by Peter Corris
He was still fiddling with his cigarette, not lighting it. 'We have a strange situation here, Dick. The war's going well in some places, not so well in others. The strategy in the Pacific's obvious, especially to someone like you.'
I smoked and didn't say anything. I'd seen the maps in newspapers, and on the walls of the the real gung-ho types, bristling with pins. But it had never made any sense to me. I'm against war myself. The people who find it fun are crazy and need padded walls.
Farrow went on, 'We're island-hopping, of course, with the idea of getting a big enough force close enough to Japan to scare her into quitting. It takes time.'
That seemed safe enough to respond to. I nodded.
'You'd be aware of the propaganda value of movies?'
Another nod. Strong and silent. General Richard Kelly Browning, D.S.O., M.C. etc.
Farrow finally lit the cigarette. I learned that it was something he did when he got to the point. 'There's a movie going to be made about the liberation of the Philippines. It's going to hit the screens at exactly the same time as the men hit the beaches. It's going to give everyone at home a big lift.'
Herman snorted. 'Be honest with him, my friend. Can't you see that he is an intelligent man? The casualties in the Philippines will be very heavy and for the strike at Japan itself? Enormous. The film will stiffen the American spine.'
Coming from a guy whose spine was so encased in blubber it would have taken surgery to locate it, this was a bit rich. I felt like protesting, but I knew that what he was saying was the exact truth. Recruiting fell off after Gallipoli21, and don't let anyone tell you different. I was losing the thread though.
'I thought this film was about Australia and . . . ah, New Guinea?'
Herman and Farrow exchanged the kinds of looks that indicate that half-truths are coming, if not outright lies. The smoke fug was building up in the room and Farrow glanced at his watch. So time was a factor. I decided to play it cool. I removed my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair. I lit another cigarette. I had all the time in the world.
'Let me make it more clear to you,' Herman said. He ran his finger around the collar of his shirt, easing away some of the flab. 'To make this picture about the Philippines invasion, the work will have to start soon and it will take a long time. There will be liaison with the army and navy and air force.'
I was almost enjoying myself. 'And the marines. Don't forget the fighting marines.'
'Just so. The cooperation of the military is assured. They want the film for their reasons as much as we do for ours.'
'Money,' I said.
Farrow's voice cut through like a whip. 'No. To build a secure world. A Christian Europe, an American-influenced Pacific and South-east Asia.'
Another crazy trying to make the world safe for something nobody wanted very much. I took another look at Farrow. Those clear eyes, that firm jaw. I switched to Herman. Piggy eyes. Everything slack except his brain. I felt my own brain stretching, trying to follow what was going on. Herman came to the rescue.
'Hollywood has no secrets,' he said. 'If we start planning a film along the lines we have discussed, the enemy will hear of it most quickly. The military does not want that to happen.'
'So?' I said.
'So, an operation has been devised to deflect attention from the preparations for this film. While the plans are going ahead in secret. . .'
'I thought you said Hollywood had no secrets.'
'Touché,' Herman said. 'This is an exception. Another film will appear to be in the making. It concerns Australia and, what was the other place you mentioned?'
'New Guinea.'
'Yes. And the Dutch East Indies, I fancy. Mr Farrow has written a script; people will be assigned to the project. You will go to Australia. There will be publicity.'
'But no movie?'
Herman spread his pudgy hands. He wore jewelled rings on four fingers. 'This is Hollywood, Mr Browning. Who can say?'
'You've done some boxing, I believe,' Farrow said. 'So have I. This is a feint. It's an effective manoeuvre in the ring.'
I saw it all in a flash. Bobby Silk had ratted me out to these people. Maybe Groom had leaned on him in some way. It looked as if Bobby had started kicking over the traces, which would make him vulnerable. His wife wasn't an understanding woman. Whatever the reason, he'd served me up for this crazy scheme. I felt a rush of feeling—anger, disappointment, resentment at being used. Then I calmed down and thought about it. A spell of the star treatment. First-class hotels and travel. Expenses, no doubt. And no lines to learn, not really. If I had to go to Australia I could possibly sort a few things out, like a divorce if that was still required. I'd had no news of my family in almost twenty-five years. Maybe there'd be some change lying around to be picked up. On the other hand, flying over the Pacific in wartime. . .
'I'll think about it,' I said.
Herman stubbed out his cigar and brushed ash from his vest and trousers. Not much ash—he was a tidy smoker. Farrow did some neck-loosening exercises. Neither said anything; both looked suddenly uncomfortable.
'I'll let you know,' I said, just to keep the ball rolling.
Farrow shook his head. 'I don't think you have that luxury, Mr Browning,' he said.
16
The rest of the day was spent at what felt like the real thing—photograph session, wardrobe session, contract signing, delivery of a loose-leaf copy of the script and a press conference with Farrow and Herman sitting in and lying their back teeth out. All I had to do was look stern and masterful, like General Wilson Broderick, my character in the movie, who had a personal mission to remove every Japanese soldier from within a thousand miles of his beloved Australia. I'd be relying on American soldiers, airmen and sailors to help me and there was the rub—an antagonism between myself and US General Beau Elder. All a misunderstanding over a woman.
If it sounds thin, it was. The script was little more than an outline and anyone who tried to shoot it might end up with a comedy, if he was lucky. But that didn't matter. No-one outside the charmed circle ever saw the script, and the Hollywood press boys and girls knew their readers weren't interested in words on pages.
'Who're the stars, Mr Browning?'
I'd been primed for that one. 'Big names. I think I'm at liberty to say that Spencer Tracy is interested, and if he joins up he won't be playing Private Jones.'
That got a laugh.
'Why're you fronting now, Mr Browning?'
I kept the jaw up and the steely glint in the eye. 'I'm an Australian. I've been a soldier. It's my country . . . and yours.'
A good deal more of this. Some curly ones, such as about dates and methods of transport and whether I would actually have an Australian military rank, as Farrow had hinted. I fielded them as best I could, threw in the odd Australianism, and was desperate for a drink by late afternoon. It was all as phoney as a western sunrise, but you have to remember that this was wartime and that the war was the biggest news around. And in LA the combination of war news and movie news was irresistible. That was what the scheme rested on, of course. I scanned the ranks of the reporters, trying to spot the sceptic. The guy or woman who'd see through it and ask a question that would bring it all tumbling down. It didn't happen. They went away happy with notepads well covered and quotes from Herman like, 'There won't be a good Japanese movie until the United States is running the place.' That got a small hand.
At the end of the day I was told that my salary would be paid into my bank weekly and I was to stand by ready to go anywhere, anytime. There was another character in on the act by this stage—a tall, thin Texan named Loren Duke who spoke with an accent so thick I could hardly understand him. He muttered about being one of Peter Groom's boys, which made me take an instant dislike to him. He seemed to be the liaison man between the project and Paramount. Just to get under his skin, I pressured him to get me a daily pay envelope such as extras and bit players got.
'Not sure I can do that,' he drawled.
'N
ot sure I can give a good report on you to my old friend, Peter Groom, less'n you do.'
The use of Groom's name worried him and he went off to the administration building, leaving me to sit under a tree and smoke a cigarette and think how to milk this madness for all it was worth. I saw Bing Crosby walk by about thirty feet away and waved to him. He waved back although he didn't know me from Adam. The stars were like that; they met hundreds of people a day and instantly forgot ninety-nine per cent of them. They got so used to being acknowledged by people they didn't know that they just acknowledged back, without thinking. Providing you were in the right place, like inside the Paramount lot, or maybe in the betting ring at Santa Anita, you could have a bit of fun with them that way.
When Loren Duke came back he was wearing a smug expression. He handed me an envelope and a set of keys. 'This here's an advance on your salary, Mr Browning, and an apartment has been arranged for you at the Bryson.'
'I'm at the Wilcox.'
'Your bill has been paid and your things moved to the Bryson. I can run you over if you like.'
Loren had taken all the points. I accepted the envelope, feeling like a panhandler, and the keys. 'I've got my car here,' I said. 'I can find it.'
'Reckon I might tag along. Just to kinda see you settled in.'
I couldn't object to that, although I knew what lay behind it. As I say, Peter Groom knew everything about me, including the fact that my natural tendency, when things got not to my liking, was to leave town. In the car I checked the envelope. Two hundred clams. My salary was five hundred a week and, if you don't think it sounds like much, let me tell you it bought an awful lot in LA in 1943. I knew where the Bryson was, on Wiltshire Boulevard. I'd been to a party or two there in my acting days and, more recently, I'd guarded the furs and jewellery at a party thrown by Lillian Rose, who was celebrating the fact that she was leaving LA to go back to New York to work in the theatre. Half the drunks at the party swore they'd go with her. Three months later the play had closed and she was back.
I pulled into the car park beside the apartment house, showing my key to the attendant. Loren would have to shift for himself on the street. I wandered around to the front. The Bryson was a white stucco pile with a lot of tall date palms, some of them in pots as if they might be moved somewhere else if times got tough. There were marble entrance steps with two big stone lions on top of the columns, guarding them on either side. You went through an elaborate archway that looked like something out of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, into a big lobby with a thick blue carpet. The reception desk was a modest affair, hardly any gold inlay and only four telephones.
The Texan had caught up with me by the time the desk man had called a porter to show me to my apartment. He escorted us from the elevator on the sixth floor to the door of the apartment, which he unlocked with my key.
'Miss King hoped your things were arranged to suit you, Mr Browning,' the porter said.
That was enough to earn him a dollar from my envelope. I'd resolved not to spend a cent of my own money while this thing lasted. Everything from the Wilcox was here, including the ransacked files and torn clothes. God knows what Miss King must have thought of it, but then, God knows what Miss King thought about anything. It depended pretty much on who she really worked for, and that was anybody's guess.
Duke prowled through the place like it was him that was going to live there rather than me. It took him a while because a sixth-floor corner apartment in the Bryson wasn't a dog kennel—it had a big entrance hall with kitchen and bathroom off it, leading to a living room with a view towards MacArthur Park. There were two bedrooms. The master bedroom had its own bathroom; the smaller one had a three-quarter bed and writing desk. This was where they'd dumped my files. Sliding glass doors in the living room got you to a balcony which ran around the corner of the building. It was deep enough to hold several large pot-plants, a reclining lounge arranged to catch the morning sun, and a timber table and chair set at which you could take morning coffee or lay an evening meal with candles, according to your fancy.
'Looks okay,' Duke said.
'I'm glad you approve.'
'What happened to your stuff?' He nodded in the direction of the second bedroom. 'Looks like it went through a cotton gin.'
'Maybe you boys got to it,' I said. 'Maybe you were checking me out before giving me this important assignment.'
Duke shook his head. 'I don't think so. We're trained to go through clothes and sets of papers and leave not a one out of place.'
'Must show me how you do it one of these days. Meanwhile, I've had a long. . .'
'Sure, sure. I'll leave you to it. Did they say what time you were wanted in the morning?'
'No.'
'I'll find out and give you a call.'
'That's not necessary. I. . .'
'Just obeying orders, Mr Browning. I sure do want to get that good report you spoke about.'
Duke ambled out of the apartment with a smile on his thin face. He left the door open and I had to walk all that way down the passage to close it. Somehow, I thought Loren Duke had taken the points on day one of our relationship.
The telephone brought me out of an uneasy sleep. I'd taken off my tie and shoes and stretched out on the bed just to get the feel of it. That was at around six o'clock. Now it was dark and the phone was ringing. I leapt off the bed and headed for the living room before I remembered where I was. I flopped back and reached for the phone on the bedside table.
'Browning.'
'Richard.'
The voice was breathless and sounded panicky, but I would have recognised it anywhere.
'May Lin. What the hell. . .'
'I am in terrible danger. I cannot think of anyone else to help me. Please.'
'Where are you?'
'I'm in a bar on Vermont—the Manhattan. I can't pay my tab or for this call. Please, come and get me.'
'How did you know I was here? How did you know my number? I don't even know my number.'
'I'll explain. Richard, please. Come now.'
There I was, in a very nice apartment, big bed, well-stocked kitchen and refrigerator. I forgot to mention that. There were flowers in vases, food and drink in the kitchen. I'd been too tired to care. I'd had a couple of hours sleep and felt almost perky. I did what any red-blooded man would do.
'Stay right there, honey,' I said. 'I'm on my way.'
I meant it too. But not every red-blooded man has a Smith & Wesson .38 to help him along. I strapped it on, climbed back into my clothes, shrugged on the trench coat that had the lining ripped out of it and left the apartment. I had a heavy stubble, no tie and the stairway lights in the Bryson were dim. Outside, there was no moon and not much in the way of streetlights. I could hardly see the stone lions on the tops of their pillars, but I gave them a growl anyway. I'd been tricked and pampered; I was sober, rested and had a pistol in my armpit. I was also remembering a sinuous, ivory body that writhed and thrashed and moaned and was young and innocent one moment, and old and full of sin the next. I was in a very dangerous condition.
The Manhattan was only walking distance away. Nowadays in LA that's fifty yards; then it was quarter of a mile. I walked along Wiltshire in the direction of the Brown Derby where I'd paid a call with Pete McVey. It seemed like a lifetime ago. I made the turn onto Vermont and couldn't help looking around for unwanted company. Communists, Nationalists, FBI, Military Intelligence? Who could say? The traffic was light and the sidewalks were almost deserted. A woman walked her dog; a guy in a tux asked me the way to the Park Plaza. I told him, pointed. He was very drunk and I doubted he'd make it. The only suspicious-looking character on the street was me.
The Manhattan was one of those fake New York joints that LA specialised in, then and now. I haven't been in New York for twenty years. I've often wondered if it has fake LA joints but, since almost all of LA is fake somewhere else, it's hard to imagine how. The bar was dimly lit with a neon Schlitz beer sign in the window. The 'I' wasn't illuminated; I'd been
told the signs could be made that way.
The place was dark and smoky inside. Not many people—Monday night crowd, professional drinkers and people congratulating themselves on having got through the first day of another week. May Lin was in a booth. She had an empty glass in front of her and was smoking a cigarette. I laid a five on the bar and told the barman to bring two of whatever she'd been drinking across to the booth. I took off my coat and slid in opposite her. It's hard to describe tired Oriental eyes, but hers were. Her face was pale and drawn and her make-up had just about faded away. Some brown hair straggled loose from the tight bun on the top of her head. She was wearing the clothes I'd seen her in last and they were wrinkled as well as all wrong for this time and place. She still looked beautiful.
'Thank you for coming, Richard.'
I shook out a cigarette and lit it. Hers had an inch or so to go before it joined the ten or more of the same brand in the ashtray. She'd had quite a wait.
'You'll want explanations,' she said.
'Uh huh.'
The drinks came—bourbon on the rocks. The waiter looked relieved that someone with some money had turned up. I took a drink, smoked and waited.
'I found out from your agent where you were living now. Also the telephone number.'
That could play. A bit late now to check, but let it pass. 'How did you know I was still alive? The last you saw me I was having my head shape changed by a blackjack.'
She gave an involuntary jerk and took a pull on her drink. 'Yes. It was terrible. They hurt me too.'
I wasn't going to buy that, not just yet. 'You haven't answered the question, May Lin.'
She lifted her chin and looked directly at me. Unless she was a better actress than any woman for a hundred miles around (which was always possible), she'd been through something that had scared her and worn her down. The hard, brittle surface she'd worn on our previous meetings had chipped away. She looked vulnerable, as if there was another, softer person struggling to emerge. She drank a little bourbon and lit one of my cigarettes.
