Blacklist

by Jerry Ludwig

  “When we broke the bad news to the buddy, he was real shook up. They’d met in boot camp and were working together on the post newspaper. Guy blamed himself, said if he hadn’t got sick, the other kid would still be alive.”

  “What was the buddy’s name?” I ask.

  Sarge Gorman looks over as if he’s just discovered my presence. “What’d you say, Phil?” Somehow he got the idea my name is Phil and I’ve given up correcting him.

  “Who was the buddy who started out touring the bars with Atherton?”

  “Name was Shannon,” he says. “Joe Shannon.”

  * * *

  The only other lead we have in San Diego is at Camp Pendleton, the vast training center north of the city. Denny Pettigrew is a Chief Petty Officer now in charge of purchasing engine parts. Years ago he was part of the unit Axel Atherton and Joe Shannon were in. He was quoted in the old newspaper articles as saying Atherton didn’t have an enemy in the world.

  We are in his office in a warehouse on the base. Pendleton reminds me of Fort Benning, but instead of Rangers and paratroopers there are platoons of marines and sailors executing sharp formation turns on the parade ground outside Pettigrew’s windows. I watch them and think, Shannon and Atherton once marched together out there.

  Pettigrew is a chesty navy lifer in crisp fatigues who is giving us monosyllabic answers to our questions, until we assure him that the movie we’re researching will change all the names and be totally fictionalized, probably even where it takes place. He relaxes.

  “Good,” he says, “I wouldn’t want Atherton’s memory to get smeared.”

  Jana and I exchange a glance. “But you think the cops were right?” I ask. “That Atherton got mugged and murdered?”

  “Sure, something like that. Sailors looking for a good time are always a juicy target for lowlifes.”

  We ask him to describe Atherton. He recalls a friendly farm boy from Minnesota. Swedish descent, tall, skinny, good worker. From the time he disappeared, Joe Shannon kept saying Atherton never would have gone AWOL. When they heard his body had been found in the desert, Shannon wept.

  “Never would’ve expected that,” Pettigrew says. “Usually, he was a cold-ass.”

  “So he and Axel were close friends?”

  “Shannon treated Axel like a kid brother, and Axel looked up to him like he was God.”

  We ask about Atherton’s dogtag. Was he wearing it for sure when he left the base? Pettigrew says sometimes sailors on a weekend pass took off the tags or their wedding rings, trying to pass for civilians without any ties.

  “Never fooled anyone, if you ask me. You can always spot a serviceman.”

  Time to ask the big question we’ve let slide, and Jana does: “Was Axel a homosexual?”

  Pettigrew flares. “How the hell should I know? You said you weren’t out to smear him!”

  “We’re not,” she soothes. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened.”

  “Know what navy policy is on homos?” he asks. Jana shakes her head. “There is none, because there are none. But if they ever found one, he’d be subject immediately to dishonorable discharge. That answer your question?”

  * * *

  We’re driving north along the ocean on 101 heading back to L.A. and reviewing. Doesn’t feel like a helluva lot and we’re not sure how—or if—any of it fits in. According to Gorman, Atherton died of massive head injuries from a blunt instrument. The same way Joe Shannon was killed. Not that it was the same killer, but interesting. So now the question we’re taking away is the one we came with: how did Axel Atherton’s dog tag wind up in Shannon’s safe? We float possibilities: Shannon took it off the body after he and the marine from the bar killed Axel. But that collides with the close bond between the two men. Or maybe Axel left the dog tag behind in his footlocker and Shannon claimed it as a keepsake.

  “Imagine that,” I say, “Joe Shannon, a closet romantic.”

  On one level, it’s been a good day: Jana and I working closely together. Even if all we accomplished was a welcome distraction from my fear that McKenna and Alcalay are homing in on me.

  It’s after six o’ clock when we creep through the worst of the downtown L.A. traffic. We have to stop at the studio because I left my car there. While I’m on the lot I drop in at the publicity office to see if there are any messages. Everyone’s gone home except Art Sarno, who’s going to work the door at a press preview tonight in the studio screening room.

  “You’re gonna love this.” He gives a Cheshire grin. “Supposed to be a deep dark secret, but we’re always the first to know everything anyway.”

  “Yeah, why do they bother?”

  “So get this. Your ex-uncle Leo. He’s gone renegade, jumped the reservation. You know how the studio’s been leaning on him to slash his script to make up time—and also reshoot the ending of his epic.”

  “Or they’ll fire him and let another director. Yak-yak-yak. What else is new?”

  “Well, Leo found a way to finesse the argument. He’s absconded with the entire original sound track.”

  “What do you mean—absconded?”

  “Okay, swiped. Stolen. Made off with it in the dark of night.” Sarno laughs. “Told Barney Ott he’ll destroy it if they interfere with him any more. So unless they want to dub the whole movie like they do those Italian masterpieces where the actors flap their lips but the sound never seems right—looks like Leo’s got them by the gonads.”

  “The moguls must be bouncing off the walls.”

  “Well, Leo’s made ’em an offer—forget about firing him, let him finish the picture his own way and at his own pace. And afterwards he’ll be glad to bring back the soundtrack. So that’s where it stands—he’s still shooting tomorrow.”

  Leo, I realize, is nuts. Playing hardball with hard guys. It strikes me as a very dangerous game. Godzilla Meets Godzilla. Leo’s arrogance versus Barney Ott’s ruthlessness. Who knows where that contest might end? But the possibility Leo could finally get his ass kicked tickles me. “Quite a show,” I tell Sarno, “and it looks like we’ve got front row seats to watch.”

  * * *

  That’s how it stays for the next two days. Mexican standoff. Ott keeps shouting, Leo keeps shooting. Surprisingly, none of it gets in the papers.

  Then Thursday, on the way back from lunch, Jana and I have an unexpected encounter. As we approach the research department, we come upon Leo leaning against the wall near the entrance reading The New Yorker. Must be on a break from the set while they’re setting up the next shot. He spots us.

  “Jana, can we talk a minute?” He pretends I’m on another planet. He didn’t shave today, maybe not even yesterday. Looks like he’s given up sleeping.

  Jana says, “We don’t have anything to say to each other.”

  “Of course we do. You’ve left a lot of your things at the house.”

  “I’ll come by to pick them up.”

  “When?”

  “When you’re not there.” She starts to move past him to go into her building. He grabs her arm. “This—this whatever it is, it’s got to stop. I want you to move back home.”

  “That’s not possible.” She tries to pull loose, his grip tightens. “Let go of me, please,” she says. I feel myself tensing, adrenaline pumping.

  “You’re my daughter and you can’t just walk out like that. I’m all alone over there—”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “And you’re hurting both of us!” He’s louder, squeezing harder, I see the pain in her face. “No more of this childish damn nonsense, you’re—”

  “Take your hand off her, Leo!” I warn him.

  “Stay out of it,” she says to me. “I can handle this.”

  But he’s still gripping her. “Let go of her, dammit!”

  He lets loose of her and whirls to face me. I catch a whiff. He usually doesn’t drink during the day. Vein throbbing in his temple. “You bastard, why the hell did you ever have to come back into our lives?”

&
nbsp; “You think I’m the problem?” I shout at him.

  “Don’t blame David,” she says. Drawing his attention back to her. “This is between you and me and what you did!”

  “He’s poisoned your mind against me!” Leo shrieks. People on the street have stopped to watch. “Don’t you see what’s he’s done? We were fine, we were happy, until he—”

  “It’s always someone else,” I shout, “never you! Poor Leo, always the victim, always—”

  “Gonna hit me?” he challenges. And I long to. But Leo is seven inches shorter than I am and a generation older. “C’mon, soldier boy,” he’s daring me, “let’s see what you’ve got. Give me your best shot!” Rolling his magazine tight like a cop’s nightstick. “Do it, pussy,” double-daring me, “let’s go!”

  Jana steps between us. “Stop it! Both of you!”

  “I just don’t want him hurting you any more, he—”

  “I told you I could handle it, David!”

  She strides away from both of us into the building. Slams the door behind her. Leo and I stand there a moment glaring at each other, then he grumbles, “Fuck this, I’ve got a movie to make,” and he leaves. Still clutching his coiled magazine like a club to fend off the assassins.

  I watch Leo strut away. Hating his guts—him and his fuckin’ movie! Then there’s movement behind me. I turn and see Jack Heritage, aboard his studio golf cart, gliding out from the shady side of the executive building. On an afternoon spin or is he the stalker I’ve been sensing these weeks? Finally emerging from the shadows? How long has he been lurking and watching today?

  He comes closer. I’m ready for him. But he doesn’t stop. Just gives me a casual two-finger salute. “Hi, Chief,” he says as he passes. And follows slowly after Leo.

  Big Brother is on Leo’s tail. Better him than me.

  CHAPTER

  38

  MCKENNA

  It’s after midnight when I speed up to Panorama’s main entrance, but the gate man raises the barrier as I approach. I’m expected. He starts to give directions, but I tell him I know the way. I roll between the sleeping soundstages and park at the police barrier posted at the head of the Western street. Next to a LAPD cruiser and three unmarked Crown Vics, including Alcalay’s. He tracked me down by phone less than half an hour ago.

  “We’ve got another one,” he announced then.

  The night street is washed bright by the white glare of a giant klieg light. I see an ambulance parked down at the gallows, several men clustered there. I spot Alcalay’s stocky figure. The trapdoor is open and a lifelike dummy dangles below the platform. I know from Alcalay’s call it’s not a dummy.

  It’s Leo Vardian.

  I walk toward the gallows.

  Nearby two LAPD uniforms chat quietly with a studio security captain. One of the uniforms looks over at me. I hold my badge in the air and he goes back to his conversation. Barney Ott and Jack Heritage are loitering in front of the cowboy saloon where Leo’s Mercedes is parked. They’re watching the forensics team dust the car and scrape bloodstains off the wooden walkway. Heritage notices me and nudges Ott.

  Ott steps out to somberly greet me. “Panorama’s lost a good friend.”

  “You guys got here real fast,” I say.

  “We were still on the lot. Working late.”

  “Stick around. We’ll talk.” I continue on.

  Two of the men at the gallows are paramedics waiting beside their ambulance with a wheeled stretcher. I join Alcalay, who’s standing by himself observing Hiro Kobata, L.A.’s medical examiner. He is a cadaverously thin ancient in a baggy suit, crumpled white shirt, no tie. Looks like he tumbled out of bed. He is perched on a small ladder checking the body. There are streaks of blood running down Leo’s forehead, his face purple and mottled, eyes bugged, thick tongue lolling grotesquely. Guess that’s why they put hoods on them at hangings. For us, not them.

  “Been waiting for you to get here, Mac,” Alcalay says.

  For Alcalay that’s a rousing welcome. He’s using my nickname. My bullshit antenna goes way up. I came here with a big bone to pick, but he doesn’t know that yet.

  “Whatcha make of this?” He nods at the body.

  I match the tough talk. “Leo wasn’t the worst guy I met out here.”

  My gaze remains riveted on Leo’s face. A hard man to like, and the petty tyrant persona he’d basked in during recent years made it harder. But he didn’t deserve this kind of an ending. I think of how rough this is going to be on Jana Vardian.

  Up on the ladder, the M.E. glances over and sees me.

  “Doctor K,” I greet him.

  “Ah, G-Man arrives, now we’re cooking.” He turns his attention back to the body.

  I recall the last time I was here. Sitting on the steps of the gallows. Sipping coffee and doing Q&A with David Weaver.

  It’s as if Alcalay reads my mind.

  “Well,” he says, buddy-to-buddy, “if you’re ready to shed a tear for the deceased, then guess who went nose-to-nose in a public shouting match on the lot this afternoon? Vardian and the Weaver kid. Damn near turned into a punch-out. The girlfriend had to referee.”

  “According to informed sources?”

  “Same ones you’re always quoting.” He indicates Ott and Heritage, gazing at us from over at the saloon entrance.

  “The eyes and ears of this nasty little world,” I say. “How coincidental they’re working late tonight of all nights.”

  “Kinda missing the major point, aren’t ya, pardner?”

  He’s pushing the Weaver agenda hard. I expected that. He wants me to click my heels in the air. Like he’s ready to do. So he’s keeping a cork on his usual anger. That’s okay, I’ve got enough of my own to spare.

  As Kobata pivots the body, the klieg light splashes across Leo’s chest and I see the sign hanging around his neck. Handwritten in black letters like the other two. This one reads:

  BROTHER RAT

  I translate for Alcalay. “Another movie from the thirties, Ronnie Reagan and Eddie Albert playing cadets at a military academy.”

  “This case is a real Hollywood education.”

  Then Alcalay briefs me. Body discovered at 10:32 P.M. by studio cop on his rounds. Figure Vardian was coming for his car. He usually parked there. And that’s where the attack occurred. Bludgeon marks on the head. Like Shannon and Wendy Travers. Attack weapon a claw hammer, found on the ground in front of the saloon set. The kind used by construction workers on the lot. No sign of resistance. So Vardian was either jumped or more likely knew his killer. Unconscious body dragged over from the saloon. There’s a bloody trail from there to here. Alcalay points out a sandbag at the M.E.’s feet below the open trapdoor. Used to yank the noose down to the ground, where it was wrapped around Leo’s neck. Then the body was hoisted to finish the job. Took a strong person to do all that.

  “So looks like we got a shot at wrapping this up tonight,” Alcalay concludes.

  That’s when I lose it. “Know something? As a cop you’re a joke! You’re also a lying piece of shit!”

  Alcalay doesn’t flare, instead he gives a soft raise of the eyebrows and the hint of a smile. I want to belt him in the face. “Wow,” he murmurs, “sticks and stones. Let’s step into my private office.”

  He grips my arm to guide me around to the far side of the ambulance. I shake off his hand, but stomp ahead and when we’re out of sight of the others I turn on him, glaring.

  “Okay, he says, “you’ve got a wild hair up your ass, so let me hear. But keep it low, we don’t want to scare the neighbors.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” But I keep it down. I don’t need an audience while I rip him a new one. “Let me tell you what an investigator does. He investigates! He doesn’t fake it, go through the motions, cut corners, ignore leads—”

  He cuts me off. “For instance?”

  “You let me think you were checking out Weaver’s alibi for the Shannon hit, but—”

  “Old stuff. What else?”
<
br />   I get right in his face. “You want new? I got brand new. Just spent yesterday and today humping around town grilling a half dozen Blacklisted guys—all names on the list I gave you. Checking their alibis. Basic grunt cop work. Know what I found out? Two of the six were never contacted by any of your troops. But why bother, right? You made up your mind from the get-go that it was Weaver, so screw anything that doesn’t point at him. That’s your grand strategy. I can’t decide if you’re inept, corrupt, or just don’t give a shit! Hell, I don’t know if the kid is innocent or guilty, but—”

  “Neither do I.” That stops me. Until he adds: “But it sure seems like he’s our guy, don’tcha agree?”

  “There y’go! We’re not the jury, we’re—”

  “I know, we’re investigators. And you’re smarter than I am. But that doesn’t make me dumb. I’m just building on your good work. You dug out the slant about his going mental in the Army. You found out about the beef Weaver had in the commissary with Shannon. You found the link to Wendy Travers plus the proximity. You saw him lose it in Shannon’s backyard. You were here when he and O’Connell squared off. And tonight, after fighting with Vardian, who happens to be the guy who fingered his father for your Committee—”

  I cut him off. “So he decides to kill his sweetheart’s daddy? And Weaver picks the perfect place to do it—on the street where he himself works? So no one would suspect him? Do you really buy that?”

  “I got no trouble with it. Maybe this hit wasn’t planned—suppose the two of them just ran into each other here. And they picked up their fight from this afternoon. Or maybe it was planned, we’ve established the kid’s a bit of a nutcase. Doing it here only has to make sense to him. Maybe he thinks it’s poetic justice or some crap like that.”

  He shrugs. The old philosopher.

  “Look,” he says, “I know what you’re saying—that I’m stacking the deck against Weaver.”