by Jerry Ludwig
“Yes, sir.” I sure as hell do.
“Stay on it, boy.”
That’s it. I have been officially anointed. The good soldier gets his reward. For following orders from headquarters. That’s how it works. Go along to get along. See? It all worked out. That’s what I keep repeating to myself as I watch the paramedics wheel the gurney with Zacharias aboard it into the street.
CHAPTER
46
JANA
I wish so much that I had Wendy to talk to right now, but of course that’s impossible, so this is second best:
I’m in my familiar chair in Dr. Sarah Mandelker’s office. It doesn’t seem like a sanctuary this afternoon. I’m tense as a clenched fist. I know how I must look. Didn’t dare peek in the mirror or I wouldn’t have left the house. But the reaction of a woman I passed in the lobby on my way up here told me. I look like someone who’s been crying all night. Eyes raw and swollen.
“So very sorry about your loss, Jana,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up.”
“Neither was I. Not that there was much choice. Couldn’t bring myself to go to the studio, couldn’t stand staying at the house with reporters constantly calling. Definitely not ready to go back to Stone Canyon. So here I am. Thought if I canceled on such short notice, you’d still charge me.” It’s my lame attempt at a joke.
She gives me a wan smile. Then gently homes in.
“You’ve been through such a lot just since yesterday. I assume you want to talk about it.”
“It’ll take more than fifty minutes to tell.”
“Let’s see how far we get. What’s the first thing on your mind?”
I don’t dare tell her the truth. McKenna cautioned me not to tell anyone. Okay, okay. Skip that part.
“My father. I forgot how much I loved him. Everything we’ve been talking about here the last few weeks, it all seems so trivial now. I feel like a spoiled nasty child, who’s been groaning and complaining about Daddy. I mean, sure, he did some very bad things, but he didn’t deserve what’s happened to him! And”—that damn McKenna—“and more bad things keep coming so fast I don’t know what to do!”
My cheeks are burning. I’m crying again. Groping for a tissue. And.
“I just want my Daddy! I want him to come fix everything! That’s how it always was. Whenever I had a problem, I always ran to him. Daddy, take care of it! He could do that—he was so powerful, he could make problems be gone, but now—he’s gone. So that leaves just me. And David. David needs me. But … I don’t know what to do.”
Sarah waits. Then, softly. “Do you believe the things they’re saying about David on the news?”
“No, of course not! They’re making him the fall guy, but—” Need another tissue. “In a way I blame myself—for all this.”
“That’s interesting. How’d you arrive at that?”
“Because I wanted so much for David to come back to L.A. It’s as if I willed it. If he’d stayed in Europe … then maybe none of this would have happened.”
“You really think you have that much control?”
I laugh through my snuffling. “Me? I can’t even stop crying. I’m falling apart. Don’t know what to expect. I can’t rely on myself anymore.”
“To do what?”
“Anything! I used to think I was one tough cookie. Snubs. Insults. Public humiliations. Handle the worst anyone can dish out. Without crumbling. Straight talker. Knows right from wrong. Acts accordingly. But that was nonsense, because—look at me, I’m coming unglued.”
“What’s that feel like?”
I don’t know what’s safe to say. I’m too near the third rail. But I’ve got to tell her something. “It’s just so … horribly sad. The way they have of forcing people to do things … they hurt you … take things away … spoil ’em … they broke Leo … they destroyed Ellie and Teddy … and maybe now David.”
“Who can do that? Who’s ‘they’?”
The fear rises into my throat. “You know who they are, they’re—” I suddenly focus on the pad in her lap, the pen in her hand. “Are you writing all this down?”
“Our sessions are private and privileged, you know that.”
“Yeah, there was another Hollywood psychoanalyst, not too many years ago, who told his patients he operated that way, but he was slipping tips to the FBI and the Committee on the side.”
Wow. Did I just say that? How could I accuse her like that?
“Jana, you must be feeling very vulnerable now. I certainly understand your fears, so tell me only as much as you feel comfortable with.”
Okay. Why else did I come today? Here goes. Off the high board.
“McKenna. An FBI agent. He’s been lurking on the fringes of our lives for the last ten years. He hounded both our families. Made Teddy and Ellie leave the country, then talked Leo into giving names. Convinced him to be a Good Citizen. Spill his guts and abandon everything he ever believed in. Whenever McKenna is around, it’s like a visit from the Angel of Death.” Deep breath. And. “He dropped in to see me last night. Brought the news about my father. Broke it to me so gently. Then the hook went in. He didn’t really give a shit about my losing my father. He was really only there to get me to help him catch David.”
I stop. My chest is heaving.
“Oh, he dressed it up in a bunch of compassionate verbiage: If you love David then the best thing for David is to give himself up. If he’s innocent, then the truth will emerge.”
“Did McKenna threaten you?”
“Not exactly. Just pointed out the advantages. And disadvantages. He told me that if I knew anything and withheld it—or did anything at all to help David, if I have any contact with him and don’t report it, then I can be arrested and tried as an accomplice. Here’s my card, he says, call me any time, but you must call!”
“Sounds very threatening.”
“He said I could be in big trouble if I—I told anyone what he said.” I almost choke on the words. As if McKenna will leap out of the closet now with handcuffs.
“Thank you for trusting me,” she says.
“He—he really scared me. I mean, I’m terrified of going to jail! I couldn’t handle that. Locked up in a cell.”
“Your claustrophobia. Does McKenna know about that?”
“Who knows what he knows.”
We’re both silent for a long moment, then she says, “Last week you told me that when Leo was writing a screenplay he always asked himself: What is each major character most afraid of?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What do you think Leo was most afraid of?”
I don’t hesitate. “That they wouldn’t let him make movies anymore.”
“How about you, Jana? What are you most afraid of?”
“I told you, going to prison, being sealed up in a tiny hole.”
“I sense there’s something else.”
Mandelker the mind reader. Got me. Finally. But I still have to sneak up on it. I can’t just say it outright.
“See, this is how it is: David’s out there somewhere. McKenna and the police know he’ll try to reach me, they must be watching, tapping my phone. David’s smart, he knows that, too. So David can’t get to me, and I can’t get to him and he’s—all alone.” I feel the tears building again. “But—maybe he’s safer that way.”
“How do you mean?”
It rips my guts out just to put it into words. “Character is destiny. That’s what writers always say. So suppose I have a—a character flaw. A genetic thing. Like father, like daughter. So the absolute worst would be if—history repeated itself and—I betrayed David.”
“But—would you ever do that?”
“What I keep thinking is, there were people who resisted all the HUAC pressure and McKenna didn’t waste time on them. But he saw something in Leo that told him, here’s one I can get to. Turned out he was right.” I stare at Sarah Mandelker, feeling so scared and ashamed. “So maybe he’s right about me.”
Now the tears come in torrents
. We sit together. At the end of the session she asks, “See you tomorrow?” I nod and she hugs me as if I’m a woebegone child. It brings back memories of Ellie. I’m glad I came here today. Sarah listens. She really listens. She hears me. No matter what ghastly things I tell her.
As usual I walk down the flights of stairs into the parking garage. Thinking of my David. Totally unsure of his future. Or even his survival. The lighting is dim and there’s hardly a vacant space as I plod toward my car. When suddenly I feel someone’s presence.
I scan the area. No one in sight. But someone could be hiding between cars. Or behind a pillar. I’m midway from the staircase to my car, don’t know whether to go forward or go back, could be a mugger, or maybe I’m just imagining someone’s here, like David does, or, yes, maybe it’s McKenna or one of his minions.
“Come on out, whoever the hell you are!” I say as bravely as I can.
I hear footsteps off to the right. Shape of a man. Walking out of the darkness. Into the light.
“It’s me, honey,” David says.
I see him. Or am I dreaming? Thank God he’s here. But I see he’s been crying.
CHAPTER
47
DAVID
A few hours earlier, I arrived back at Earl Scheib’s as my car was emerging from the paint-drying booth. I drove away, not knowing where to go. I needed a safe place to think. Then I realized I was near one. Only a few blocks away.
I rolled onto the Santa Monica pier past the amusement rides and found a parking space at the far end where the amateur fishermen line the rail. Hardly any sportsmen here, these people fish for food. Wearing sunglasses, and with my Yankees cap pulled down, I blended in. I put my elbows on the rail, head in my hands, and stared down at the muddy water, hoping for some clear thoughts.
* * *
The key question, of course, is who’s framing me and why.
I start with Jack Heritage—and eliminate him because he looked surprised when he saw me at the Vardian house. Whoever lured me there wouldn’t have looked surprised. Barney Ott is more likely casting for Machiavelli, so maybe Ott just neglected to bring his strong-arm crusher up to speed until necessary. Or. Or … what?
I’m in way over my head, that’s what. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m not Sherlock Holmes.
But suppose I look at it as if it’s something I do know about: plotting a screenplay. Yeah, that seems less intimidating. Inside my head I hear Teddy’s chuckle:
“Story conference!” he says. “This one’s a mind-bender, huh, pal?”
“Usual life and death situation. Only this time it’s my life.”
“Relax. They ain’t invented a story yet that Weaver & Weaver can’t lick. What do we know for sure?”
I know I’m making up dialogue for Teddy, but working so closely these last few years I got to know how he thought and what he felt about almost every subject.
“Basically,” I tell him, “my hero, namely me, is in the crapper. Someone went after me and got me good.”
“You have to take the emotion out of it, pal. It’s a distraction. Let’s refer to you as The David Character. Okay?” Good idea. “So the first thing we know about The David Character is that he’s an accident.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, if the objective was to frame him for a crime, then one murder would have been enough. So The David Character is not the core of this story. He just flew into town at the wrong moment. But just in time to become the patsy in somebody else’s script.”
“But the villain’s gotta be someone he knows,” I offer.
“Well, at least someone who knew enough about The David Character’s background—and could keep track of him. Chart his schedule—on and off the job—and know when he didn’t have a solid alibi.”
“A clever operator,” I say.
“Absolutely. So now we can assume there’ll be no more Blacklist killings.”
“Based on what?”
“The David Character is on the run and therefore not available for further framing. So the killer can’t take a chance now and claim another scalp—because his patsy might have an ironclad alibi.”
“Yeah, so the last thing he wants is to distract the cops from The David Character.”
“So what is the core of this story?” Teddy asks.
“Vengeful Blacklist murderer is bumping off HUAC blabbers.”
“But,” Teddy points out, “Shannon was a leader of the pitchfork brigade. He was a red baiter, not a HUAC snitch.”
“So there goes the pattern. Unless—”
“Say it, pal!”
“—unless there’s another motive besides the Blacklist.” So how do I follow this trail? “You taught me that there are only five basic motives. Sex. Greed. Fear. Power. Revenge.”
“Or combinations thereof,” Teddy says.
It feels like we’re cracking a movie story. Maybe time for a twist. One suddenly occurs to me. “If you count Okie, there have been three targets. But what if—the killer really was after only one?”
Teddy chortles. “And the other two were just window dressing. Okay, let’s suppose the game was to hide the real target in a small crowd.”
“With signposts helpfully supplied—to mislead.”
Then Teddy suggests, “Let’s focus on the odd-man out. Joe Shannon. The guy who doesn’t fit. How about that deal down in San Diego. Anything there?”
“Well, according to Shannon’s statement to the San Diego cop, Sarge Gorman, Atherton was drinking with an off-duty marine when Shannon felt sick and went back to the base.”
“Yeah, but … again, what if?” Teddy speculates.
“Yeah. Suppose he wasn’t really a marine. Just another guy with a crewcut. Hitting on sailors.” Sudden light bulb. “Or—maybe there was no other guy—maybe there was only Shannon!” Teddy rejects that. “Why not?”
“I have no trouble thinking of Shannon as a killer—”
“Right!” Now I’m selling it. “Suppose it was a lovers’ tiff between two homosexuals that got way out of hand and Shannon later tried to bury his mistake—”
“—and went to all the trouble of stripping the body naked, taking the dog tag, hoping Atherton won’t be identified”—I think Teddy’s buying my idea, but he continues—“and then keeps the dog tag in his office safe all these years as a memento that could implicate him in a murder.”
“Okay, okay, you made your point. Dumb idea.”
“Hey, we agreed a long time ago to say everything because a dumb idea can lead to a smart idea.”
“So what’s the smart one?”
“Question: what possible use was Axel’s dogtag to Shannon?”
“Blackmail?” I ask. “But Atherton died in 1945, way before the HUAC hearings began—”
“—which gives weight to the notion that the whole Blacklist thing is just a diversion.” Teddy’s pleased. “Now tell me a story.”
“Okay … There’s an old murder in San Diego. Committed by someone who’s since come to Hollywood, and reads the trade papers, so he’s reminded every year by Shannon that he can still expose him.” I like that. “But we still have no idea who’s doing all this stuff.”
“Don’t we?”
A thought flashes into my head. It’s too enormous for me even to say.
“That’s not the same as knowing,” I say.
“Then check it out,” he says.
“How do I do that?”
“You’re smart. You’re my boy. You’ll find a way.” I want to groan, feeling hopeless. But Teddy reminds me, “Good writers usually remember all the good lines of dialogue they hear.”
* * *
Glumly, I trudge back to my car and reach into my pocket for the keys. But a slip of paper comes out with the keys. It drifts to the ground. I bend over for it. It’s the parking ticket I had plucked from my windshield on Las Palmas this morning. The nagging thought I couldn’t bring up makes it through now. A voice echoes inside my head—not Teddy’s, but one mo
st familiar:
“… I ran up a helluva score in parking tickets. Parked in the red zone, the white zone, the yellow zone … gray people park in gray spaces.”
And then another echo of the same voice:
“A buddy of mine was stationed in San Diego at the naval base. He convinced me to come down for a weekend and he’d help me forget my troubles. So I went down there and drowned my sorrows. Helluva weekend.”
Teddy was right, as usual. Now I have an idea what to do next.
* * *
I find a pay phone outside the old merry-go-round at the entry to the pier. The hurdy-gurdy organ is playing a Strauss waltz in the background, and through the windows I can see the carousel turning and the kids lunging for the brass ring, just the way Jana and I used to.
The phone at the other end is answered on the third ring and I recognize the voice even before he identifies himself. “Tip Toe Inn, this is Sarge.”
Sarge Gorman, the ex-cop turned bartender at the Gaslamp District saloon in San Diego.
“Hi, I’m the guy from Hollywood who was in to see you a few days back, we—”
“Oh, yeah, hiya, Phil. How’s Jana?”
“She’s fine. Wow. You remembered my name.” Glad he held onto his misinformation, now that my real name is in the headlines.
“Years of training,” he boasts. “Never forget a face or a name. So what’s new in Movieland?”
“Same old. But I thought you might be able to do me a small favor.”
“How small?”
“Well, you mentioned all your buddies who are still on the Job down there come into the bar—”
“What’s this about, Phil?”
“Parking tickets,” I say quickly.
He laughs. “You want me to fix a parking ticket? Getoutahere. Pay the two dollars like everybody else.”
“No, no, it’s not like that, it’s—some more research. Might be connected to that old case we were talking about.”
