The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery

by Andrew Bergman

  The day had turned clammy and the sky was getting so dark that the cars were going to their parking lights. I got a cab to the Waldorf and managed to drop off the envelope, buy a Sun, and duck into a coffee shop before the rains came. They broke a minute after I got inside, the raindrops clattering noisily against the window panes.

  “Uh, oh,” said the red-haired waitress, taking a gander out the window. Her features were carefully held together by powder, rouge, and hope. Slap her on the back and her face would fly off.

  “Everybody’s gonna order in,” she said.

  “Tough break.”

  “It’s life.”

  I dropped the subject, whatever it was, ordered a meat loaf platter, and unfolded the Sun. Good news was in abundance: the Russians looked ready to recapture Minsk, LeVine’s ancestral homeland, and the Allies were sweeping toward Siena and Le Havre. The rest of the front page was all Dewey: one of the youngest nominees in history, a meteoric rise, a genuine challenge to Roosevelt’s fourth-term hopes. Some controversy over the nomination of Bricker for veep, but conservative elements in the Party are pleased, and it gives geographical balance to the ticket.

  The Yankees lost. The Dodgers lost. The Giants lost.

  After the meat loaf arrived, I ate very slowly, delicately halving even the french fries. The rain was torrential. People ran hunched through the streets, pressing newspapers to their heads. Fresh ink ran off the sides in black rivulets. Umbrellas got turned inside out and a trash can across the street was bristling with their upturned handles. Clusters of people waited in doorways. They looked at their watches and at the sky. The coffee shop was only half-filled at 12:45.

  By my third cup of coffee and the funny pages, the rain was letting up and the sun was shining through its last drops. I paid my tab and left to go out on the slick, wet streets. A waterfall ran off the coffee shop’s awning. People were venturing out of the doorways, smiling. It had been a hell of a rain.

  My phone, of course, was ringing by the time I reached the office. I knew the ringing wouldn’t let up, so I took my sweet time unlocking the inner office door and casually tossed my hat on the moose head.

  Lee Factor was practically incoherent.

  “LeVine? LeVine?”

  “LeVine here.”

  “Is this possible, this nonsense I just got in an envelope. How dumb can you be? How dumb can any human … to think that a half-assed stunt like.… Listen, who do you think you’re dealing with here—answer me—some guy from the sticks, somebody you caught fucking a chicken? Listen to me. Savage on the radio telling America his daughter made blue movies in Holl.… Listen to me. It’s a joke. I almost feel sorry and that’s the truth. I almost feel sor …”

  “Why don’t you take a cold shower, Lee? I can’t make out a word you’re saying.”

  I hung up and picked my teeth until the phone rang again.

  “What’s the meaning of hanging up on me? What’s.… I represent the president of the United States of America.”

  “Remind me to change my citizenship.”

  “What’s the meaning of that? What’s this press release? What is it?”

  “Read it.”

  “I’ve read it a lot. Savage is making a ridiculous speech over nationwide radio.”

  “Correct. Return the prints and negatives and he won’t. Don’t and he will. It’s as clear and simple as the blue, blue sky.”

  “Don’t talk cutesy with me, LeVine. It doesn’t become you, not a bit. And neither does this release. I thought you had brains. I thought you had guts. But this dumbass …”

  I had had enough.

  “Quit wasting my time! If you think the release is a fake call up EAF and ask them what’s on their log for July 4th at ten. Why should we bluff if we’ve got you by the nuts?”

  “That’s very funny, LeVine. Very, very funny, in fact. Savage’s entire reputation is at stake, his vast apparatus shaken by a slimy scandal like this, and you’ve got us by the nuts? You’re a comedian.”

  “Fine. I’m a comedian. He’ll go on the radio, admit to an indiscretion on the part of his young daughter, since reformed, and indict the Democratic party to such an extent that FDR couldn’t carry the Bronx against Hitler. Your neck’s in a noose, Factor, so don’t bore me with threats to Savage’s reputation. It’s the bunk. Return those films and save yourself a lot of heartache. Be thankful you have an out.”

  His voice went weird.

  “Thankful,” he whispered. “You’ll never have the satisfaction. The films stay with me. There’s no radio show. You understand?”

  He hung up. Straitjacket City and I didn’t like it at all. Factor was crazy enough to hold on to the films at all costs. “You’ll never have the satisfaction.” Like a bank robber trapped on a rooftop, or a captain standing with his arms folded as his ship checks out for keeps. Factor was capable of ripping up the release and telling no one about it. I called the Waldorf and asked if General Redlin was still there. They put me through to his suite. A lady answered. Some lady.

  “Yes?” she sang. The voice was the richest honey of the brightest Southern flower.

  “Hi, honey. Is General Redlin there?” She giggled girlishly and put her hand over the mouthpiece. When she spoke, she was still giggling. “He’s indisposed.”

  “I can imagine. Tell him to get his pants on and come to the phone. It’s Jack LeVine.”

  She wasn’t offended in the least, not this tootsie.

  “I should say you’ve got quite a nerve but you sound like a perfect darling,” she crooned. Then she called over to Redlin. “General, it’s someone named Jack Levine.”

  “LeVine,” I told her. “Like Hollywood and Vine.”

  “You from Hollywood, honey?”

  Redlin grabbed the phone.

  “Hello, LeVine?” he barked.

  “Who’s she, the third front?”

  “You call to be smutty?”

  “I called to do you a favor. I think Factor’s brains are turning to applesauce.”

  “He’s high-strung.”

  “Is that what they call it in the army? Yesterday he took a shot at me.”

  “WHAT?” Redlin’s teeth practically came through the mouthpiece.

  “He missed by a mile but it’s the thought that counts. Today I sent him a press release concerning Eli Savage’s radio speech and he went flat crazy over the phone.”

  “Radio speech? LeVine, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Savage is going to tell the whole story over a national hook-up unless the films are returned by July 4th. Factor didn’t tell you?”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “That figures. You have a courier at your disposal, I trust?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Send him to my office. 1651 Broadway. I’ll give him a copy of the release.”

  The courier, a ramrod-straight lad of about twenty, arrived within ten minutes. He knocked twice, walked in and stood at attention before my desk. He saluted.

  “At ease,” I told him. “It’s on the desk.”

  He clicked his heels and picked the envelope off the desk, then saluted again, turned on his heels and exited. I laughed out loud and began my wait for a response.

  It turned out to be a very long wait.

  THURSDAY PASSED BY soundlessly. I tried Redlin late in the afternoon and was told he was in conference. I called Quaker National in Philly and informed Miss Durham that she could tell her boss the situation was unchanged. I asked her how Anne was. She told me that Anne was on a slow train to the Savage mountain retreat in Aspen, Colorado, where she would remain for the rest of the summer.

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Mr. Savage would like you to be his guest there at the conclusion of this case.”

  “The successful conclusion.”

  “We trust it will be successful.”

  “Can I bring a friend?”

  “Of course.” Then she surprised me. “If you had no friend, the pr
esident would have provided one.”

  “At what interest?”

  You’ll love her comeback. “I’ll give the president your message.”

  That was Thursday.

  Friday morning was spent going through my files, chuckling over old reports, looking at my watch and staring at the phone. It sat on my desk as silently as a brick. Around noon I broke down and tried Redlin, only to be again told that he was tied up in meetings.

  Friday afternoon. My office was so dead the moose head must have thought it was midnight. Savage called once, less than delighted over developments. I told him to sit tight.

  The weekend was the long Independence Day break, a four-day affair. Kitty and I went to Rockaway on Saturday, along with everybody else, and managed to find a postage stamp of beach on which to place our folding chairs. We held hands and went into the water. It was pretty cold; Kitty squealed prettily and I hopped up and down, and was glad to get out again. Teenagers played “running bases” in the sand, we laughed at the fat men in their droopy trunks, and a handful of bathing beauties showed off their bodies, making their boyfriends very proud. There were lots of children shrieking and weeping, a lot of parents cupping their hands around their mouths and shouting names. We ate hot dogs and our soft drinks spilled noiselessly into the sand. Gulls flapped about and the waves made that noise that makes you feel so small. America. Rockaway. Fourth of July. You know all about it, that mixture of ease and pain. You try to relax completely but your failures infiltrate the heat and the blue sky. Past mistakes and dead relatives share your blanket.

  In the evening, Kitty and I went to see an okay movie with Red Skelton and Esther Williams. We sat in the balcony and necked, then went home and made a lot of love.

  “You need a woman’s touch in this house, LeVine,” Kitty told me. I covered her mouth with a kiss, and we laughed and rolled over again.

  I managed to keep the case out of mind while listening to the Yankee-White Sox doubleheader on Sunday. Kitty read the paper, did the crossword, listened to the phonograph. We found ourselves retiring to the bedroom once more.

  “This is starting to get interesting, shamus,” she whispered into my ear.

  “You are good company,” I told her. “You’d probably always be good company.”

  Then the phone rang and the holiday was over.

  “LeVine?” It was Factor. His voice was unmistakable, despite a loud humming over the line.

  “Where are you calling from, Factor? This is a terrible connection.”

  “It’s not important.” He sounded tenser than ever. “Listen, I understand you attempted to contact General Redlin on two occasions Friday.”

  I said nothing.

  “Is that true?”

  “A bookie friend asked me to call him and get odds on the battle for Minsk.”

  “Redlin’s out of the picture, LeVine.”

  “What means ‘out’?”

  “‘Out’ means the South Pacific. He and General Watts were ordered back there yesterday.”

  “Is that why you called, to clear the order with me?”

  “I’m laughing, LeVine. I am on the floor. I called to relay that information because I suspected you figured Redlin to be the weak link in the operation, the man whose fears you could play upon. And you figured right, LeVine. Your instincts were correct. He is a military man, not a politician. He does things precisely, he plays the percentages, he stays away from high risks.”

  “Not like you.”

  “Goddamn right not like me. I’m in this for keeps.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I can’t see how a couple of stag movies are worth giving the election away. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes sense because there won’t be any speech.”

  “Factor, I cannot believe you are serious. This is absolute insanity on your part.”

  He gave me a nasty little laugh.

  “You’ll see how serious I am, LeVine. By the way, your friend Warren Butler took a slow boat to Paraguay last night. He’s going to be an ambassador. You see what executive power means? What you can do?”

  “It’s marvelous. I hope the young men of Paraguay have been forewarned. Sodomy should make great advances down there.”

  “You know what you are, LeVine? A goddamn moralist. All you private dicks are the same: tough talk and bullshit on the outside. Inside, you’re a bunch of old ladies.”

  “You’re a crazy man,” I said.

  “Good night” was what he said.

  TUESDAY NIGHT at eight o’clock, Savage sat in my office, ashen with worry. It was the Fourth of July.

  “I knew this would happen. They’ve got us with our pants down.”

  He was sitting in the overstuffed client’s chair that faces my desk. When he lit up a pipe, I could see how very shaky he was. I thought of Kerry Lane’s first visit, ages ago. We had come full circle.

  “And you’re definitely unwilling to spill the beans tonight?”

  The remaining color drained from his face. Even his hair seemed to turn whiter.

  “But we don’t really have the air time.”

  “We could still take it.”

  He thought that one over. “Do we have the evidence to make it stick? Hard evidence?”

  That was the show-stopper: there were no letters, nothing signed, nothing deposited.

  “Warren Butler was part of this, Mr. Savage, and he was named ambassador to Paraguay today. That looks suspicious.”

  “Suspicious isn’t enough.” He paused. “Butler the producer?”

  “The producer of Anne’s show.”

  “Incredible.” Savage shook his leonine head. “LeVine, my name is money. Literally. Even to brush it with scandal would have the gravest economic and monetary repercussions. I just can’t have it.”

  He was starting to fly off the handle and I had to get him back on, if we were going to survive the night.

  “Okay, forget it. I understand your position completely. You’re right.”

  “It’s not just me, LeVine. If we can’t prove this thing beyond a shadow of a doubt, then Tom looks like a damn fool. He has to be a statesman.”

  “Not a rackets prosecutor.”

  He permitted himself a small smile. “Exactly. I assure you we talked this all out yesterday. Tom realizes that making blackmail charges would cast him in a role he played six or seven years ago. But now he’s running for president, and in wartime. He’s going to be dealing with Churchill and Stalin, for God’s sakes. He can’t go around making wild charges.”

  “He can’t make a gangbusters play is what you’re saying.”

  “Precisely so.” Then his eyes went sad and his jaw slackened. “What do we do, then?”

  I lit up a Lucky and inhaled for as long as I could.

  “We go to Radio City, take the elevator up to the twenty-sixth floor and proceed to studio 6H. We stand in back of a microphone and wait until 10:00 P.M. By which time, I believe, the films will be in our possession.”

  “Why haven’t they been returned before now?”

  “Because these guys are apparently playing chicken. They can’t believe you’d actually go on the air and expose your daughter. They figure the ‘political broadcast’ to be just a puff for the governor. When they see you go in, that’s when it’ll hit the fan.”

  Savage puffed on his pipe and gazed into its smoke, as if searching for guidance.

  “Do you think they might try to prevent us from entering the studio?” His speech was slow and thoughtful.

  So was mine.

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  He didn’t blink. “I see.”

  “What kind of physical shape are you in, Mr. Savage? No heart condition or anything? I ask because we might have to do some running tonight.”

  “I work out daily and my physician says I have the body of a forty-year-old man. You know I’m fifty-two,” he concluded, proudly.

  “Fine, then we average out. I’m thirty-eight and have the body of a fifty
-year-old.”

  He permitted himself a genuine belly laugh over that. I was glad to see him loosen up a bit.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re jesting, LeVine. I saw you come flying through my window that day. You seemed very fit.”

  I stood up. “I’ll manage.”

  “We ready?” he asked.

  “I think we’d better go. You have a car here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell your driver to get lost for a while. At five past ten he’s to meet us in front of Radio City, that’s 50th just east of Sixth. Tell him to keep the doors open and the motor running.”

  “And for now we’ll walk?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks. And I think we should stay on our feet from here on in.”

  It was a warm evening, but the sweat that streamed off my body and formed little pools in the hollows above my BVD’s was more than the heat warranted. We left the building at around 8:30, with the sky just beginning to darken. I had memorized the evening radio schedule on WEAF:

  7:30—Dick Haymes Show

  8:00—Ginny Sims

  8:30—“A Date with Judy”

  9:00—Mystery Theatre: “Bunches of Knuckles”

  9:30—World at War: Carl Van Doren

  10:00—Pepsodent Show: Charlotte Greenwood, with Marty Malneck, his band, and the famous “Hits and Misses”

  If we had time, I’d like to hear “Bunches of Knuckles.” It had a nice ring to it. I mentioned the show to Savage and he smiled wanly. His jaw was set and a little vein in his temple was more prominent than it had been before.

  The sidewalks were thick with people and kids. The children, many of them holding little flags, were starting to yawn. The sun had vanished for keeps, day was yielding to night.

  And we were two blocks from Radio City. Neither of us was speaking now. No little jokes or tension-breakers. Everything was at stake. Savage almost stepped in front of a cab and I had to pull him back.

  One block and Savage’s nerves were stretched tighter than bridge cables.

  But he had nothing on me. Not after I stopped on the west side of Sixth Avenue, looking east.

  The entrance to Radio City was surrounded.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” I said, nearly to myself.