathy and concern, but I recognize that’s been central to the problem. And I’m always easing his pain.
“Hi”—he runs his hand through his hair—“didn’t realize it was daylight already. I’ve been chained to this damn desk all night.” He glances at his watch. “Got to go meet Keefer in the cutting room soon.”
Then he peers at me. The director deciding how to play this scene.
“You were with David tonight?” I don’t say anything. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Were you ducking me?”
Good opening gambit. He’s the injured party.
“Anyway … you know David quit me. Just phoned in, left a message, didn’t even bother to come in and talk to me first…” He trails off.
“So he could explain?” He nods. “Or so you could explain.”
He gauges me, deciding which tactic will work best. I’ve seen him do that with lots of people. I hate it when he does it to me. Then he sighs wearily. Embracing victim mode.
“Hey, it’s okay, only a matter of simple courtesy. After all I’ve done for him, I thought he’d be man enough to at least come see me face-to-face.”
“He said you had him barred from the lot.”
“I don’t know where he got that idea.”
“Probably from the studio cops at the gate,” I say.
He cocks his head. “Why are we standing out here in the hall, come inside and we’ll talk.”
He holds open the door to the study. I go in, but before he can get to the power spot behind his desk I sit on the couch. So he’ll have to take the club chair facing me. No barriers to protect either of us. But I keep my hands clasped in my lap because they’re trembling.
He detours, playing for time. Stops at the counter below the bookcase and picks up a bulging 11x14 Panorama envelope. “Want to hear a joke? Studio was supposed to send over a new project for me to consider. Irwin Shaw’s latest.” He holds up the envelope. “From your pal Markie Gunderson’s office, they sent the wrong manuscript. It’s Joe Shannon’s piece-of-crap excuse for a novel. Funny, huh?”
I don’t respond. It’s not what we must talk about. He sits down in the club chair. It’s as if the bell has rung for Round Two.
“Okay,” he says, “you read some bullshit written by that malevolent, nancy-pansy bastard who stirs up old shit to fill his garbage pail of a gossip column. I’m sorry you and David had to get dragged into it. Joe Shannon despises me because—”
I interrupt him. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Did you give the Committee Teddy’s name?” Please, Daddy, say no. Say it’s all a mistake, say you never could have done that.
“Shannon’s twisting what happened. When I was up there on the stand in front of that Flying Circus in Washington, with the lights and cameras and crowds, it was like facing Robespierre’s mob, they—”
“I know what you said at the public hearings in Washington, I read your testimony.”
“All you read is six to eight paragraphs in the Times that are supposed to sum up a man’s life. You were still only a kid who couldn’t really understand all the ramifications.”
I can’t believe he’s doing this. I feel like the essence of my life is on the line, my belief in the basic decency of my father—and he’s double-talking me. “I’ve read your complete public testimony. In the Congressional Record.”
That slows him for only an instant. Start of Round Three. “Then you know I never mentioned Teddy. Honey, we went over all this years ago.”
“Actually, we didn’t. You came back from Washington so wounded that I didn’t have the heart to ask you much of anything. I just accepted what you told me.”
“Because it was the truth, Jana.”
“The whole truth and nothing but the truth?”
“What is this? Am I back on the stand?” He gets up and stomps to the desk for his corncob pipe. Regrouping. I can see every ploy clearly. Now he turns back to me. Going on the offensive. Trying for a knockout. “What do you really want to know?”
“Why you did what you did. Why did you cooperate with those people? I used to hear you talking about the Committee—you despised what they were doing, what they stood for.”
“Look, I stayed up a lot of nights grappling with the decision, but despite my loathing for the Committee, I finally came to realize that in a crucial way they had become right—the world had changed, the Russians had the atom bomb, they were out to dominate the globe, destroy our country, the Commies had taken over China, we were at war in Korea, and my own personal views on morality seemed suddenly irrelevant.”
More bullshit. Adrenaline surges through me. “So in the name of national security you gave HUAC the names of five screenwriters, three character actors, a film editor, an acting coach, and a guy who wrote jokes for Abbott and Costello. They were not espionage agents, Daddy, they were your friends.”
“And they had the chance to clear their names by doing what I did!” More angry at me than I’ve ever seen him. “Would you rather have had a life like David’s? Kicked around from country to country, never finished his education, haunted by the disgrace of his father. Did you want that?”
“I would have been willing, instead of—” But he won’t let me finish.
“Well, I had to think for both of us. I chose to protect you from the chaos, maybe that was my mistake as a father—”
“No! Don’t say you did it for me! Don’t you dare put that on me! You own that one completely!” It’s the first time I’ve ever shouted at him.
His hand flies up as if to smack me, but he catches himself. The wi
nd goes out of him. He slumps back into the club chair and gazes at the carpet. His voice flat and exhausted. King Lear, Act III.
“When we went to Washington, Harry Rains told me, ‘Leo, it’s like being at the dentist, only hurts when you’re in the chair. Then you can put it all behind you.’ But Harry was wrong. It keeps on hurting.”
It’s always about his pain. I just wait.
“After Washington, they called me a stoolie. A rat. All my so-called friends, who let the right-wing reactionaries marginalize them. Drive them out of the industry. Well, I chose another course.”
Another cue for me. I let that one go by, too. So he shifts gears.
“Let me ask you, who else would’ve made the movies I did since then? Controversial, political, critical. Dealing with racial tensions, juvenile delinquency, hypocritical hate mongers, greedy power brokers. I help audiences and critics see what’s wrong with America. With the world. I’m playing the studio’s game in order to reach the people.”
An old self-patting rant. Not what I want to hear now. I’m terrified to ask for the rest, but I have to.
“Tell me what happened before you went to Washington.”
He clenches the empty pipe in his teeth and stares at me.
“What happened in L.A. during the private executive session? Those records are sealed for fifty years. Unless someone leaks it sooner.” As he fiddles with his pipe, I see that his hands are shaking. Part of me also desperately wants to stop, but I can’t. We’ve gone too far. “You can’t make me wait fifty years. Did they ask you about Teddy in executive session?”
“Look, of course they did, he was my best friend, he was my partner, we did everything together, everyone in Hollywood knew that—”
“So you did. You gave him up. So you could survive.” I hate myself for saying those words.
“They already knew about Teddy!” he shouts as if in expiation.
“But not from you.”
“I agreed to cooperate with them only on condition that I didn’t have to name him publicly. Harry said they’d never go along with that, I was risking a contempt citation and a jail sentence, but I stuck to it—”
“How brave of you!” The sarcasm leaps out of me.
