Blacklist

by Jerry Ludwig

  “That’s the part I haven’t worked out yet,” I admit. “Is it getting darker in here?”

  “Only for people who took two pills,” Zacharias says. “Close your eyes, kid, get a little more rest. I’ll be right here.”

  * * *

  When I open my eyes again, he’s in the chair watching me sadly while eating soup from a Denny’s coffee shop take-out container.

  “Chicken soup,” he says, “want some?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” I say. It’s an old Yiddish punch line.

  So he’s spooning soup. Into me. My ribs glad I don’t have to do any chewing.

  Zacharias says, “You ever wonder if I was what they said I was? A dirty rotten Commie?”

  “None of my business,” I say.

  “That’s what I said to HUAC, but I’ll tell you. I joined the Party early and stayed late. Long after Teddy and most of the others quit. I hung in until Khrushchev made that speech in Moscow. Spilling the beans, revealing all the gory details of the Stalin regime. Turns out my hero, Uncle Joe, was a mass murderer, slaughtered as many people as Hitler did. For a while I felt like a world-class putz.”

  “That’s a heavy load.”

  “I finally made peace with myself. Stalin fooled me, for decades. But the things the Party advocated in this country, they were the right things. And we made some headway. Got anti-lynching laws, collective bargaining, enabled more blacks to vote, all that. So I decided I was wrong about Stalin, but not about me. When you get a chance to do something good, you gotta grab it, no matter what kind of label is on it.”

  I know there’s a subtext here, he’s telling me something important, but I’m not clear what it is.

  “Not to worry, Duveed,” he says. “I’ve still got a coupla tricks up my sleeve. You’ll be okay. I guarantee it.” I doze off again before I can ask him how he can be so sure.

  CHAPTER

  43

  MCKENNA

  Alcalay and I are in Tiny Naylor’s in West L.A. Only a scattering of customers in the franchise coffee shop. It’s almost 4:00 A.M. We’re pounding caffeine and reviewing where we are. I don’t know about him, but I’m exhausted.

  Alcalay tracked down Lester the Locksmith, who stated that all he saw removed from the vault were the missing reels of sound track, which Keeler Barnes identified and took away. And then Keeler confirmed to Alcalay that he stopped off at the studio and the sound track is again under Panorama lock and key. Has no idea where David Weaver might be.

  I mention going past Zacharias’ apartment in Sherman Oaks. No one home. I stuck one of my cards in the doorjamb. Wrote on the back for him to call me ASAP.

  “So where y’think he’s at?”

  “Who knows?” I say. “Zacharias could be hiding the Weaver kid in the trunk of his car and tear-assing to the Mexican border. Or maybe he propositioned one of his tourist ladies tonight and got lucky, he used to be quite a pussy hound.”

  Earlier, after I left Jana, I reached Alcalay by phone and he assigned an unmarked cop car to watch her house. Now he tells me he woke up a judge to authorize a wiretap on her home phone.

  “And her work phone at the studio?” I ask.

  Alcalay nods, he did that, too. “Know something, I’m glad I let you into the case. Gave you a lot of shit, tried to run over a lot of what you said, but you hung in there like a real pro and played it straight up.” Clearly he thinks the case is solved and the rest is just mechanics. “We’re almost done, so why are you looking so gloomy?”

  “You know. I just don’t like loose ends.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong fuckin’ business.” Alcalay drains the last of his coffee. I think I liked him better when he disliked me.

  * * *

  “It’s all over but the shouting,” Clyde Tolson gloats on the secure phone line. It’s still predawn in L.A. and this is the second time I’ve called the deputy director at home tonight. The first was to alert him to Leo Vardian’s murder.

  “There are still some nagging inconsistencies,” I mention.

  “Naturally, but I’m sure they’ll clarify as you fellas button it up. My compliments, this has been very well managed. The berserk son of a Commie who fled a HUAC subpoena runs amok. That’ll go a long way to convincing some of the doubters that the Red Menace is still to be reckoned with. Good work.”

  Then Tolson shares with me as if I’m already part of the top tier. “Timing could not be better, Brian. You and the L.A. police will run this Weaver terrorist to ground just in time for Congressional consideration of our annual budget. So be very watchful, please. We don’t want this apple cart upset, you understand?”

  I know this isn’t the moment to ask him about the job heading up the countrywide bank robbery unit. That’s not how the game is played. Bureau protocol, unwritten but understood by all us long-timers, dictates that I wait for them to introduce it. Giving me the opportunity to pretend surprise and express gratitude.

  Tolson, like Alcalay, is assuming only insignificant details remain. That catching the Weaver kid is simply a matter of hours. I don’t contradict him, but I’m not at all sure. After all, here’s a guy who’s been trained by the Army Rangers to evade capture in hostile territory.

  CHAPTER

  44

  DAVID

  The early morning sun is seeping around the edges of the drawn drapes when I wake up in the motel room in the Valley and find Zacharias is gone. On the nightstand I see a note: “Duveed, It’s going to be okay. Love ya, kid.” Signed with a flourished “Z” that reminds me of Zorro, defender of the downtrodden.

  I call a taxi, and when it arrives I tell him to take me to Las Palmas and Franklin in Hollywood. That’s near where I dimly remember parking my car last night before I staggered the few blocks to Zacharias’ bus.

  * * *

  I spot my dusty jalopy on Las Palmas above Hollywood Boulevard. I don’t just walk up to it. First I lurk in the doorway of a nearby apartment house and scan for signs of a stakeout. I’m about to stride forward when a uniformed meter maid comes rolling down the street. Blond and busty, marking tires with her chalk stick. She stops at my car. Climbs out with her pad, looks at my license plate. I hold my breath. That makes the ribs throb, so I let the breath out. There must be an APB out for my car. But she writes a parking ticket routinely, stuffs it under my windshield wiper, and rolls on.

  I stay put until she turns the corner. Then I stroll forward, reach for the ticket, and I feel teased by a shard of elusive memory. Something I want to recall, but it’s just out of reach. No time to ponder it now. I pocket the ticket, jump in the car, and take off. No bells, no whistles, no sirens. No one follows. Okay, at least I’ve got wheels again.

  Driving south through the morning traffic, I don sunglasses and my New York Yankees ballcap, turn up my collar. Now I’m anonymous. I hope. I have to do the same thing for my car.

  The long-term parking lot at L.A. airport is jammed, but I don’t need a space. I roll to the farthest aisle, stop just long enough to hop out with a screwdriver, swap license plates with one of the cars, and drive off. Hoping the owner of that parked car doesn’t return for days.

  Next stop is Earl Scheib’s car emporium on Lincoln in Santa Monica that boasts a bargain basement $59.95 paint job. What color do I want? “Make it black.” Like the heart of whoever is setting me up for this gigantic fall. They drive my yellow Ford into the car washing section. Soon it’ll be disguised as a miniature hearse.

  I watch the process through the splatter-protecting glass for a while. Then I get self-conscious. Standing in one place long enough for someone to notice me, maybe even someone just reading the L.A. Times with my face displayed, doesn’t seem like a good idea. So I take a stroll.

  My mind is racing, of course. Mostly in circles. I’m cut off from the person I need the most. Jana. I ache to see her, at least talk to her. But they’ll expect me to contact her again, so what can I do? Have to steer clear. At a time when she needs me more than ever.

  As soon as
my car is finished, I can do something—I can start surreptitiously watching Keeler, see where that leads and if I can get him alone, I’ll—what? In the light of morning I’m starting to poke holes in my brilliant solution. Having seen Leo and Keeler go at each other, I can buy that Keeler might have run into Leo last night and bad led to worst. A spontaneous eruption. But a premeditated, intricate scheme? Designed to ensnare me? I don’t see Keeler doing that. Not the Keeler I know. Barney Ott and Jack Heritage on the other hand—

  Hey, is that guy I just passed on the street looking at me funny? I hurry around the corner, glancing back over my shoulder. I’m in front of the public library on Santa Monica Boulevard and duck inside. Quickly conceal myself in the stacks where I can peek at the entrance. The guy hasn’t followed me in. So I’m still okay. Then I notice an early afternoon edition of today’s Mirror-News on the newspaper rack. I take it to an inconspicuous table in the far corner. I’m still leading the news. Search on for Blacklist murderer. Revenge seen as motive. Hate-filled ex-GI described as highly trained killer. Sure sounds like there’s a monster on the loose.

  My head’s throbbing and so are my ribs. I’ve got Zacharias’ pills. Wash one down at the water fountain. Still too soon for the car to be finished. I return to my table. Spot an interesting sidebar story in the paper:

  PANORAMA STUDIO PRODUCTION CHIEF HARRY RAINS ANNOUNCED TODAY THAT RENOWNED FILMMAKER REX GUNDERSON WILL TAKE OVER AS DIRECTOR OF THE LATE LEO VARDIAN’S FILM AGAINST THE WIND AND COMPLETE IT FOR THE STUDIO.

  Leo will do somersaults in his grave. But how’s that for a motive? Rex’s career has ground to a standstill. Suddenly he’s back in the game—finishing off a major movie, probably get co-director credit, and the studio will owe him a big favor. Like approving a new movie for him. Resuscitating his career. So could it be Rex? Or maybe it’s all a present for Dad from Markie? Or more manipulation by Barney Ott? Shit, it could all be just stupid conjecture. If it’s Ott and Heritage who did all the dirty deeds, and then contrived to lure me over to Leo’s house last night, why did Heritage seem so startled to see me there?

  While I’m putting the newspaper back in the library rack, I notice today’s edition of Film Bulletin. I thumb through it, nothing about Leo’s death. Guess they went to press too early. But there’s an announcement on page two next to this morning’s Rumor Mill column that Okie O’Connell has been designated as Joe Shannon’s replacement. Could that really have been enough for Okie to cook up this murderous mishmash—along with the demeaning way I saw Shannon treat him. Yeah, that could be. Suppose Okie killed Shannon, then started leaving the Blacklist signs, including the one threatening himself, and then tossed in Leo to complete the misdirection. Yeah. Okie is vicious enough, but then is he smart enough?

  As I’m putting today’s Film Bulletin back in the rack and thinking about Okie, another fleeting thought surfaces. A bit of research I’ve been meaning to do. I ask the librarian if they have back copies of Film Bulletin.

  “Going back to 1938,” she says.

  “Can I see last year’s volume?”

  She gets 1958 for me. I take it to my table and start checking Shannon’s columns. Looking for those Happy Birthday listings. I heard Okie tell McKenna that Shannon never forgot to mention “the mystery man,” Axel Atherton, who was born, according to the Navy records Jana got for us, on June 29. I find lots of June salutations, but no mention of Atherton. So I check May and July. Still no Atherton. What the hell. Just one more dead end. But then a new idea hits me: Axel Atherton died on November 17.

  So I thumb to mid-November and there it is in the middle of Shannon’s column the way Okie said: Atherton’s name sandwiched in between birthday greetings to choreographer Busby Berkeley and comedian Harpo Marx.

  For a long time I just stare at it. Then I get the volumes for 1956 and 1957. Axel Atherton made the B-day roundup both those years, too, always in mid-November. I close the volumes. Thoroughly confused. Joe Shannon was methodically offering greetings year after year not on the occasion of Axel Atherton’s birth but on the anniversary of his death. As if it was some kind of message. Like a reminder to someone who’s still alive.

  CHAPTER

  45

  MCKENNA

  He looks like he’s in a blissful sleep. The muscles on his hawkish face are relaxed, a man at peace. Lying on his bed, fully clothed, in his own apartment. He’s oblivious to being the center of activity.

  The forensic crew and the coroner’s people do their dance, working with the agility and coordination that comes from a lot of grim shared experience. I watch them dust the open-topped prescription drug containers on the nightstand for prints. The containers are all empty. The techie has already done the water pitcher and glass beside them. Propped against the lamp is the business card I left in the doorjamb of Peter Zacharias’ apartment late last night.

  “Who found him?” I ask.

  “Cleaning lady,” Alcalay says. “She came at ten. This was her regular morning. She called the Sherman Oaks cops.”

  The apartment house is on a sycamore-tree-lined side street off Van Nuys north of Ventura. It’s a tired-looking double-deck block of a dozen two-bedrooms. Stucco exterior is cracking and repatched, there’s a small pool and a hot tub with water a brackish color. It’s a place for struggling young couples and old pensioners. The neighbors are all hanging out their windows watching the action.

  Zacharias’ apartment is on the upper floor. It’s neatly kept, lots of books on cinder block shelves. Mostly political theory stuff, plus a weathered assortment of the usual suspects like Steinbeck, Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, and Tolstoy. The books all look like they’ve been read. A few museum Impressionist posters, several photos. Zacharias and a smiling attractive woman in front of the Eiffel Tower. Another of Zacharias and Teddy Weaver in swimsuits on a beach grinning at the camera with a young David Weaver standing between them.

  “Did Zacharias leave a message or something?”

  “Hell,” Alcalay says, “he left a manifesto.”

  Alcalay leads me to a corner of Zacharias’ bedroom. A battered old manual Royal typewriter is on the small desk. Next to it is a sheet of paper in a glassine evidence envelope. I lift it up and read.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I’ve always wanted to start off a script with those words and I finally got my chance. I wish to confess that I, and only I, am the person the newspapers have lately been referring to as The Blacklist Killer. Specifically, I willfully, with premeditation and pleasure, murdered Joe Shannon and Leo Vardian. Each, in my estimation, deserved to die as punishment for the injuries they had caused to myself, also to many others I knew and held dear, as well as the damage they brought to the core principles of this country. Using the label they casually but brutally attached to others, they were truly un-American.

  I went to Joe Shannon’s cottage, which is listed in the public phone book, struck him with a paperweight I found on a desk and set fire to the building with the tin of gas I had brought with me. The night of Leo Vardian’s death, I penetrated the Panorama Studio lot by mingling with the members of the iron gang as they entered the side gate reporting to work. Then I hid on the Western street, and when Vardian came for his parked car I killed him.

  While seeking revenge and a measure of justice for the crimes I deem they had committed, I cannot now allow anyone else to be smeared or punished for what I alone did. I am willing to be judged for my deeds, which were mine and mine alone. May God have mercy on my soul.

  Peter Zacharias

  * * *

  I put the letter down. “Whaddaya think?” Alcalay asks. He’s watching me as if I’m in a police lineup.

  “First reaction,” I say, “is that sews it up. We can call off the hunt for David Weaver—”

  Alcalay explodes. “Dammit, I knew you were gonna backslide and go soft again, I—”

  Just like that I’m back on this guy’s bad list. But I override Alcalay: “My second reaction is—most of the details in this confe
ssion Zacharias could’ve picked up from the press plus scuttlebutt around the studio—”

  Alcalay gets it and likes it. “Yeah! Except for Shannon’s missing wallet! We kept that away from the media—so it’s not in the confession. All r-i-i-i-ight! What else?”

  “Well, even more important, a bag of bones like Zacharias couldn’t drag Leo down the street, under the gallows, and into that noose.”

  “Exactly!” Then Alcalay looks sheepish. “You were yanking my chain.”

  “Not hard to do. So you figure Zacharias killed himself to get Weaver off the hook?”

  “They were buddies.”

  “Ray, if you get in trouble, don’t look to me for a favor like this.”

  “Suppose you had nothing to lose.”

  Now I see he’s holding a hole card. “Okay, what else’ve you got?”

  “The doctor who wrote those prescriptions for Zacharias. Talked to him on the phone and he said the pills were high-octane painkillers. Designed to ease his last weeks. Zacharias was dying of cancer.”

  I look sadly at the body on the bed. The paramedics are preparing to zip Zacharias into a body bag. “Poor bastard. He was a war hero.”

  “Well, my bet is that the two war heroes did it together.”

  Bottom line is the APB on David Weaver stays in effect. He’s still our target.

  * * *

  “Better and better,” Clyde Tolson exults long distance from D.C. I’m talking to him quietly from a phone line I’ve stretched off to a far corner of Zacharias’ living room. Tolson savors the exquisite symmetry. “An old vicious Bolshevik combining forces in a plot with a Red Diaper Brat to undermine the fabric of America.”

  Then he’s into projecting the successful future.

  “After the arrest, assuming this Weaver person is taken alive, well, even he isn’t—we’ll want you to fly back here for a press conference. Director Hoover will personally preside. You’ll detail the background and he’ll place it in the larger context. Lingering conspiracy. Threat to the nation. That sort of thing. This is a big one for us. And”—Tolson shines the golden light on me—“once we get you back here, Brian, we’re not going to let go of you. We need you here with us at Central on a permanent basis. I think you know what I’m talking about.”