by Joseph Kanon
“You’re not making trouble, he’s making trouble. We’re easy, the first bite. Small enough to chew and spit out. He thinks. You notice he’s not taking on Warners. Or Metro. Yet. Just somebody he can push around.” He looked up at Ben. “He wants to tear this industry apart. To make himself a star. So we help him. And then we help him move on.”
“You’re going to cooperate.”
Bunny glanced at his watch. “Now look at the time.” He raised his head, Ben’s eyes still on him. “I’m going to keep things going. Call Liesl, by the way, and get her in here. Sick day. We send somebody over there, and she’s off on some joyride with you. Don’t bother.” He held up his hand. “It wouldn’t even be good. The point is that we have to move up the picture. Tick, tock. We may have a hole in the schedule. We can’t go into Christmas without an A.”
“Why would you? Have a hole?”
“In case a picture’s in trouble,” Bunny said, turning away. “In case we had to shelve it.”
“If someone were testifying.”
Bunny looked at him, then put both hands to his temples. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s already starting. Why don’t you help and just save the questions?”
“Want an aspirin? You’ll feel better.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Bunny said, heading for the door.
“Bunny? Before you go?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Studio have a locksmith?”
Bunny stopped, surprised.
“I’m having trouble with my door.”
“That’s all? Lucky you. Rogers. Carpenter shop. Two hundred and forty-one.” No detail too small.
Rogers, like everyone else, wanted to be in the movies.
“What kind of lock?”
“Like this,” Ben said, touching the doorknob, similar to Minot’s. “The scene calls for the guy to pick the lock. Trouble is nobody knows how it’s actually done. So I figured you-”
“You don’t need a pro for that. Anybody could pick that. Get a Yale. Maybe a dead bolt. You can stretch the scene.”
“But this is what we have.”
“You only find these in buildings like this. Standard spring, the guards are the security. Hotels, sometimes. They’re cheaper. The door chain’s your real lock. This is a heist? They’d have to pick something a lot stronger.”
“No, just an office. So maybe he’s not a pro. How easy is it?”
Rogers took a slender rod from his tool belt and, holding the door ajar, inserted the rod, flicking it up in one quick motion that released the lock.
“That’s it? Show me.”
“This groove here. Put her in there, all the way to the right, then up. You’re going to do this in close-up? You’re better off with a Yale.”
Ben tried it twice before it worked.
“Can I borrow this?”
“Sure. Smooth slice up. You could jiggle, have it slip or something, but that’s not going to fool anybody. You should change the lock.”
B EN WAITED on the Wilshire side until just before closing.
“The problem isn’t getting in,” he said to Liesl. “It’s getting out. After six, everybody goes out the back. That hour, they’re heading for the lot. So I’d have to get past Frank.”
“Unless he’s not there. You’ve explained it.”
“I just need a few minutes. Keep him with you. Your boss?”
“Mr. Herbert. Who’s going to kill me if I don’t do those papers tonight. Why are you doing this?”
“Because the Bureau’s never going to help. What names? The only thing they’re willing to do is let me get killed. Okay, let’s go. Park on the side street.”
“And wait for the window shade. Then do my scene with Frank. Funny, now I’ll be you.”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“In the series. The one who helps. The good one.”
He went in through the Wilshire door, moving quickly down the hall, late for an appointment. There were only a few people around, stragglers or assistants doing last-minute jobs, cleaning ladies collecting waste baskets. Lights still on in Minot’s office, probably a secretary with a letter to finish. Riordan, he knew, had already left. He went into the men’s room, took the last stall, and sat down to wait. The building was alive with sounds when you stopped to listen: a typewriter click, footsteps, somebody laughing, then nothing for a while, just the creak of the building settling, the scrape of a chair. When someone came in, everything sounded loud, the splash of pee, the running water, a throat clearing. Ben imagined him-the insurance agent? — adjusting his tie. Then the thud of the door closing.
It got darker earlier now, even in California, and Ben watched the window over the sinks get dimmer. He got up and switched off the overhead light, then peeked out. No lights at Statewide, but somebody was still in Minot’s office. What if she stayed late? They’d come to clean the restroom soon, mopping everywhere. But then Minot’s door swung open. One of the secretaries with fresh lipstick, locking it behind her, then checking it by twisting the knob. Ben ducked back behind his door, listening to her high heels going down the hall. Give it a few minutes, in case she forgot anything. The hall needed to be clear. There was nothing suspicious about being in the men’s room, not yet. Once it got dark, though, no story would work.
He waited for what seemed like hours but was probably ten minutes, then opened the door again. No one, the only sound the clang of a pail near the Wilshire end, the cleaning ladies starting. He palmed the rod and crossed over to Minot’s door. Act as if you’re using a key. He inserted the rod, jagged right and up, but nothing happened. Again. Why did he assume they were all alike? It must be a different mechanism. He tried left, a variation, his hand tense, then stopped, taking a breath, feeling a bead of sweat on his upper lip. But it had been so easy at the studio. Don’t overwork it. Think of Rogers’s hand, the deft flick right, then upward. He tried it again, almost making a sound of relief when he heard the click.
Inside, there was barely enough light to see, the shades half-drawn. Liesl would be outside, watching. Minot’s personal office was in the next room, but all the files were out here, where the staff worked. For a second he was tempted, now that he was in, to go through Minot’s desk, but that would be actual theft, not just collecting something of his own. He crossed over to the file cases. What if Riordan had already taken it out? Something he didn’t want Minot to find? But it was still there, in Heinrich’s now useless file. Ben folded it quickly and put it in his jacket pocket. Now get out before the cleaning staff started working its way down the hall. He returned the file and went over to the window, pulling the shade, then raising it back into position, and waited by the door. It would take at least a few minutes for Liesl to talk to Frank, helpless and panicky.
Ben jumped, his skin tingling, when the phone rang. Was someone supposed to be here? For one terrible second he expected it to be picked up in the inner office, but it kept ringing, so shrill that everyone must hear, and then finally stopped. He breathed out, his ears still filled with sound, listening now to the hall. Why so worried? Everything was fine, what he’d expected. There were even footsteps now, a woman’s voice, Liesl on time. He put his ear near the edge of the door to hear better. Liesl was thanking Frank, slightly scatterbrained, someone likely to have forgotten her work. They were now at Statewide, Liesl thanking him again as he used his passkey. Take him inside. Two, three minutes and Ben would be out. He opened the door a crack. They were going in, Liesl still talking, keeping him busy. Now. He opened the door.
He saw them before he heard them, two shadows followed by the sound of footsteps, clunky, not furtive. He pulled back in, banging his shoulder, and listened. Closer. Then Frank was back in the hallway, alert.
“Congressman,” he said.
“Thought you were catching forty winks somewhere,” Minot said, genial.
“No, just helping next door. Little lady forgot something.”
Could Liesl hear or would she blunder out into the hall?
Ben slid his hand toward the knob, turning the lock quietly, hoping the sound would disappear under Frank’s voice. If it were open, Minot would wonder. He looked toward the window, frantic. Too late to fiddle with the sash lock. Under a desk? Did Liesl think he was already gone? But what choice would she have, once she’d got her papers? A new voice now, Minot’s guest. The shadows were larger against the glass. Another look around the office. Nobody hid under desks, something out of Mack Sennett. Minot was taking out his key. Ben tiptoed away from the door. Next to the filing cabinets there was a supply closet, not a real closet with a door you could close, just shelves covered by an accordion screen. He wedged himself behind, his back flush against the shelves, trying not to move anything.
“This won’t take a minute,” Minot said, opening the door. He flicked on the overhead light.
Ben glanced to his left-did he make a shadow?
“But I did promise. And you know people-think nobody’s busy but them.”
“I can imagine,” Bunny said.
Ben went still, his mind racing, almost jumping again when the phone rang.
“That’ll be him,” Minot said, picking up and talking, the words bunching together, slipping past Ben, just business.
A meeting with Bunny arranged by whom? Minot just another union, another negotiation? Bunny was walking around the room, politely distancing himself from Minot’s call. Maybe looking out toward the hall, where Liesl would be any minute. But she’d see the lights, realize people were here. Ben imagined her in the hall, being swept down toward the back door by her own story-she had the papers, why stay? Her voice now, to Frank. Don’t say any more. If he could hear it, Bunny could.
“You’re a peach,” she said. “You saved my life.”
Distinct to him, or was he the only one listening, Bunny preoccupied? Then the sound of her heels.
“Everything okay, Congressman?” Frank said, his head in the door.
Minot nodded and waved him off. Now he’d follow, let her out, and she’d go to her car, expecting to find Ben, alarmed when she didn’t. Don’t come back.
“Sorry about that,” Minot was saying. “Now where- Ginny was supposed to leave- Here it is.” Ben heard the ruffle of paper. “We can talk more in the car.”
“I think I know what you need. You understand, our records aren’t anything like this.” Ben imagined him waving to the cabinets.
“No, these are the best anybody has, thanks to Jack Tenney.”
“It’s understood that Mr. L won’t be called,” Bunny said.
“I see no reason for that at this juncture,” Minot said, oddly formal.
“He’s not Mayer. No real press value for you. And the studio heads might see it as an attack, close ranks.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
“Besides, I’m not sure he really understands what this is about.” He dropped his voice. “He’s out of it. That’s understood.”
“He hired Schaeffer,” Minot said.
“So did Zanuck. Anyway,” he said, switching tack, “who talks to writers? People on the set, not the front office. We can help you there. What kind of charges are you going to bring?”
“Charges? This isn’t a criminal trial. I’m not looking to send anybody to jail. Takes time and then you make martyrs out of them. Of course, if he perjures himself-but I doubt that, don’t you? Especially with all the corroborating testimony. Schaeffer’s a Commie and he knows we know. I don’t want to put him away, I just want everybody to know he’s there. Anyway, the public isn’t going to care about Schaeffer. They’ll want-” He stopped, evidently aware that he was saying more than he needed.
“Actors,” Bunny finished. “Stars.”
“Well, let’s just say people they know. Not necessarily Reds. Maybe just people who are as concerned as we are. Friends.”
“I understand,” Bunny said, interrupting him. “Faces for the newsreels.”
“Well, just so we do understand each other,” Minot said, annoyed. “How mutual interests work. The studios. The committee. We want to be on the same side here. As I say, I’m not looking to put people in jail. I’m expecting the studios to do their own police work. You wouldn’t want one working for you, would you?”
There was a pause. “Not even a suspected one,” Bunny said quietly, taking this in.
“That’s right. And once people know the studios feel this way, that it’s about their jobs, I think we’ll have a whole different situation. You fire one, everybody sits up. They’ll know it’s not going to be tolerated. Not in American movies. You don’t want to employ people who are against everything you stand for. You get together on this, hell, you could put the committee out of business.”
“Their jobs,” Bunny said. “Then why not give us names. We can take care of it before you have to call them. Saves expense.”
“Maybe in time. But right now-I don’t have to tell you about the value of publicity to get things rolling. That’s mother’s milk to you people.”
“Preview of coming attractions.”
“That’s right. We understand each other?”
For a minute Ben heard only the clock ticking.
“Mr. L is out of it,” Bunny said. “And the union contract?”
“That’s not in my gift. But I can promise that Mr. Stein will be otherwise occupied. That should help things along. Funny how they’re always Jews, isn’t it? Well, I have to get going. Do me a favor, will you, and reach behind? Get me an envelope for this? There should be a box of manilas in there.”
Ben fixed his eyes on the edge of the screen. What an animal must feel, he thought, finally outrun, trapped, a rush of blood to the head, then an eerie stillness, everything stopped, waiting. A hand, then a body blocking the light, Bunny turning. Ben reared back, flattening himself against the shelves, as if he could disappear, out of Bunny’s startled gaze. He expected Bunny to jump but instead he put his hand to the shelf, maybe to steady himself, still staring. A second passed, then another, neither of them making a sound, so that of all the things racing through Ben’s mind, what stuck was Bunny’s control, a will stronger than shock. And then it was too late for him to say anything, the moment over, both thinking, not breathing, trapped by each other.
“The door slides,” Minot said. “They’re back there somewhere.”
Maybe coming to help. Ben made his eyes go to the shelf beside him, a direction, then repeated it, like a flashing light.
“I see it,” Bunny said, reaching to the box on the shelf, his hand grazing Ben’s shoulder, complicit now by his silence, suddenly Ben’s protector. They looked at each other, a whole exchange without words, beyond the obvious question.
“I’ll have Andy drop you home,” Minot was saying, his voice sounding closer.
“No, the studio,” Bunny said, still looking at Ben. “I have a meeting. Somebody I need to see.” His voice now pitched directly at Ben, unmistakable. He took the envelope, then pulled the accordion screen closed, hiding Ben. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to Minot, and it was only then Ben heard the first waver, Bunny’s nerves finally engaged, not wanting Minot to know.
“This late? Well, I know how that is. Come on, I’ll get you back. I feel good about this. I think we got something done tonight.”
Ben heard them cross the room and then the light went out and the door slammed. He breathed out, the blood coming back, and realized he was sweating. He nudged the screen back, trying to do it silently. Give them a few minutes. He looked around the dark office. He’d have to use the window after all.
He leaned against the wall, waiting, thinking about the conversation. Their jobs. He was going to get the studios to do it for him. And they would. Buying time, feeding him one piece at a time, staying 100 percent American. Even Bunny, who understood, would have to give him somebody, a face to start with. He thought suddenly of Bunny’s face as it had been, guileless, a Freddie Bartholomew tear running down his cheek. An orphan. If you were fired at one studio, you’d never wor
k at another. It would be understood, the way Minot wanted it.
Some headlights went by outside the window. Minot’s or just another car? Not yet. He looked at the files. Any one of them. And then he knew who it would be, the pragmatic choice. The file was right here, easy for him to take. Would it make any difference? You could reconstruct a file. If you remembered the sources, knew the cross references, had the time. And Minot now was in a rush. Danny had tried to help her once, never reported a thing. She must have meant something to him. Ben glanced at the file drawer again. Right here. Be Danny one more time.
He went over to the files and flicked through the tabs. Miliken, Millard, Miller. He took it out, bulky, and put it in his jacket, feeling his blood rush again. He glanced around, a thief’s involuntary gesture, then closed the drawer and went over to the window, trying to estimate the drop. Not far, the first floor, but you’d have to dangle a second before you dropped or risk your ankles, just the second a car might be passing. But everything seemed quiet. Wilshire was always busy, but the side street mostly took the outflow of the parking lot. He waited another minute, listening, then opened the window and swung out. When he was over, still hanging from the lintel, he tried to reach up with one hand to bring the window back down, but it jammed and putting his weight on one hand made it begin to slip, so he brought the other back and let himself down, dropping slowly until he was a few feet from the ground. Now. He hit the ground just as a pair of headlights swung around from Wilshire. He was wincing from the dull shock of the jump, but forced himself up before the light could reach him. A crouch would be suspicious. Your body told the story. Somebody walking, heading for the lot. The car passed.
Liesl was still down the street.
“I didn’t know what to do. It was Bunny, wasn’t it? What was he doing?”
“Fixing things. He thinks. Drop me at the studio. I told him I’d be there.”
“He saw you? What did he say?”
“Nothing. He was more upset that I saw him. Kind of thing you like to do by yourself.”
“What?”
“Make deals.”
