by Jerry Ludwig
“My shrink said I was still looking to hold someone responsible. God, bad luck, HUAC, bully kids in Mexico, my personal karma, or the Red Chinese army—all strong candidates for the blame game. So I recognized that was what I was doing. Didn’t mean I could stop doing it. But I can modulate it. The shrink calls it anger control. Thought I was getting good at it, until—”
I push the sugar cubes aside. “Jana, I keep thinking about Joe Shannon.”
She leaps in. “Me, too!” She’s as upset as I am. But she’s worried about Leo. That maybe Leo killed Shannon. “He was trying to call me yesterday. After Shannon printed that garbage about us. He left messages everywhere. But I kept ducking his calls.”
I say, “It’s not Leo’s style, and besides I can’t see Leo taking time away from his picture to do it.”
That makes her smile a little. So to keep her spirits up, I offer the one bit of good news I have. About the new job Harry has arranged for me. “Starting this afternoon. I’m gonna be a unit publicist.” Then I can’t help blurting, “If I haven’t been arrested by then.”
She’s startled. “Arrested? For what?”
“For not being able to remember half of what I did last night and coming home all banged up—on the same night Shannon got killed.”
“But you only met him, what, twice?”
“Public cluster fucks, both times. Plus the cops might look at me as a second-generation Shannon-hater.” I stare at my bruised knuckles. And tell her the whole thing. “Suppose I lost it last night—I keep remembering how much I wanted to go over there and rack up Shannon. Suppose I did.”
“No! You didn’t kill that man,” she says. But I can see she’s worried. The memory of my battle with the storm troopers.
“How can you be that certain, honey, even I don’t know for sure—”
“David, you could never do that!”
I see how much she wants to believe that. So do I.
* * *
After Jana goes back to the research department, I find the publicity building and check in. Trying to move on. Act normal. I’m sharing an office with a veteran flack, Art Sarno, a friendly little guy. He starts briefing me on what’s expected of a unit publicist, but I’m distracted. Still stuck on what Jana and I talked about.
“Hey.” Sarno smiles. “Lot of stuff, but not that tough, we’ll go over it all later. Your picture started shooting this morning on the Western street. Why don’t you just mosey on over and meet everyone. I’ll stop by to see you in a while—there’s a trade paper reporter covering the lot today and I’ll bring him by your set and introduce you.”
As I go out the door, Sarno tosses after me: “You gotta be a little careful with Sterling Hayden”—he’s the star of the quickie cowboy picture—“he hates publicists.”
So, as instructed, I mosey over, and as it happens, the first person I run into is Sterling Hayden. He’s climbing out of a studio limo that’s dropped him near the catering truck and dressing room trailers. A shock of blond hair and the physique of a Viking god. He’s a giant, maybe the biggest man in Hollywood this side of John Wayne.
When I introduce myself, Hayden shakes a fist as big as a catcher’s mitt in my face and demands: “So you’re the punk who punched out Joe Shannon?” I nod, with some concern. He breaks into a huge smile. “Put ’er there, pardner!”
He grabs my hand and pumps. A firm, but not crushing handshake. The man is aware of his power. “Joe Shannon lived a charmed life,” he says, “bloody wonder somebody didn’t cancel his subscription a long time ago.” Then he squints at me. “I went to Washington in forty-seven with your father to protest the Committee. Teddy was a stand-up guy. Gotta get some makeup on, kid, but we’ll talk later.”
He walks off as I silently thank Teddy for another gift. Then I continue down the street. It’s the usual movieland version of a cow town: general store, saloon, bank, white steeple church, even a rough-hewn gallows next to the stable and the blacksmith’s shop. Leo’s Mercedes has been evicted from its usual parking spot in front of the saloon.
The scene they’re shooting inside the saloon is a golden oldie: the crooked banker drinking whiskey with his ruthless gunslinger and cooking up trouble for the nesters. The usual B-movie array of characters for a low-budget Western is assembled. Mustachioed bartenders servicing the rowdy crowd of gamblers, dance-hall girls, cowboys, and farmers, while a piano player tinkles away in the background. The director yells “Cut and print” and a cadaverous-looking man in a frock coat and a fur trapper’s hat calls out to me from behind a Lincolnesque set of whiskers:
“Duveed, whaddayadoin here?” I’m startled to see it’s Zacharias.
“What are you doing here?”
“Earning a dishonest day’s wages,” he says. “After you left last night, this casting gal came out of the show at Grauman’s Chinese and spotted me standing next to my bus. She told me my face has oodles of character. So here I am. For a three-day job. Then it’s back to the bus. Can ya guess who I’m playing?”
“Not Honest Abe.”
“Nah, I’m the town mortician. Whenever the baddie bushwacks a farmer, I come rolling over with a coffin. A running gag. Great way to make my reentry into the Hollywood scene, huh?”
I tell him why I’m on the set, and joke about being here until they come and arrest me, because it’s still giving me the jitters. “No problem,” he says. “You lie and I’ll swear to it. Just tell ’em you were with me all night.”
Not a bad idea. Just then, the assistant director yells, “Positions, please,” so Zacharias has to move off. I see Art Sarno at the swinging saloon doors waving me to come outside.
“Brought you that trade paper guy,” Sarno says as we walk to the catering truck. “He’s an asshole, always coming on to the starlets, but Harry Rains treats him like a VIP, gives him access to all the sets.” The guy’s back is toward us, he’s snagging a chocolate donut to go with his free cup of coffee. “Oke, I want y’to meet—”
Okie O’Connell turns toward us with the gap-toothed smile that curdles at the sight of me. “Y’didn’t tell me this sonuvabitch is here!”
“Guess you two know each other,” Sarno says sardonically.
“All too well,” I say. Mildly. Don’t want to lose this job before I hardly have it. But Okie plows ahead, face turning purple:
“This peckerwood killed my best buddy!”
The crew people near the catering truck and surrounding trailers are all staring at us. Better show than the one they’re shooting inside the saloon.
“You murderin’ Commie piece a shit!” Okie rages on. “Tell ’em all what you did to Joe Shannon!”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I shout back at him.
At which point Sterling Hayden, who has emerged from the makeup trailer, takes in the situation. While Okie rants, Hayden steps between us. He winks at me, and flings his enormous arm around Okie’s shoulders.
“Easy does it, pardner,” he says to Okie, “been waiting for you to come around and tell me a joke, got a good one I haven’t heard?”
Okie allows Hayden to propel him away, still glaring back at me. Art Sarno tosses me a “don’t worry” gesture and accompanies them. They enter Hayden’s dressing room trailer and close the door. The second assistant director has emerged from the saloon to yell, “Hey guys! Keep it down!” Everybody goes back to whatever they were doing, but as they disperse I see someone familiar. Looks like he’s been here during the entire episode.
“Afternoon, Mr. Weaver,” Agent McKenna says. “Is there some place quiet where we can talk?”
Well, here’s my shadow. Why am I not surprised that he’s my inquisitor.
* * *
Trying to play it cool, I suggest we first get a cup of coffee from the catering truck. The good host, but as I pour my cup I notice McKenna studying my bruised knuckles.
“Got into a fracas recently?” he asks.
“Is that a federal offense?”
“Depend
s. Could be.”
I should be deferential and polite, I know that, but just the sight of this man enrages me.
“Bet you’re here to talk about Joe Shannon,” I challenge. Let’s get this show on the road. “So how does the death of a gossipmonger qualify as an FBI case?”
“We’re lending the LAPD a hand.”
“Got nothing better to do with your time?”
“Look, kid—”
Hey, maybe I scored a little point with that one. “Don’t call me kid.”
“—I’ve got a busy day. So how about if I ask the questions, you give the answers, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll be—cooperative.” He doesn’t take the bait. “Okay, let’s go over there.”
We go sit on the steps of the gallows. And we start. He takes notes, without comment. When he comes to where I was last night, I’m tempted to use the alibi Zacharias volunteered. But then I think, don’t do it, this turd is trained to detect lies. So I tell it straight.
At last McKenna says, “Is that it?”
“You tell me.” Don’t know if I’ve helped my cause or ruined my life. He flips back the pages in his notebook to where he started jotting.
“Let me see if I’ve got it straight—you were upset because of the cracks Joe Shannon made in his column at you and your girlfriend and your father—so you went barhopping around Hollywood all night, getting bombed out of your mind, you didn’t talk to anyone, except busy bartenders. There’s a point, maybe more than one, at which you blacked out, don’t know for how long, woke up somewhere else, with skinned knuckles and your jacket ripped, but have no memory of how that happened. No witnesses to any of this that you know of.”
“You’re my alibi, Agent McKenna.” Let him know I’m on to him.
“How’s that again?”
“Weren’t you following me around town last night—the way you’ve been doing lately?”
Unless he’s a better actor than Spencer Tracy, he’s genuinely surprised. “Why would I be doing that?”
“A family tradition. You hounded my father, now you want to keep up the franchise with me.”
He stares at me. “That make sense to you, Mr. Weaver?”
Suddenly it doesn’t. It’s a jarring realization. I’ve been operating on a stupid assumption. But I’m certain somebody’s been following me. The tingly feeling outside Dolores coffee shop, and I remember shouting McKenna’s name into the darkness last night. Or am I losing it?
“Got to tell you,” he closes his notebook, “I think the account of your whereabouts last night is about the worst alibi I’ve ever heard.”
“Sorry to let you down.” I know, I know, more sass from me. But it’s like he’s asking for it. I lean in to him. “Look, I didn’t kill Joe Shannon!”
“How do you know? You don’t remember jackshit, Mr. Weaver. You definitely had motive, definitely had opportunity.”
Screw him. I hold out my wrists. “Want to cuff me? Am I under arrest?”
“Just trying to understand you. You sure don’t make it easy.”
The bell inside the saloon signals the end of the shot. A production assistant down near the catering truck yells, “Anyone here named McKenna? Phone call!”
McKenna excuses himself and walks down the street. I don’t know if I’ve been dismissed or we’re going to resume. So I slowly trail after McKenna. As I pass the saloon, Zacharias comes out.
“How’d that go?” he asks.
“I think he thinks I did it.”
“Cops make everybody feel like that. It’s how they get their jollies.”
They’re calling for the next shot, so Zacharias has to go back. He pats my shoulder encouragingly and walks off. Now what do I do? McKenna is near the catering truck picking up the phone. What I want to do while he’s looking the other way is race to the airport and catch the first plane to Argentina or some country where they don’t extradite. But that feels premature. So I drift to the catering truck, pour myself a coffee refill, and wait nearby for McKenna to finish his call. Looks like he’s enjoying it. Maybe they found fingerprints on Shannon’s neck. Good news. Unless they’re mine.
CHAPTER
31
MCKENNA
It’s Alcalay calling. “How’s it goin’ at your end?” He asks so pleasantly I hardly recognize him. But I can do pleasant, too.
“I’m collecting a bushel basket of alibis,” I tell him. “Everybody claims they were home sleeping. Except the Weaver kid. He was on the town but doesn’t remember exactly where or with who. Got blitzed.”
“Think he went knocking on Joe Shannon’s door?”
“Too soon to say.” Alcalay still hasn’t told me why he’s calling. “What’s new at your end?”
“Well, we checked out Shannon’s ex-roommate, the one who wrote the love letters we found in the safe.”
“The state senator.”
“Got a platinum alibi. He’s in Singapore on a junket. He was feature speaker at a banquet at the time of the fire.”
That’s still not worth Alcalay tracking me down here. I wait for him to get to it.
“Listen,” he says, “that military dog tag from the safe—we got lucky. It was melted by the heat of the fire, but the lab guys found the lettering had imprinted on the safe wall. You were right, it’s a navy tag—”
“—belonging to able-bodied Seaman Joseph P. Shannon.” I’m getting impatient.
“Not even close. Name on the ID tag is Yeoman Third Class Axel Atherton, serial number NA19583298, blood type O, date of birth 6/29/26.”
“Who the hell is he? And what was Shannon doing with his dog tag?”
“The Bureau could help us on that,” he says.
How nice. So now we’re the Bureau, not the Feebs or the Fat Boys. Alcalay needs something. It must be eating him up. “Any way we can help, Ray,” I say affably.
“I figure the Navy Department can give you a rundown. Atherton might still be in the service, or maybe they’ve got a forwarding address. But when we make that kind of query it usually winds up on the bottom of some pile. Thought if you make the pitch it’ll move faster.”
“Absolutely. We’re on the same team.” I’m twisting the knife. “I’ll shoot in an expedited request to the Navy Department and the Pentagon. We’ll also run this guy through the Bureau’s data bank.” Flip open my notebook, click my ballpoint pen. “The sailor’s name is Alex Atherton, A-T-H-E-R-T-O-N?”
“Axel Atherton. A-X-E-L.”
“Axel Atherton,” I repeat.
“The Birthday Boy,” a voice says behind me. I turn and see Okie O’Connell strolling by with Sterling Hayden. I give Okie a wait-a-second motion. “Talk to you later,” I say to Alcalay and hang up.
I nod at Hayden. “Sterling. Long time.”
“Not long enough, McKenna.” He does an about-face and strides off. After all we did for him. Go screw yourself! But Okie’s my man of the moment.
“Why’d you say, the Birthday Boy?”
“Huh? Oh. Well, y’know how Joey always ran a line in the column, wishin’ folks he liked in the industry a happy birthday?”
“Uh-huh, so what’s that got to do with—”
“Most of ’em were headliners, plus some old-timers who’d been forgotten, but I could always decipher who they all were—’cept for Axel Atherton. The mystery man. His name’d pop up in the column like clockwork every year, and damned if I could place him.”
“Sure about the name?”
“Y’know me. I’m real good on names.” A reminder of his record-setting score for HUAC.
“Ever ask Shannon about it?”
“Yeah, he just laughed and told me to mind my own ever-lovin’ business. How do you know ol’ Axel?”
I grin. “Mind your own ever-lovin’ business.” Okie laughs. “You inheriting Joe’s column?” I ask him.
“Looks like it, cousin. At least on a trial basis. But I gotta show the publisher I can do an A-one job.” He looks past me, spots
Weaver at the coffee stand. “Hey, punk, there’ll be a little somethin’ in the paper about you tomorrow!”
The other studio press agent tugs Okie away and off the Western street as I consider if Weaver was close enough to hear any of my phone call. Well, who cares? Got nothing to do with him.
I start back over to Weaver. Could squeeze some more, but I have what I wanted from him. More or less. I pride myself on being able to read people, but this guy’s got me puzzled. Everybody else I talk to about Shannon is on eggshells, while Weaver is into this whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth shtick—no matter how bad it makes him look.
I’m tempted to believe him, maybe partly because I prematurely dropped his name to Hoover, but mostly it feels like only a masochistic idiot would make up such a cockamamie excuse for an alibi. Unless it’s a crafty maneuver. The best offense is absolutely no defense?
I didn’t ask him anything about Wendy Travers yet. I don’t want to tip our hand—also I’ve already checked with the Chateau Marmont and found out that on the night of her killing Weaver ordered room service and signed for it at eleven o’clock. He probably ate his food and went to sleep. But Wendy was killed about midnight on a street corner only about a mile or so away from the Chateau. On that basis, he still merits a spot on the list.
So as I reach him now, I say: “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be in touch.”
I can see he takes that as a threat. The way things are going, he ought to. But I’ll get Alcalay to have his troops cruise the Hollywood bars tonight and check out Weaver’s story about last night.
* * *
As I walk off across the lot, I’m still feeling peeved at the frosty reception I got from Sterling Hayden. He, of all people, should be kissing my ass. Saved his life. Of course it was a two-way deal. We needed him as much as he needed us.
Hayden was the biggest star to admit to Party membership since Larry Parks, an Oscar nominee for playing Al Jolson, and a radical union organizer for the Screen Actors Guild. The Parks case had turned into a colossal screwup. The Committee had to strong-arm Parks into giving names. When finally he spilled his guts on the stand in front of the media, HUAC thanked him and sent him on his way to continue his career. Even superpatriot John Wayne said Parks had sinned, confessed, and now should be forgiven. But powerful gossip columnist Hedda Hopper was not in a forgiving mood. The deal Parks had made with HUAC was not good enough for her. Larry Parks was Blacklisted and his career over.
