by Joseph Kanon
When he’d gone, the room turned eerily silent, and Ben found himself moving quietly, too, as if he had broken in and had to make sure no noise reached the night watchman. He slid the file drawer out carefully, guest list in his other hand. The easiest way would be to eliminate the obvious names first, then move on to the ones he didn’t know, but it was hard to be methodical. Even when a name had no file he would bump up against another one, not on the list, that seemed vaguely familiar. Paulette Goddard was there, but only as an ex-wife cross-reference to the thick Chaplin file. Ben flipped through this-every speech he’d ever made, every interview, anonymous evaluations of his opinions, a full dossier of meaningless paper, flecked with little drops of professional envy. But someone had taken the time to compile it. Out of curiosity, he looked for his own name, but neither he nor Liesl had attracted anyone’s attention-nor Danny, for that matter, unless the sources had a special file drawer of their own. A Warners director had solicited contributions for the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, and his films had been reviewed for left-wing sentiments. Feldman, a front office crony Ben knew only by sight, had attended an Anti-Fascist League fund-raiser 1938, Ambassador Hotel, with Gail Simco, ex-CP, 1940. His girlfriend? A party seven years ago. It was when he found a file on Warner himself-production decisions made on Mission to Moscow — that the full craziness of it all struck him. He looked around Minot’s silent office, drawer after drawer of trivia and innuendo, put together during the war, consuming time and expense, to prepare for the war in their imaginations. And Danny a willing part of it. Had his sense by then been blunted, too? Crazy wasn’t necessarily harmless. The files were an arsenal. They were getting ready.
His fingers stopped, surprised, at the tab with Rosemary’s name on it.
“Subject (real name Risa Meyer) raised CP household. Father (Jacob) arrested NYC 1933 strike action, later official ILGWU. Mother (Irene) seamstress, also ILGWU. Both CP 1927–1939, membership on record. Resignation 1939. No evidence subsequent membership but source (G) believes remained socialist. Subject attended Pine Hill, Monticello, NY, children’s summer camp known for CP indoctrination. No known official CP affiliation, but background suggests further investigation.”
Attached were supporting documents, even a camp roster, a list of her magazine subscriptions-obtained how? — SAG membership date, a copy of the police report of her father’s arrest, none of it important or secret, yet sitting in a file, available. He looked at it again, feeling squeamish, as if he’d opened a lingerie drawer, a private place where he wasn’t supposed to be. No K source, at least. He’d reported on Ostermann, on friends. Why not jottings after a weekend at the Biltmore? But he wouldn’t have, one fine line he wouldn’t have crossed. As if Ben knew any longer what he wouldn’t have done.
He came back to her again after he’d checked more names off the list. Had Rosemary known? He thought of her at the party, enjoying her moment, not meeting Liesl’s eyes. Suggests further investigation. What if that had been Danny, listening closely?
The click of the key in the door startled him. He looked up, frozen, at Minot coming in, his hand still on the door, even more surprised. For a second neither of them moved.
“What are you doing?” Minot said finally, his voice flat, waiting to hear. He was in black tie, evidently on his way home from a formal evening.
“Checking files,” Ben said, trying to sound calm. “Riordan had to leave.”
“An eager beaver,” Minot said, squeezing out a small smile. “Dennis shouldn’t have done that.” He went over to his desk and took an envelope out of his in-box. “The files are private.”
“I was just checking my brother’s reports.”
“No offense.” He stopped, taking in the stack in front of Ben. “You understand, we promise people, when they help us. Well, like yourself. You wouldn’t want everyone-”
“The sources are coded.”
Minot nodded, his eyes darting involuntarily toward the bottom drawer, a quick check to see if it had been opened.
“But not impossible. To guess, I mean. We need to protect them. You’d want that, wouldn’t you? Your brother was very particular on that point. And even so. Well, it’s late. Need a lift? I’ve got a car waiting downstairs.”
“I’ll just put these back.”
“No, leave them,” Minot said firmly. “Sally can get them in the morning.”
He was moving to the door now, opening it, expecting Ben to follow.
“Anything for us yet?” he said pleasantly.
“No. I was hoping-” He opened his hand to the files.
“I think you’d find it easier with someone around. Help you navigate.” He switched off the light, closing the door behind them, testing the knob to make sure it had locked.
“What did you mean, even so?” Ben said. “About Danny. You said, ‘and even so.’ “
“Oh. Well, you know things happen. Even when you’re careful. Your brother was very careful. I don’t think anybody ever knew-that he gave us information about them. But somebody did find out. I can’t even remember how-Dennis, I suppose. Your brother chewed him out for it. Said it cost him a job.”
“Who found out?”
Minot slowed, looking at him. “Oh, I see. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. No grudges.”
“But if the guy-”
“It wouldn’t be,” he said evenly. “He became a friend of ours.”
“ After Danny-”
“A friend,” Minot said, cutting him off. “Like you. We trust our friends.” He glanced over. “Be a hell of a world if we didn’t, wouldn’t it?” He waved to the night watchman, his tone suddenly genial. “Frank, where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
“Right here. Not out on the town like some people,” the guard said, smiling at the tuxedo.
“Well, somebody’s got to do it. How’s the wife-better?” A politician’s memory, better than a room of files.
“Like new. I’ll tell her you asked,” he said, pleased, taking in Ben now.
Minot handed him the envelope from his in-box. “Somebody’ll be by for this. Sorry about the hour.”
“I’m here anyway,” Frank said, propping it on the fire extinguisher while he opened the door for them.
Outside a car was waiting, the driver idling the motor. Ben caught a glimpse of a woman’s crossed leg in the backseat, patient Mrs. Minot.
“Sure I can’t give you a lift?”
“No, my car’s over there,” Ben said, nodding to the dark parking lot.
Minot reached out for the door handle then hesitated, turning. “Have you seen Kaltenbach?” he said, lowering his voice. “I keep hearing things. We don’t want to have to move too early, tip our hand. One subpoena too soon, it’s like scaring birds, they start flying all over the place. You want to get the timing right.” He hesitated again. “I’d appreciate it if you spent a little time with him. I know you’ve got something else on your mind and that’s fine, but right now we could use someone inside. I’d think of it as a favor.”
Ben watched his car go, then started over to his own, thinking. A friend of ours. But how willing? Danny said it had cost him a job. He looked toward the dark building then suddenly, with a wheel click, he was back on the Chief. Something that hadn’t worked out. Sol couldn’t remember why.
Frank looked up from a magazine when Ben tapped on the glass.
“Like a dummy, I forgot something and Ken took the key. Do you have a pass? Take me a second.”
The first name did it. A man who’d asked about his wife. Frank led him down the hall and found the key on his ring.
“Thanks. Appreciate it,” Ben said, but Frank stayed with him, just inside the door.
He went over to the bottom drawer and flipped through the tabs. There might have been other jobs, not necessarily- But there it was, Jenkins, so thin he almost missed it. He slipped the file under his arm.
“I owe you one,” he said to Frank, putting on a relieved expression, his homework safe in hand.
&n
bsp; In the car he flicked on the overhead light. A studio bio sheet, innocuous, presumably there for reference, and a single report sheet.
“Subject JENKINS attended discussion group 1940, CP Westwood, guest of J. MacDonald.”
Source initial K in the margin. One meeting. Not enough to suggest any serious political window shopping, much less something to use against him later. Maybe it had been nothing more than a courtesy drop-in for MacDonald’s sake. Why even bother to keep the report, now that he was a friend? But why look for logic in any of it? Why report that Kranzler had asked a GI up to his room, that Brecht had arranged trysts at Salka’s, that Rosemary read Collier’s? The peeping, like any compulsion, was an end in itself. No information was useless if the point was the gathering. A brief word from Danny, now permanently on file. To hold over Bunny’s head, keep him friendly? But Bunny had reasons of his own to get close to Minot. Why would he care about this?
Still, he had-enough to be angry with Danny. Maybe it was nothing more than the startled, uneasy feeling of someone who realizes he’s being watched through the window, anger a natural reflex. Maybe it had to do with MacDonald, a name to check the next time he got into the files. But not angry enough to kill. A job denied, no more. I knew who he was, he’d said to Ben. No explanation necessary when Riordan asked him to make the call. Maybe even a touch of satisfaction, bringing source K to an end.
Ben switched off the light and lit a cigarette. Rosemary’s file was more damaging-not a summer camp the studio would want to see written up in Photoplay. Ben wondered if Bunny knew about the report-more interesting, if Rosemary knew about it. Her moment, with everything at stake. There was nothing to indicate that Danny had ever betrayed her. What if she’d thought he had? But Bunny hadn’t made the call for her, he’d made it for Riordan.
He looked up, his eyes caught by the headlights sweeping into the parking lot. Not Minot again, a smaller car. It pulled up to the door, and the driver ran up the steps, tapping on the glass. It was only when Frank turned on another light that the driver became more than a shadow. For a minute Ben still didn’t recognize him-a natural lag, seeing something unexpected, out of place. Frank opened the door and handed over Minot’s envelope, then Kelly started back down the stairs. Ben watched, moving pieces around in his head. Kelly playing messenger. For Minot? But at the Farmers Market he hadn’t known Riordan. The connection must be at the other end.
There wasn’t time to sort it out. Kelly’s lights came on again, the car starting for the street. Almost without thinking, Ben turned the key. Kelly. Getting something for the paper? But at Wilshire he was turning away from downtown, heading toward Beverly Hills. Just keep a few lengths behind. No one ever noticed a tail if he wasn’t looking for it. Kelly was leaning forward to turn the radio knob, just going about his business, whatever it was.
After El Camino, Kelly turned right, passing blocks of stores and then crossing Santa Monica to the horseshoe-curve streets of the flats below Sunset. Ben slowed, dropping farther behind. The streets were empty, dark between the corner lights, half-asleep. Just stop signs now, not enough traffic for lights. Another right turn.
The house was halfway up the block. Ben parked a little way down and across, killing his lights, the car swallowed up in the shade of a big pepper tree. Kelly was walking up the curved pavement. He rang the bell, waited, looking up at the fanlight. A brighter light, then the door opened and Polly Marks stepped out, a drink in one hand. Running an errand for Polly. Not for the first time. A few familiar words, the envelope delivered, and she was turning back to her drink, all in one gliding movement, something they’d done before. In time to get it into the typewriter, a leak from the files. More kindling. He watched Kelly drive away, then sat for a minute looking at the quiet street-shrubs and lawns and even a trellis of flowers. No sound but crickets, peaceful and unaware, not a flame in sight.
He was surprised when Riordan answered the phone.
“You’re there early.”
“Ken likes it. Navy hours or some shit,” Riordan said, his voice husky, only half-awake.
“Studio hours, too,” Ben said, looking at the pile of paper already on his desk. Outside, technicians with coffee cups were heading for the sound stages. “Anyway, I’m glad I caught you.”
“What I hear, Ken caught you. You don’t want to surprise him like that. He gets riled up.”
“I was just checking names.”
“Not anymore,” he said, a thud in his voice. “Files are closed.”
“Great. Open one for me then, will you? See if you have anything on a J. MacDonald. M-a-c. Even a cross-reference.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. His name came up, that’s all.”
“Came up how?”
“Dennis, are you going to do this or not? Just see what you have.”
A hesitation, then an exaggerated sigh. “Give me a sec.”
Ben heard the receiver being laid on the desk, the sharp metallic scrape of a file drawer opening. A meeting five years ago.
“Music department. Universal,” Riordan said, reading.
“CP?”
“Not in here. Fellow traveler, though. Lots of organizations, the usual pink. Went into the Army ’forty-two. That’s the last thing we have. Want me to check some more?”
“Check what?”
“Army records. Friend of mine has access. See if he was discharged. Died, maybe.”
“Who was the source on the file?”
“No source, just a general. Stuff you can pull from the papers. This goes back some, nothing recent. You think your brother knew him?”
“Maybe just a loose end. I mean, if there’s been nothing for years-” But he must have known his name. At least well enough to mention it in Bunny’s file. “You have an old address?”
“Uh uh. Nobody ever wrote him up. He’s just a guy on some lists, so they made a file. Strictly what he joined. Anti-Fascist League, things like that. How’d you say he came up?”
Ben glanced at Bunny’s thin file. How long before anyone missed it?
“On a list. Probably nothing. Let me know about the Army though, okay? So I can scratch him off. Do I need to do anything about Ken? I don’t want him to think-”
“He’ll calm down. You’re the only one he’s got now, with the Krauts.”
“I thought he wasn’t interested in them.”
“They meet people. It all connects.”
Like a web, one strand to another. And who else was present, Mr. Kaltenbach? To the best of your recollection. Heinrich must have met people. If he was sympathetic enough to be approached now, invited to return, why not then? A gathering over coffee. One name, then another, until they found one for the newsreels. And who else was at the meeting, Mr. MacDonald? But Bunny would be protected, a friend to the committee. Until it began to eat its own, too hungry to stop.
Ben walked over to the window, looking out at the sunny lot. Cowboys and showgirls coming out of Makeup. Grips moving scenery. Everyone busy, unconcerned. Did any of them know what Minot was planning, what it would mean? For a second he saw the street in a freeze frame, a stopped moment before it all began. They’d turn on each other, running for cover, right into Minot’s hands.
At the gate, there was a commotion as some grips crossed the picket line. More pickets had come out today, not just the usual handful, and the guards had seemed jittery when Ben drove through earlier. Shouts now, instead of breezy catcalls. One of the grips shouted back, then had to be pulled away. Two of the picketers lunged toward him, then stopped, posturing. More shouts, name-calling. But no sticks or stones. A jurisdictional dispute.
He turned back to the paperwork, then saw her coming out of Makeup. She was in the same kind of white blouse and simple skirt they’d used in the test, but now wore heels, so that her legs stretched up. His eyes followed her toward the actors’ trailers, hair catching the morning light, watching the way she moved, the easy glide Bunny had noticed. But Ben had noticed othe
r things, a leg in a mirror, eyes that darted across your face. He missed the swimming pool, sitting on the chaise still wet in terry robes, then the smell of chlorine on her skin, her thigh half open to its soft side.
She looked up into the mirror of her dressing table when the door opened.
“I saw you pass. Going over lines?”
She nodded to the script in front of her. “Today I meet the sister. She’s jealous.”
He closed the door behind him.
“Don’t. People will notice.”
“I’m family.”
“In my dressing room. What if Connie comes? It’s hers, too.”
“You share? You’re the star.”
She smiled. “Not yet.” She held up both hands to the mirror, wriggling them. “I haven’t put my hands in cement. Why do they do that?”
He shrugged. “Why do they do anything?”
“You think it’s all foolish. Only newsreels.”
He walked over to the chair, standing behind her.
“Next week we do the scenes in Germany,” she said to the mirror. “Did you see what they’re building? I live in a house that was bombed. In a cellar. It’s strange, you know? Where I’d be if I’d never come here.”
“Or dead.”
“Yes. You know my name, the character? Maria. No Saras here, either. Like Goebbels.”
“I thought they were making you Dutch,” he said back to the mirror.
“No, they want the ruins. So when I see his mother’s house-”
He put his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her neck.
“Don’t,” she said, moving forward. “I’ll have to do the makeup all over again. It took hours.”
“To look like this? Not even lipstick?”
“It’s the hardest, Connie says. To look natural.”
He brushed his hand down the back of her hair. “It’s good to see you.”
She looked down. “Maybe it’s good. It gives us time to think.”
“About what?”
She looked at him in the mirror for a moment, then let it go.
“I don’t know,” she said, getting up and turning, so that now they were facing each other.
