by Joseph Kanon
She was quiet for a minute, moving them into traffic. “What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
She fixed on the windshield, shivering a little. “It’s like before. Today, at the studio, I felt it. The way it was before the war. The quiet. Nobody talks. Everybody knows and nobody talks. So it’s like that again.”
There were a few lights on in the Admin building, but Bunny’s office was dark so Ben headed over to the screening room. He touched the letter in his jacket, aware suddenly of the shadows and the deserted alleys between the sound stages, a perfect place to wait. No shots, another crack on the head, fatal this time, Carl oblivious at the gate while someone went through Ben’s pockets.
Bunny was alone in the screening room, running a picture.
“Just a minute,” he said, motioning Ben to sit. “Watch this.” Not rushes, an old feature, Claudette Colbert in a gold lame evening dress, clearly gold even in black and white. “Watch her wiggle in the seat.” A society party, people listening to a classical singer. “She got in with a pawn ticket and now they’re onto her. Barrymore knows. Look at the way they size each other up.”
But Ben was watching Bunny, his face soft with pleasure, living in the picture even as he talked.
“Now Hedda makes the announcement. See the one with her back to us? That’s Polly.”
“Polly?”
“Mm. Her greatest performance. Hedda gave her her start, with the column. Watch Barrymore’s eyebrows. Nobody could ham like that. The way they play off each other. Her eyes. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
Claudette was getting up, summoned by a butler, and Bunny picked up the phone.
“Stop it there, Jerry. Thanks.” His eyes were still on the screen as the lights came up. “One week at the Paramount and it’s gone. But it was perfect. That look, like a grace note. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing here, putting in grace notes. Making things better.”
“What’s the picture?”
“ Midnight. Before the war.” He got up. “There’s a sequence I wanted to see, a bit with taxis. But I don’t think we can use it.” He turned to Ben. “What were you doing there?”
“If you don’t know, you’ll never have to answer that,” Ben said, feeling the weight in his pocket.
Bunny looked at him, then moved away, running his hand over the back of his seat. “I suppose you heard everything, behind your little arras.”
“Faint mumblings.”
“I should have had a sword. Run you through. But I find I never do have one, when I need it.” He stopped. “Don’t interfere in this.”
Ben nodded, noncommittal.
“I mean it. Just put it out of your mind. We’ll both do that. What were you doing, though?”
“Catching up on my filing. They make interesting reading.”
“Not anymore. Stay out of it.”
“Don’t give him anybody.”
“You think I’m enjoying this?” He walked down the aisle, away from Ben. “It’s business, that’s all.”
“No. It’s going to get worse.”
“Not for us,” Bunny said quickly. “Look, I’m walking a tightrope here.” He lifted his arms from his sides a little, a balancing mime. “Don’t shake it. Don’t huff. Don’t puff.” He looked at Ben. “Don’t anything. Or you’re off the lot. Mr. L or no.”
The back door to the Cherokee was kept locked now, so he went through the front, past the new night clerk, attentive, maybe a Bureau man, planted too late. Upstairs he flicked on the light before going in and flung the door open, in case another Ray was waiting. He opened the French windows to let in some air, then went back to the door and wedged a desk chair under the knob. Would he really try here again? Dropping somehow onto the balcony?
Ben sat on the bed and pulled out the sheet of names. Wallace. Gilbert. No more recognizable than before. Not here, not in San Francisco. Friedman. He stopped. A name he had heard. Literally heard. A voice saying it. But whose? He tried putting it in people’s mouths to see how it would sound-Liesl, Bunny, anyone he knew, but nothing came. Still, he’d heard it somewhere. On the lot? Lasner’s party? Let it go. If you tried to force it, nothing came. You had to let it pop into your head.
He looked at the door again, barricaded, what his life was going to be like now. What if he never came? But he’d want the list. Unless he’d decided to write it off as a bad risk, move on. Still, he’d tried once, a man dead. A day, two. Or he’d have to use more bait.
Minot presented the hearings as a preliminary fact-finding inquiry, something local, but he was staging them like a full Washington investigation. The press had its own section in the hearing room, behind the newsreel cameras, but half were still outside covering the witnesses arriving, a premiere without the broad smiles. The public seats filled almost immediately, with a few front rows reserved for the witnesses, studio VIPs, and anyone with a friend on Minot’s staff. Ostermann, surprisingly, was in the press section, near Polly, who kept leaping up and down to talk to people, then scribble notes, a blur of eager restlessness. The committee sat at a long table, not a raised judge’s bench, but the arrangement, looking across at the witnesses and their lawyers, still had a courtroom effect.
What Ben noticed most was the noise. The galleries buzzed with talk. In the side rooms, telephones rang almost constantly and aides ran back and forth with messages. When Minot came out to take his place at the table the hum rose even higher, the room busy, anticipating. Ben thought of a Coliseum scene in the old silents, everyone in jerky motion, waiting for the lions.
The first bang of the gavel was startling, followed by a murmur, a second bang, quiet. Minot, his face flushed with confidence, gave the opening speech-a great industry undermined from within, the values and moral fabric of the culture itself at risk, the unwitting comfort extended to traitors in our midst-and then, just a few seconds before the audience could get restive, called Dick Marshall.
“I thought he was going to start with Stein,” Bunny whispered, half to himself.
A logical choice, the strike still daily news, and Stein’s sympathies so well known he would have been an easy first shot, but for once Bunny’s instincts were off, not the point Minot wanted to score. As Marshall approached the table, there was an audible rustling of interest. A movie star, someone, Ben suddenly remembered, who’d once actually played a gladiator.
It was clear from the first moment, Minot’s head nodding with respect, that Marshall had come as a friendly witness, there to add a glow and demonstrate that he was as American as everyone assumed him to be. There were soft questions and patriotic answers, more nods from the committee, Dick’s very presence, his concern, somehow affirming their own. Bunny watched carefully, head on his pyramid fingers. Marshall was Continental’s most valuable name, a marquee favor to Minot. But why call him? Ben looked at his tanned, smooth face. An arm dangling from a chaise. Minot, he saw, was ignoring the Continental row. There were complicit glances at the rest of the audience, direct appeals to the cameras, but he never met Bunny’s eyes, acknowledged the gift. Marshall was his.
“Now you yourself didn’t serve in the military?” Minot said.
“No, I was 4-F. Perforated eardrum.”
Bunny sat up but didn’t say anything, maybe a question not in the script.
“But of course you served your country in other ways.”
“I did what I could, yes. During the bond drive, we raised-”
“Well, I meant more just by doing what you do. Your pictures. I can tell you, when I was in the Pacific, there were times the boys thought you were winning the war single-handed.”
Everyone laughed and Marshall tilted his head modestly.
“I had a little help. About four million guys, in fact. They’re the ones who won it.”
“Christ,” Ben said under his breath.
“Don’t snipe,” Bunny said.
“But I think we can all agree,” Minot said, “morale’s important, too. As someone who did see a
ctive service, I can tell you those pictures meant a lot to us. Now I wonder if I can ask you about one of them. In 1943, you were in Convoy to Murmansk. You remember that?”
“Sure. I was in the Navy in that one.”
“Escorting a convoy of freighters, wasn’t it?”
Dick nodded. “Dodging U-boats.”
“Dodging U-boats. Now of course they were all over the Atlantic. And the book the movie was based on-were you aware of this? — was English, about convoys heading for England. Convoy it was called.”
“That was the original title of the picture, too. The first script, I mean.”
“Oh, the original. And were you going to England in the script?”
“Yes.”
“Then all the sudden, Murmansk. Now why is that, do you think?”
“I don’t know. That would have been up to the writer. The director. I just say the lines.”
“The director, the writer-same fella on this picture, is that right? On Convoy to — Murmansk,” Minot said, emphasizing the last word.
“Right. Milton Schaeffer.”
“You ever ask him why he changed it?”
“Just in a kidding way. Made things harder to pronounce, the places.”
“In a kidding way. And what did he say?”
“Well, at the time we were trying to show how all the Allies were in it together. He said this was a way of bringing Russia in.”
“Including a new Russian character.” He looked down at his notes. “Andrei Malinkov. Soviet Naval attache. Dick Marshall couldn’t get through the Baltic himself, is that it?”
Dick smiled. “The idea was, we were working together. He knew the mine fields.”
“Americans and Russians side by side. Just like they were any folks. Let me read you something.” He picked up a paper. “‘We’re not just carrying food. Equipment. We’re carrying hope. They’re taking a terrible beating. We have to help. How can we eat if they’re going hungry?’ Recognize that?”
“I said it. In the picture.”
“It’s in the book, too. Of course then you’re saying it about London. Now it’s-what? Leningrad? You think it’s the same thing? London, Leningrad? Is that what Mr. Schaeffer said?”
Dick gave a side glance to his lawyer, who nodded, a cue.
“He said the suffering there was even worse, in Russia, but nobody was doing pictures about it. This would help draw attention. That we needed to help the Russians.”
“Help the Russians,” Minot repeated. “Well, that we certainly did. The ships in Convoy — excuse me, Convoy to Murmansk — were carrying Lend-Lease. Millions and millions to help those people Mr. Schaeffer said were suffering so much. Know how much of it they’ve paid back? Not one cent. Not one kopek.” He looked up. “Did you ever suspect at the time that Mr. Schaeffer might be a Communist?”
“No, sir,” Marshall said, appalled.
“No, you don’t find that word in the script, not once. Just those friendly Russians. But they must have been, mustn’t they? Why not call them Communists?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you’d have found that harder to say. Maybe everybody would have found it harder to watch. Better not to tell people what the picture is really about. That’s how they work. How would you feel now about Convoy? Knowing what you know today?”
Another glance to his lawyer, Bunny still, staring ahead.
“I guess I’d ask to be taken off the picture. If, like you say, it wasn’t good for America. All my pictures, I’ve always thought they were a hundred percent American.”
“Mr. Marshall, no one here is questioning your loyalty. We’re just concerned that some people might use it for their own ends. Maybe you need to be a little more careful in the future. Not just say the words. Think a little bit about what’s behind them.” A school principal to a truant.
“Yes, sir.”
Dick lowered his head slightly. Ben thought of him climbing into the fighter cockpit, eager to take on Japan, and saw that the nod had been the real point of the testimony, a kind of salute to the new commander at the long table.
“Anyone else on the committee have a question? If not, I think we can take a short break. You’ll be available to us later, if we need you?” he said to Dick.
“Congressman, I’m here to help. I believe in fighting for Americaand not just in the pictures.”
Ben glanced across at the press section. Everyone was scribbling but Ostermann, his eyes fixed on Minot.
“That was fine,” Bunny said to Marshall. His lawyers were gathering up papers from the witness table.
“Nice to say that about my pictures. Seeing them over there.”
“What he said was that he was in the Pacific and you weren’t. That’s all anybody heard.”
“Still.”
“Never mind, you were fine. The fight line was good. They’re all going to use it.”
“I meant it.”
“That’s what makes it so convincing,” Bunny said, not missing a beat. “I didn’t know where he was going with the 4-F, but it was fine.”
“Where he was going?”
“Well, we don’t want anybody poking lights in your ears, do we? Anyway, it’s done.” He put a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Polly,” he said, spotting her.
“Dick, that was wonderful. Wonderful. Read the column tomorrow,” she said, patting him. “You’re going to be very pleased.” She turned to Bunny. “I have a bone to pick with you.”
“Oh, Polly, a very small bone, I hope.”
“You promised me an interview with Liesl.”
“And you’ll get it.”
“When, after the picture opens? I thought she’d be here today. Why isn’t she?” she said, her voice pointed now. “You’d think she’d want to be here with Dick.”
“Polly, she’s shooting. Some of us have to work. Of course she wanted to be here. She also wants to get the picture out.”
“You mean you do.”
“Because I’ve seen it. You won’t believe how good she is. Bergman.” He held his hand up, being sworn in. “Have I ever lied?”
Polly laughed. “You? No. You don’t have it in you.”
“A heart to heart, I promise. The kind you like. Just let her finish.”
Polly waved this off. “See where I’m sitting? Right next to the Other Mann. Maybe I’ll get him to ask. Somebody with influence.”
“Call my office in the morning. I’ll have Wendy set it up. Anyway, I thought you were doing Dick.”
“A companion piece. You should want this,” she said, tapping Bunny’s arm. “It makes her more American. Especially after today. I could tell Ken was pleased. It’s a great thing he’s doing.”
Bunny watched her trail after Dick, then turned to one of his assistants. “Where’s Rosemary? I thought she was supposed to be here.”
“Rosemary?” Ben said.
“She hasn’t been served yet,” the assistant said.
“That’s funny,” Bunny said, frowning, a detail out of place. “Go call and see what’s up.”
“Why Rosemary?” Ben said, walking out with Bunny.
“He can’t lean on Schaeffer all week. Where’s that going to get him? Murmansk?”
“Where’s Rosemary going to get him?”
Bunny looked at him. “Stay out of this.”
In the hall, people huddled in groups, smoking. Dick Marshall posed for a few more pictures. Ben made a circle, looking for Ostermann, and instead saw Henderson, leaning back against a fire extinguisher.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sure,” Henderson said, reaching into his pocket. “Right here.”
Then, in a lower voice, “Take out a cigarette. I thought you didn’t want us to talk.”
“I thought you weren’t going to follow me,” Ben said, leaning forward for the light.
“I’m just watching.”
“What?”
“Things. See who’s watching you. It’s a good place for it. Who’d know? I
figure he’d like to keep tabs. I would, I was him.”
“And?”
“It’s early. Now you got your light.”
“Clearance come through yet on those names?”
“I’m working on it. You’re welcome,” he said louder, nodding.
Ben stood for a minute, stymied. “Don’t ruin this,” he said.
Henderson smiled. “What? Your unexpected demise? I’m looking forward to it. As long as I see who does it.”
He moved off, leaving Ben to watch the crowd. Could he really be here? Someone on his way to the men’s room. The photographer who wasn’t. Anybody.
When the hearings reconvened, Ben had Dick next to him, Bunny on his other side.
“Why start with you?” Bunny said to Dick, still preoccupied with the order of things.
“I’m just glad to get it over with.”
“But there’s no build. Here they come.”
This time Minot did look at them, an unexpected anger. At first Ben thought it was directed at him, the Kaltenbach grudge, but when Carol Hayes was called, a Fox contract player, Minot’s eyes were fixed on Bunny, gauging his reaction. Bunny, clearly surprised, shrugged back.
“He’s doing this wrong,” he said. “Why her?”
“Picture in the papers?”
“Below the fold,” Bunny said, dismissive.
Ben watched the newsreel cameras track her as she moved to the table, motors whirring. “Who is she?”
“Priscilla Lane. Diana Lynn,” Bunny said, casting.
“I mean here.”
“Probably a Schaeffer picture at Fox. But he just did that. There’s no build. Carol Hayes.”
“The cameras like her.”
Bunny frowned. “Something’s wrong.” He leaned across again to one of the publicity staff and whispered, sending him out of the room.
“And you talked to Mr. Schaeffer about the script?” Minot was saying.
“I didn’t want to,” she said. “You know, you don’t like to make trouble. But I just didn’t feel comfortable with some of the lines.”
“On the seventh take,” Bunny said under his breath.
“And why was that?”
“They didn’t seem- I don’t think it’s like that in this country. I mean, my dad was a businessman and he just wouldn’t have done that, what happens in the picture.”
