by Jerry Ludwig
“Thanks for the tip, Mark, but we already know all about his military background.”
“Just trying to help out. Hope you understand.”
Sure I understand. I saw Jana Vardian accompanied by Mark at Teddy Weaver’s funeral. Now she’s with David. All’s fair in love and war in Hollywood and the difference between the two is sometimes inseparable. Unless. Could be a twofer: maybe Rex Gunderson was so mellow because he’s appointed Mark as his designated hitter.
“Well, appreciate you and your dad thinking of me, Mark. See you at the service.”
I hang up and I’m climbing back into my car when another uniformed studio guard, aboard his spiffy little golf cart, brakes up. He’s cutting off my exit lane.
“Agent McKenna, we need you over in the Visitors Parking Lot.”
“What for?” Who do you have to fuck to get out of this place?
“The reporter guy, Mr. O’Connell, he’s demanding your presence, sir. Says it’s very important.”
I rev my motor. “Tell Okie to call me at the office.” I’ve had enough of his nonsense for now.
The studio guard doesn’t budge. “’scuse me, sir, but Mr. O’Connell’s, well, he’s sort of flipping out. I really think you should follow me over there.” The grim look on his face convinces me.
* * *
Okie drives a seven-year-old bronze T-Bird and it’s parked in the subterranean Visitors lot. I see two more guards standing there with Okie, who’s carrying on like an Italian fish peddler, arms waving, eyes bulging, fingers pointing. As I get out of my car Okie rushes toward me:
“Y’didn’t believe me, didja, Mac? I told ya! I kept tellin’ ya! But everybody thinks ol’ Okie is fulla shit! Well, I’m not and now y’know!”
“Okie, calm down or we’re going to drop a net over you. Quietly tell me what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talkin’ about that!”
He leads me to the front of his car and indicates the square of blank cardboard tucked under the wiper blade on the driver’s side. I don’t get it for a second, so Okie makes it clear:
“Gotta get in the car for the view!” He yanks open the door, I slip in behind the wheel. Through the glass facing the driver is a message in the same black-inked block lettering I’ve seen before:
THE SINGING FOOL
YOU WERE LUCKY LAST TIME
I’m staring at it as Okie jabbers in my ear. “See, I’m the target! It wasn’t Joey! Y’have ta protect me! The killer’s out there tryin’ t’get me!”
In his hysterical state, Okie doesn’t realize that the killer isn’t “out there.” He’s inside. Right here. On the Panorama lot. Only a couple of short blocks from the Western set where the Weaver kid works.
* * *
“Mr. Weaver, this is Lieutenant Alcalay of the Los Angeles Police.”
After I make the introduction, I sit back and watch. Barney Ott has lent us his elegant office. Leo Vardian has been here and gone, so has Keeler Barnes. Zacharias is next door in Heritage’s office with another detective. But this is what Alcalay has been itching for: his chance to evaluate his prime suspect.
“Hey, David. You mind me calling you David?” Alcalay starts with cop bonhomie. “Where do you park your car on the lot?”
It’s not what the kid expects to be asked. “I’ve got a space way out on the backlot.”
“But your car’s in the Visitors lot now. How come?”
“Well, it’s closer to where I was going and there was an empty spot.” Weaver looks at me, puzzled.
“You like old movies, David?” Alcalay has jumped to another subject to keep him off balance. Thinks he’s playing him like a trout.
So Weaver asks Alcalay, why does he care about his taste in movies? A reasonable response. Except cops don’t appreciate people who answer questions with questions.
“Well,” the big cop pussyfoots in, “I just thought, since your dad wrote lots of the old movies you’d probably be real familiar with them.”
“You mean like The Informer?” Weaver asks. “I saw the photo in the Times of that sign they found at Joe Shannon’s house.”
That’s a mistake, kid, I think, don’t take the bait. I don’t like Alcalay’s interrogation technique. It’s too Mickey Mouse. Reminds me of Declan Collins’s smart-ass style of bullying conversation. Laying cute little booby traps. I doubt it will work with Weaver. He’s too smart. I find you can get more being straightforward. By listening carefully to the answers, and particularly watching body language. But it’s not Alcalay’s way.
“Would you call Shannon an informer?” he asks mildly.
“Would you?” Alcalay doesn’t answer, of course. So Weaver has to go on. “I’d call him a Red baiter. Self-appointed political hit man. Making America safe for Americans—even if it kills ’em.”
“Some would say you sound bitter.”
“Some would be right.”
The kid’s worried, but it’s coming out snotty. I can see Alcalay loves the arrogance. It fortifies his theory.
“I hear you had a run-in this afternoon with Okie O’Connell.” He’s springing another subject.
Weaver shrugs. “No big deal.”
“Rough day for old Okie,” Alcalay muses. “Leo Vardian barred him from his set. Then he comes to where you are and you go after him like a Rottweiler.”
“Hey! It was the other way around! He came after me.” Weaver looks to me to support him. When I don’t, he prods. “You can jump in anywhere you like, Agent McKenna. Don’t be bashful.”
He doesn’t understand the pecking order. This is Alcalay’s play. I say nothing. I see the hate in Weaver’s eyes. I wonder what he sees in mine?
“O’Connell fingered your dad to the Committee,” Alcalay says.
“He ratted out everyone from Malibu to Burbank,” Weaver snaps.
“You were in Korea, weren’t you?” Weaver nods. “And they gave you a medical discharge.”
Weaver tenses. Surprised Alcalay knows details of his history. “Yeah, got banged up a little.”
“Let’s go back to the old movies for a second. I love the musicals. Ever see any Al Jolson pictures?”
Weaver seems mystified. “Saw a revival of The Jazz Singer at the Academy Theater when I was a kid, but what’s—”
Alcalay cuts him off. “Do you know another Jolson picture called The Singing Fool?”
“Never heard of that one.” Then a lightbulb goes on in his head. But will the kid have enough sense to keep his mouth shut?
“You found another sign, didn’t you?” he says. “In the parking lot?” Amazingly, Weaver laughs. Is it a teasing boast or just pride that he’s deciphered Alcalay’s fragmented style of questioning.
Alcalay’s face reddens—not embarrassment at getting caught being cutesy, but anger. So he runs with it: “Why would you say that?” and Weaver says “Just a wild guess” and I can see Alcalay thinks he’s a liar but that doesn’t give him enough to take action, so after a moment Alcalay looks at me and I sigh.
Weaver breaks the silence. “Hey, is Okie dead?”
Alcalay leans back and levels a Who-do-you-think-you’re-fuckin’with? glare. Then finally he waves dismissively. “We’ll be in touch.”
I remember saying the same thing to Weaver earlier today. Only now it’s looking much worse. I feel sort of sorry for him, but maybe that’s mixed up with my annoyance at having to defer to Alcalay.
* * *
After Weaver leaves and the door closes, Alcalay says, “That kid’s either a weirdo or he’s got the biggest pair in town.”
“It’s just his manner.”
“Yeah? Tell it to the judge—or the DA first.” He ticks off points. “Trained by the Rangers on the Seventy-Seven Best Ways To Kill A Man. Treated for psychiatric disorder by the Army. That was in your handy-dandy info packet. Locally, lately, Weaver punched out Shannon for trashing the memories of his dear departed parents. Then Shannon stings Daddy again publicly in his gossip column, just like he used to in the ol
d days. Not to mention smearing Weaver’s girlfriend. So I’d say revenge certainly is a possible motive. Then there’s O’Connell—who informed on Weaver’s father. Today there’s a near fistfight between the two of them. And then O’Connell finds the threat on his windshield, real close to where Weaver’s car is parked. Oh yeah, and as you discovered, he lives a hop-and-a-skip away from where Wendy Travers got waxed. How’m I doin’?”
“Not nearly enough,” I say.
“Hey, who’s side are you on?”
“I didn’t know we were choosing up sides yet.” Alcalay fumes, but I go on. “He pisses me off, too, Ray.” Remembering my conversation with Weaver in the hallway at the Chateau. “But what’s the big rush? We’re just getting started. Lots of possibilities.”
“I’m getting a lot of pressure on this from downtown.”
Or does he just see a career opportunity? Like I do? Ouch. But hold on, I’m the one plunking for a complete and thorough investigation, not a hurry-up-wrap-it-up job. So to get him back on the straight and narrow, I try sympathizing with Alcalay, one pro to another.
“This is a hot potato for both of us, Ray. But we’ve got to do it right. Can’t lock someone up just because you don’t like ’em.”
Alcalay thinks about that. Then reluctantly, but snidely acknowledges, “Yeah, if I locked up everyone I didn’t like, I’d have clapped you in irons long ago.”
Probably that’s as close as I’m going to get to a thank-you from Alcalay for keeping him from going off half-cocked.
* * *
It’s almost 7:00 P.M. by the time Alcalay and I are finished and I return to where I left my car in the underground Visitors lot. There are two cars still there, mine, and David Weaver’s several slots away. I get behind my wheel but don’t turn on the motor yet. I sit there in the darkness reviewing. Then I hear footsteps and Weaver comes down the ramp carrying a script and a bunch of papers. He doesn’t notice me until he’s unlocking his car door, then he squints in my direction. I roll my window down and give him a small wave.
Slowly he walks over. “Working late?” I say.
“Looks like we both are.” Standing next to my car window, he glances at his watch. “But still enough time for me to go out and kill someone else.”
I give him a weary smile. “C’mon, Mr.Weaver, give it a rest.”
“Hard to relax around you.” Then he gestures at my car, “If I didn’t know better I might think you’re following me.”
“But now you know better.” I point at the script and papers under his arm. “Homework?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to figure out my new job. How’s your job going?”
“Word of advice? Stop doing what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Cracking jokes and playing the smart-ass.” For an instant I think his guard lowers. We’re just two guys talking. Then suspicion floods back into his eyes.
“That’s the good cop talking, huh? Would have been nice to hear from you when your pal was trying to mind-fuck me in the office.”
I can’t explain to him that I’m sucking hind tit in this case. And he wouldn’t believe it anyway. I’m supposed to be the all-powerful FBI.
“Well, have a good night,” I say as I start my motor. He nods curtly and starts toward his car, but then I call after him: “Mr. Weaver, can I ask you one more question?”
He turns back toward me. “Gee, I thought you’d gone off duty. But always one more. Sure, go for it.”
“Why did you laugh?” He knows exactly what I’m referring to, but I spell it out to be clear. “When Alcalay was questioning you—and you figured out that there’d been another threat sign left here on Okie’s car. You laughed.”
He’s far enough away from my car so that his face is mostly in the shadows and I can’t see his eyes. But I sense he’s verging on providing a straight response. Then he shrugs.
“You wouldn’t believe it.” Finality in his voice.
I’m annoyed. “So it’s for you to know and for me to find out?”
“Do your best, Agent McKenna.”
He turns and walks away.
I’m annoyed. We’re back to Square One. I just gave him a chance to open up a little. Some people never learn. I put my car in gear and drive away. But I’m still wondering what he might have said.
* * *
I stop by my office and use a secure line to call Clyde Tolson in D.C. While I wait for the switchboard to find him, I thumb through my incoming box. Routine garbage. Finally Tolson comes on. I brief him on the day’s events. When I’m done, he asks, “So this young Red, what’s his name—?”
Tolson hasn’t forgotten. But I’m forced to say, “Weaver, David Weaver.”
“Interesting that all roads seem to keep leading to him.”
“Well, the supervising homicide lieutenant on the case and I were talking about that—and it seems almost too pat. I mean, if Weaver’s our man, it’s kind of a stupid way for him to go. On his own doorstep, so to speak.”
“Criminals aren’t all as smart as they are in the movies.”
Throwing Hollywood in my face. “Of course, sir, we’re looking intently at everyone who might be involved.”
“In your thoroughness, don’t ignore the obvious, Brian. Keep us fully apprised on all developments.”
I think he’s about to hang up, but he clears his throat. “Received that document,” he’s talking about the letter of commendation from Hoover to Shannon. “As always, you handled it with discretion.” So there’s my attaboy. Big fuckin’ deal. It’s wrapped in a keep-up-the-good-work with an implied “or else.”
Now the call ends. Leaving me double depressed. Feeling like a kiss ass and a non-team player. I haven’t decided if Weaver is a viable suspect, but everyone else seems ready to slap him in the slammer. I check my watch. It’s late. But I dial anyway. Kathleen sounds sleepy, but she wakes up fast and listens until I’ve filled her in.
“Wow, lots of movement on your big case,” she observes, “just what you wanted.” She waits for me to say something. I wait her out, so she adds: “Definitely sounds like Tolson and Hoover have found their favorite entry in the sweepstakes.”
“We’re only getting started, Kath.”
“Yeah, but the suggestion of a top-echelon superior, like Tolson, speaking for Hoover himself, can’t be ignored.”
I kiss it off. “Prioritizing leads is a basic procedure, pushing Weaver’s name up in the batting order doesn’t constitute a premature rush to judgment. So nothing to be upset about.”
“Who’s upset?” she asks innocently.
“I just follow the facts, wherever they go.”
“You and Jimmy Cagney.” Definitely razzing me.
“If the facts happen to land on Weaver, then so be it. Either way, I’ll have done my duty. Right?”
“Uh-huh. But.” She lets the word hang out there. For me to pick up.
“But—I kinda regret inserting David Weaver into their thinking so early—”
“—just to score brownie points,” she adds. “Funny,” she begins, then stops herself.
“What’s funny?”
“This is probably how a lot of those people felt when you shoved them into the HUAC hot seat. Once you give up a name, you can’t take it back.”
Guess that’s what’s bothering me and why I called her so late.
“Yeah, I’m feeling out of sync, Kath. Off on the wrong foot, but I don’t want to overcompensate in either direction. I mean, Weaver could be the guy. We just don’t know enough yet.”
I realize that I’m not arguing with her. I’m arguing with myself. And somehow I seem to be on the losing end. It doesn’t feel good. So I determine to just bear down harder on the facts. Let the chips fall where they may. I’m just the impartial tool of justice.
CHAPTER
34
DAVID
It’s back. My dream, the one that repeats periodically in the dead of night like a bad TV rerun. But it really happened wh
en I was fifteen. I think of it as my rite of passage into the real world.
* * *
Slouched. Backseat of a car. A winding country road. Steep, one-lane. Pitch blackness surrounds us. Scrunched between my dad and my mom, who’s leaning forward to talk to the friendly Negro lady up front. I call her Aunt Viola. Her husband, Uncle Frank, a State Assemblyman from Harlem, is driving, we’re in their Packard. Bumper to bumper traffic as far as you can see. Through what seems like a narrow black tunnel punctuated only by headlights. I’m drowsing, but I hear Uncle Frank remarking on what a marvelous day it’s been. The picnic in the meadow. The singing that followed. Paul Robeson. Pete Seeger. Woody Guthrie. “Wonder what’s holding us up?” Teddy says.
Then we hear shouting up ahead. Men’s voices. Lots of them. Edge closer. Voices louder. Coming from the night hills. I’m wide awake. Not scared. Not yet. Then we hear the sounds of glass shattering. Screams begin. We’re still inching forward. The voices float in through the open windows. “Commie bastards!” “Dirty kikes!” “Fuckin’ niggers!” “We’ll kill you all!”
Suddenly a state trooper’s face. Glaring in at us. Eerily illuminated. His back to the steep hills. Teddy calls to him. “What’s happening, Officer?”
The trooper yells at us, “Pick it up, keep moving!”
“We can’t go any faster,” Teddy starts to say, “the road’s—” That’s as far as Teddy gets: the state trooper smashes his nightstick down on the roof of our car.
“Keep moving, dammit!”
“Roll up the windows,” Teddy yells to us. Our car creeps forward. State troopers loom up out of the darkness. Stationed at intervals. Urging the gridlocked traffic to keep going. Then rocks and bricks begin to fly. Thrown from where the voices are. The steep embankments on both sides. We’re caught in the eye of the storm now. I want to leap out. Run away. Teddy pushes me and my mother down onto the floorboard. He tries to cover our bodies with his body. A crash shudders our car. Windshield shattering. I raise my head. Uncle Frank still at the wheel. Shoulders showered with glass fragments. Like glistening dandruff. Eyes protected by his glasses. But blood trickling down from his brow. There’s screaming. Right here. Inside our car. It’s Aunt Viola. “Oh God, Frank, can you see?” She pulls out a hanky, dabs at him.
