by Jerry Ludwig
“Jana, I know you’re upset, but be careful what you’re saying now.”
“Or what? What could you possibly do that would hurt me more than I’m hurt now?”
“I never turned my back on Teddy, never! Some of those under-the-table writing assignments he got in Europe, I sent them his way, he never knew that, I don’t want any credit for doing that but—”
“Yes, you do, you always want credit. Like the Variety ad you took, anonymously, as a memorial tribute to Teddy. But you kept the photo on the shelf”—I point at it—“so David would notice it when he came to see you. So he’d agree to work for you.”
“If you knew that, why didn’t you speak up at the time?”
“Because I wanted him to come back, too!”
“Then what was the harm?”
“Do you think any of that makes up for what you did to Teddy?”
“Honey, it’s all ancient history dug up by a vicious scumbag. None of this would have ever come up except for Shannon! He’ll burn in hell! But—it doesn’t have anything to do with us!”
“It does! You betrayed Teddy and let me believe a lie all these years.”
“What good would it have done to tell you, Jana?” He rubs his eyes. “I was—afraid you’d hate me—as much as I hated myself.”
Yet another cue for me to feel sorry for him. “Zacharias says we didn’t want to look at what really happened.”
“Is he the one who’s poisoning your minds against me? You and David? Zacharias is a bitter, self-righteous blowhard crackpot who—”
“He was one of the people you named.”
“Jana, I was fighting for my life, and yours, too! It was ugly and unfair and unavoidable and I dealt with it the best way I could. I saved myself, I saved you. Teddy could have saved himself, and Ellie and David, too, he could have done the same thing!”
“No, he couldn’t! Don’t you see?”
“Well, that was their choice, his and Ellie’s.”
I feel a sense of horror growing within me. “Ellie was like my mother!”
“And I’m your father!”
I take a deep scalding breath and force myself to ask the question I dread the most. The question that haunted me all through the night.
“Did Ellie’s name come up in the executive session?”
He hesitates. Then, as if expecting a blow, he says, “I—I made them agree not to subpoena her. And they didn’t. See, I protected her.”
My chest feels like glass and it’s shattering. He named her. “Daddy, she killed herself!”
“I know—I know.” His eyes mist. He blinks rapidly and succeeds in fighting back tears.
I don’t know what else to say to him. So I rise, unsteady on my feet, but standing. When I can manage words they are shaky.
“I’m moving out. I can’t live in your house anymore.”
Then I leave the room and stumble down the hallway. He calls out once. “Don’t go, Jana, please … you’re all I’ve got.”
There it is. In one awful sentence. Banal, pathetic, needing, claiming, repentant, hoping, grasping, forlorn, finally naked and—and so unforgivable. I know if I go back to see him I’ll never leave. So I pretend I didn’t hear and go to my bedroom, take the suitcase out of my closet, and begin to pack. There is a big crash down the hall. My instant reaction is that he has fallen down. But there are more crashes and bangs and glass breaking and I know what’s happening.
The noises stop after a few minutes, and the front door slams followed by the sound of his car pulling away. I carry my closed suitcase down the hallway, stop to look inside the study. He has trashed the room. The desk has been overturned, lamps strewn on the floor. The head of his Oscar statuette is broken off and the robot-like gold-plated body is lying in the mess, along with the photo of Teddy. Its glass frame is shattered.
I go out the front door, load my suitcase in the car, and drive down the road with tears distorting my view. I backhand at my eyes, then turn the wheel sharply when I reach the Hotel Bel-Air. David, I need David! I jump out and tell the parking attendant I’ve got to make an urgent call and race into the lobby to a pay phone. I dial the Chateau, the switchboard operator rings his room, rings and rings, and says there’s no answer. Now I recall David has a breakfast meeting. I’ve never yearned for him more.
As I walk out of the lobby, a headline on the newspaper vending machine rocks me. The early edition of the L.A. Examiner blares:
GOSSIP COLUMNIST DIES IN FIRE;
POLICE SEEK BLACKLIST KILLER
I see a photo of Joe Shannon. My father’s ranting words about Shannon just minutes ago replay in my head: “He’ll burn in hell!” If my father’s been at the house for hours rewriting, how could he have seen the newspaper? Or maybe he didn’t have to. Thinking of him as the possible killer fills me with a new dread.
BOOK TWO
THE HUNT FOR THE BLACKLIST KILLER
CHAPTER
28
DAVID
When I wake up, I feel a stabbing pain behind my eyes even before I open them. I sit up in bed and my head feels like a string of fireworks exploding behind my frontal lobe. Then the hangover pain grows even worse as I remember last night. Only bits and pieces—the Hollywood drinking tour, but spotty on the details. Starting off at Musso’s bar, ending up miles and drinks later. What happened in between? Who cares? Just trying to drown the scorching truth about Leo’s betrayal of Teddy. Jana waiting on my doorstep. Scared she knew all along, but she didn’t! She took the news as hard as I did. I remember we talked until I passed out.
I look around my room. Jana is gone, I see a note on the other pillow: Love you, call me after breakfast. It’s next to the message slip from last night summoning me to Harry Rains’ house at eight thirty. I check the clock. Oh, jeez. It’s already almost eight o’clock. Can I still make it? Should I go?
Harry must have heard I quit and Leo barred me from the lot. Harry hears everything. Guess he wants to guilt me for botching the wonderful opportunity he gave me. But he could do that on the phone. Why the breakfast invitation? I can’t think with this pounding headache. What the hell. Teddy’s motto. Always take the meeting.
I gobble a handful of aspirins, shave, and while I’m putting on my clothes I notice Teddy’s passport lying on the dresser. The posthumous gift from McKenna. I open it and see Teddy’s smiling face. I gaze at it for an instant, then I close it and set forth. Moving as fast as my pulsating head will allow. Through the lobby, detour to grab a cup of steaming black coffee from the breakfast room and scoop up a free copy of the L.A. Times at the desk. Fold it under my arm, find my car, climb in, and toss the paper on the passenger seat. It flips open and below the fold on the front page I see the face of Joe Shannon and the report of his death. Good. One less asshole in the world.
But as I quickly read the story it hits me with the impact of a Wilshire Boulevard bus. This victim is a guy I’ve had two public clashes with since I came back to L.A. Anyone who reads the trades knows that. Or Agent McKenna can fill them in. So why the hell did Joe Shannon’s demise have to happen on a night when my recollection of my own whereabouts is foggy?
As I drive into Beverly Hills I sip the black coffee, which helps to penetrate the haze. I piece together what I can recall about my bar-hopping exploits. Fill in some of the blanks, but by no means all. I’ve got a patchy memory of where I went and what I did. Between Musso’s and that dive on Western there are gaps strewn all along the way. Don’t remember anyone I talked to. If a cop comes knocking on my door asking questions, I’ll be shit out of luck. No real alibi. That’s a very scary thought. Do I need a lawyer? Well, I’m on my way to see one—Harry.
I turn into Rexford Drive and pull up in front of his palace only five minutes late. I see a Mexican maid unloading groceries from a seven-year-old brown Nash Rambler at what I assume is the kitchen door. I focus on my bruised knuckles on the steering wheel and a terribly sobering bit of last night floats to the surface. Between the boozing and the wanderin
g that became staggering, I remember thinking it would be a terrific idea to drop in on Shannon and beat the living shit out of him.
Maybe that’s just what I did.
* * *
The white-coated, portly, elderly Negro butler guides me to the breakfast room. “Miz Valerie,” he announces, “Mr.Weaver’s here.”
Valerie Nolan Rains is alone at the table. She’s a ray of sunshine befitting the scene beyond her. An emerald lawn slopes down to an Olympic-size pool with cabanas and the tennis court just beyond the pool. The sprinklers are on and the early morning sun dances and fractures in the spray. It’s the glossy way the cinematographer would light it for her TV series.
“Hi, cookie.” She greets me and pats the chair beside her. There are three table settings, but the third seat is empty. She pours coffee for me from a carafe. Very welcoming. But Harry still could be furious at me and she just doesn’t know it.
She’s wearing no makeup other than light lipstick, her hair pulled back and tied simply with a scarf that matches the gold- and silver-flecked designer robe. She looks fabulous. Valerie must be in her fifties. Even in the morning light she could pass for forty.
“Harry’s been on the phone for almost an hour, he’ll be here soon. At least that’s what he keeps promising on the intercom.”
“Is it about that?” I ask. The L.A. Times, folded to the Shannon story, is next to her coffee cup.
“I suppose so,” she says. “Barney Ott woke us up at the crack of dawn with the news.” It doesn’t seem to mean much to her, but I’m having difficulty thinking of anything else. Last night’s blackouts. With the rage rising within me. Hating Shannon as much as Leo. Did I go over there? How could I forget something like that? Could I have killed him and not remember it?
“Such a commotion over Joe Shannon,” she says dismissively, “I can’t imagine why. A very unkind man. In fact, a total prick.”
That takes me so completely by surprise that I nervously laugh. Valerie never curses.
She laughs, too, hearing herself. “I mean, he was. Really. Even if he is dead.” Then she reaches out to touch my hand. “What he wrote yesterday. About you and Jana. Disgraceful.”
“It was the part about Teddy that hurt the worst. You knew what Leo did, didn’t you.”
“Harry was Leo’s lawyer.” She sighs heavily. “Such a hideous period. You had to be there.”
“I was.” Does she think that kids can’t feel pain and fear?
“There were so many layers, like the box within the box within the box. You were too young to understand it all.”
“Well, I’ve spent all the years since trying to figure it out.”
She squeezes my hand. “Don’t let it ruin the friendship between you and Jana. That would be awful—if it went on for another generation.”
“We’re trying not to. It’s difficult.”
“And it’s so sad. Teddy and Leo were like peas in a pod—to force one of them to turn on the other—”
I cut her off. “Are you asking me to feel sorry for Leo?”
“Everyone did something they regret in that awful time.”
“Teddy didn’t! You didn’t!”
She looks at me. “I—”
Before she can continue, the butler enters again, trailing the phone on a lengthy cord. “It’s Mr. Rains,” he says. She takes it. “Yes, Harry, uh-huh, yes, fine.” She hangs up, tells me, “He wants you to join him downstairs in the gym. Why don’t you take your coffee with you?”
I rise and lean over to kiss her on the cheek, and she hugs me with surprising strength. From all those rounds of singles with Dinah Shore out on the tennis court, I guess. “Don’t be a stranger, David.”
* * *
The butler shows me to the workout room. It’s like a miniature outpost of Vic Tanny’s gym. Shiny exercise machines, free weights, and punching bags. Harry the ex-Golden Glover. He looks trim, still a light heavyweight. He is in workout clothes on the treadmill, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, perusing the folded sports section of the morning paper as he marches to nowhere.
“Hey, here’s my unemployed protégé, howyadoin?”
“Doing just fine, Harry.” He’s not pissed at me. So why am I here?
“You look like hell. Had a big night?”
“What I remember of it.”
Harry laughs. “Ah, to be young again.” The treadmill dings its conclusion and slows to a stop.
“What do you think about the Joe Shannon thing?” I ask. Testing the water. Looking for an entry into my fear. Harry could advise me. But he’s into waxing philosophical:
“Live by the sword, die by the sword. Y’can’t keep jabbing folks forever like Joe did without getting jabbed back.” He sighs heavily. “But y’hadda know him when we were kids. Always covering each other’s ass. Getting into and out of stupid scrapes together.”
Harry towels off the sweat as he reminisces. “This one time, we were being chased by a pair of cops, can’t even remember what we’d done, swiped something, I guess. But I got over a fence, Joe didn’t. They caught him, sent him to juvie camp at Boys Republic and he never mentioned my name—good thing, too, because later on a police record could’ve disqualified me from becoming a lawyer.”
“So he saved you by not giving your name,” I say bitterly, “and he lived to terrorize other people who also refused to give names.”
“Hey, that’s something, isn’t it? Never looked at it that way.”
“You think someone we know killed him?”
“Hate to think so, but could be. Guess the police will figure it out.”
Harry pulls on leather gloves and starts punching the heavy bag dangling on a chain from the ceiling. Putting his weight behind each shot.
“Let’s talk about you, kiddo. You quit Leo, he told me, I understand why—”
Everyone understands everything, I think. So how come it’s all so screwed up?
“—but I thought you knew all that old stuff and had come to terms with it. Leo said you’ve done a great job for him, he’s sorry to lose you.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Yeah, well, now the question is, what’s next on your agenda?”
“Haven’t worked that part out yet.”
“Open to another offer?” He stops hitting the bag to see my reaction.
I’m stunned. “Thought this was going to be the classy kissoff.”
“Nah, I don’t give up so easy.” He resumes beating on the heavy bag. “There’s a job available. Unit publicist. Working on a little Western we’re just starting on the back lot.”
I can’t believe he’s giving me another chance, but: “What’s a unit publicist?”
“Like a newspaper reporter covering the shooting. You conduct press interviews, if you can get ’em. Work with the still photographer on the set. Write up material for a press book they use when we release the picture. The guys in publicity can fill you in on the specifics. C’mon, you can practice your typing. Learn another facet of the business. Whaddayasay?”
“Won’t Leo go through the roof when he hears you’re giving me another shot?”
“Leo runs his set. I run the studio. Look, call me a good-hearted schmuck, but I still feel a debt to Teddy. He was a dear friend, plus he steered legal business my way when I needed a start. And Valerie said she’d kick my tuchis if I didn’t help you some more.” He stops hitting the bag. “Hey, if you don’t wanna do it—”
“Best offer I’ve got,” I say, touched that he’s willing to go to bat for me again. “Also the only offer. Thanks, Harry.”
This I sense is not the time to tell him about my fear. It’s enough that he’s giving the son of an ex-Commie another job, without reminding him that when the cops start looking around for Shannon haters, I’ll be on the A-list of candidates. Maybe that’s where I belong.
Harry says, “There’s only one proviso about this job.”
Isn’t there always. “What’s that?”
“Regardi
ng Leo. You gotta promise to steer clear of him.”
Is that all? I’m relieved. “No problem there. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead.”
“Then we’ve got a deal.”
“When do I start?”
“You could check in this afternoon. They’re expecting you.” He knew this is how our meeting would conclude. “Don’t worry, Slugger, you’re cleared through the gate and I got you back your parking space.”
For a moment Harry’s generosity has made me forget about Shannon. But as I walk out of the house, it’s gnawing at me again. The fear is back.
* * *
When I come out, I see Valerie pruning the roses. As if she’s been waiting for me. I wave and she walks over, carrying her flower basket and gardening shears.
“Did you take the new job?”
I nod. Thank her. She shrugs that off. I see Valerie’s got something else on her mind.
“What did you mean before, when I said everyone has something to regret about the HUAC days—and you said I didn’t?”
“Well, I heard that that they wanted you to testify, back during your first marriage, and Harry talked them out of it, because the stress might endanger your pregnancy and—”
“And I lost the baby. Probably because of the stress.”
“Anyway, Harry got you off the hook.”
“That’s more or less what happened, but not exactly in that order. I did testify in Executive Session—”
An echo of Leo Vardian.
“—and I gave them names, and afterwards I was so sick that I miscarried. Harry did arrange it so that I never had to testify in public. But it took more than talk—it took money. Twenty-five thousand dollars worth. A payoff to someone at the Committee. The deal was brokered by Harry’s childhood chum, Joe Shannon. Wasn’t that cute?” She laughs harshly. “I wanted to take it off my taxes as a business deduction. But Harry convinced me not to. ‘Don’t poke the bear,’ he said.”
“Always protecting you,” I say.
“That’s one of the best parts about being a star, David. The whole system is geared to protecting you.”
