Hollywood and Levine (12 page)

A congressional throat was cleared. “Thank you, Mr. Davis,” Nixon began. “First of all, I'd like Mr. Parker to know that the House Committee on Un-American Activities deeply appreciates the effort he is making to help us crack the hard shell of Communist activity in our great movie industry.” It sounded like he was reading from a sheet. “Without the patriotic help of industry leaders, our investigation is doomed to fruitlessness.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Congressman,” Parker said, after a moment's awkward silence. “I'm sure that you'll find that we in the movie business are as eager as you are to clean up. The picture business, first and foremost, is an American business.” He paused and fumbled for words. “This investigation, though, when do you foresee it going public?”

“You mean public hearings?” asked the congressman.

“That's right.”

“No date has been set as far as I know,” Nixon said. “Mr. Davis, do you know?”

“The committee wants to gauge the extent of the subversion before opening up into the public sphere,” said Davis. “We don't intend to go on a fishing expedition. When we undertake actual hearings, Dick Nixon and the other great members of the committee will be prepared to name names.”

“Of course,” said Parker. He sounded very unhappy. “But we don't want a lot of indiscriminate name-calling, do we?”

“There won't be any indiscriminate name-calling, Mr. Parker,” said Nixon, in a stern, hand-on-the-Bible voice. “I can assure you of that. You have my word that this is going to be a sober, responsible investigation of the extent to which the Red shadow has fallen over Hollywood.”

Another uneasy silence followed.

“I think Mr. Parker would like to know why we wanted to see him today,” said Davis.

“As soon as you called,” said Parker. “I cleared the deck of appointments.”

“Don't think we don't know and fully appreciate that,” Davis replied. “But you're a busy man, so let's get on with it. We're frankly concerned, Johnny, about this Adrian business. Now we all know that Walter Adrian was on our preliminary list as a fully identifiable, card-carrying Communist, dedicated to the goals of the Party. As you and I discussed last week, his continued employment might be of great embarrassment to Warner Brothers.”

“That's correct,” stammered Parker. “But as I told you, there were no grounds for dismissal and the writers have a very strong union. The only way to handle the situation was to make the contract negotiations with Adrian as difficult as possible. We were proceeding along that route when, of course, the suicide …”

“We have information at our disposal,” Davis interrupted, his voice dull and relentless, “FBI information on the Adrian death.”

“FBI?” Parker's voice was a virtual canary chirp. I got out of the dentist's chair and moved to a stool by the wall, placing my ear flush to it.

“There is information to indicate that Walter Adrian was murdered,” Davis continued. “That is why we had to see you today.”

“This is FBI information,” Nixon repeated, coming down hard on the magical initials. These guys kept saying “FBI information” as if it were a voodoo incantation.

“There's evidence of murder?” asked Parker.

“Not court evidence, but strong circumstantial evidence, apparently. The congressman and I haven't seen it, actually,” Davis went on, “but the source is unimpeachable. What we are telling you, of course, is top secret. It is imperative that no one learn Adrian was murdered or even that there is suspicion of murder.”

Parker said something like “of course.” He did not say that a private detective had been shot at the previous afternoon and that said detective also suspected foul play. The executive was obviously playing his own game and the case was getting more muddled by the second.

“It's not that we don't have complete confidence in you, John,” Davis said with utmost sincerity. “But this is very explosive stuff. Not a word.”

Nixon got into the act.

“Let me say, in fact, that we have
great
confidence in your integrity and candor. But this is a matter involving grave matters of national security,” the congressman said, emphasizing “grave.” “You see, the FBI information indicates that Adrian was murdered on orders direct from Moscow. The word was out in the Red police underground that Adrian would step forward and pass on critical information to the House Committee, information concerning the operation of the Communist Party in Hollywood, and in show business in general.”

“Communist espionage, you see,” Davis added, “is well aware of the imminence of the investigation.”

“Communists murdering writers?” Parker's tone approached shell shock.

“You can see what chaos would follow if this information were made public,” said Davis.

“Certainly,” the executive mumbled. “Was Adrian about to contact you? Is that a fact?”

“The great tragedy of the Walter Adrian affair,” Nixon intoned, “is that we will never know. To be perfectly candid, Mr. Parker, Adrian had not yet come to us, or given any signals that he would. I would imagine that a dedicated, hardcore Communist would have to go through a great deal of painful soul-searching before reaching such a momentous decision.” This kid Nixon sounded like a radio preacher. And I, for one, couldn't figure Walter running to the law to tell them which of his friends belonged to the Party. It didn't sound like him, it didn't wash. Yet as hokey and outrageous as it was to assume that Walter had been bumped off on orders from some drab-suited Stalinist torpedo, it bothered me. It bothered me because there was something nuts and out of focus about this whole case, something that no one was talking about, not Walter to me in New York, nor Walter's friends at his home. There were loose ends of fear and mistrust that Nixon's and Davis' cockamaymie theory could conceivably explain. Maybe Walter
was
scared enough to talk, maybe someone
did
find out and finish him off, if not by Kremlin orders then by personal motivation. Nothing made a great deal of sense in the matter: the Red knock-off theory was no more implausible than Walter swinging on the back lot, or the cops getting an FBI report on my pinko record, or my sitting in a shabby dentist's office eavesdropping on a Warner Brothers executive and a U.S. Congressman.

“You can see why no one must hear of this,” said Davis, “and why we must get to the roots of this operation before too long.”

“The plain fact is,” the congressman said smoothly, “that the way the Communists enforce discipline—using Adrian's death as an example—it'll soon be impossible for us to get the information we need.”

“I see,” Parker babbled. “Naturally. We'll do all we can. Within the limit of the law, of course; we have to be subtle.”

“Subtlety,” announced Davis, “is of the essence. That's our watchword.”

“Are the L.A. police being brought in on this?” asked Parker.

The room fell silent.

“Not unless it's an absolute necessity,” Davis finally said. “Too many boneheads in the department. They could blow this thing wide open.”

“That's what I would think,” the executive concurred.

“Now, let's not go overboard on this,” Nixon interjected. “The Los Angeles Police Department contains some of the finest men in the country: dedicated, patriotic Americans. All Mr. Davis is saying is that this is one of those cases where too many cooks would spoil the broth.”

“Exactly, Dick. That's how I see it,” Davis reassured him. “So, Johnny, to wrap this up in a neat package, we need your fullest cooperation at the quickest possible speed, in getting us names and witnesses. We don't want a wave of murders, so we've got to smash this thing before it gets out of control.”

“I understand.”

“And of course,” said Davis, “everything to be done in as circumspect and unobtrusive a manner as possible.”

“Rest assured …” the Warners executive began to say, but never finished. The other men arose with much scraping of chairs on the floor.

“I think we should leave first, Dick,” Davis told the congressman.

“Fine,” he replied. “I hope Mr. Parker didn't find this a too out-of-the-way location. I know how busy he must be at the studio.”

“No problem,” Parker said manfully.

“But we must meet under these kinds of conditions,” Nixon continued, “to outwit a very shrewd and determined enemy. The only way to defeat deviousness and guile is to show a little deviousness and guile yourself. That's what the American people don't understand yet. They still think the Russians are our friends, they still think we're fighting the Germans together.”

“Check,” Davis concurred.

“But we're not,” Nixon went on.

“That's right, we're not,” Parker said, somewhat halfheartedly, I thought. I got the impression that Nixon was standing a half-inch from Parker, breathing a civics lesson into his face.

“No, we're fighting an enemy skilled beyond our imagination in the arts of subversion and espionage,” Nixon said urgently. “Who would have thought this great movie industry of ours would be honeycombed with men and women whose first allegiance was to Moscow.”

“As much of a shock to me, sir …” Parker attempted to say.

“So we've got to fight this fight,” Nixon was unrelenting, “in places like this. Lonely, drab places. Meeting in secret, in hiding. Like a war. Because that's what this is, a war.”

“Dick, we've got to go,” Davis said.

Final salutations were exchanged, then the two men left the inner office and walked out into the hall. I hustled back to Elwood's reception room and listened at the door. There was nothing to hear but two pairs of footsteps echoing down the hall. They paused, then exited via the stairs. I waited. Five minutes later, Parker took his leave, locking the office and walking briskly to the elevator. I heard the elevator doors open and close, then opened Elwood's door a crack and saw that the hall was empty. I closed up the office and raced for the stairs. The elevator was at three and descending. I flew down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street, turning the corner just as Parker emerged, blinking into the sunshine. He affixed sunglasses to his skull and disappeared inside the Rolls. I opened up my Chrysler and slid way down in the seat. The Rolls started up and moved out, taking a left on Third. I waited a beat and then resumed my pursuit of Johnny Parker. It was clear to me that all the action was flowing his way.

I was not mistaken.

We drove all the way back to Beverly Hills, a dull forty-minute trek. I yawned at lights and drummed my fingers on the dash. Traffic got extremely light as we entered Beverly Hills and I had to lay way back. Unless Parker was unconscious he was bound to notice the omnipresence of the black Chrysler.

Parker turned onto Rodeo Drive and pulled into the circular driveway of a white mansion. I stopped my car on Gregory and watched. Parker got out of the Rolls, holding his keys, and unlocked the ten-foot-high door of what I presumed to be his house. I sat and waited, undisturbed and undistracted. Gregory was a typically quiet Beverly Hills street, bearing no signs of human habitation: no stores, no people, no children scampering wildly on the sidewalks. There weren't even sidewalks. Just perfectly green and trimmed lawns, fronting gigantic homes that seemed to be lived in by automobiles. Gregory Street was soundless, except for birdsong and distant traffic.

And except for the white Cadillac convertible that suddenly sped past me, doing a conspicuous sixty miles per hour.

The Caddy hurtled down the street, turned left, and whipped around Parker's driveway, screeching to a stop bare inches behind the majestic Rolls. The driver of the Caddy jumped out and ran up to Parker's door. He leaned on the bell. The chimes could be faintly heard from where I sat. I removed a small but powerful pair of binoculars from my pocket and observed Parker's frantic visitor, pushing the bell over and over, holding a manila envelope in his hand.

It was Dale Carpenter, the cowboy actor.

The door opened and Parker expressed evident surprise and consternation. He recovered and shook the actor's hand, quickly guiding him into the house. Before closing the door behind them, Parker looked around in the classic, sickly manner of one fearful of observation. He
was
being watched. And so, in turn, was the watcher being watched.

I got out of my car and headed for Parker's house. It was a clumsy, witless play, but I didn't see any alternative, not if I wanted to remain even in remote touch with this case. I knew far too little to allow Carpenter to visit Parker, and spend that time half a block away snoozing in my car. It was worth the risk to get closer.

Then again, it wasn't worth the risk at all. The rest is dream. As I closed the car door, a large and moist hand clapped itself over my mouth and I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me. I turned to look, but as I did an opera house fell on my head. Time stretched wet and warm. Black waves pounded somewhere. I gazed down at my feet, but they were miles beneath me. I floated down, spinning toward my shoes very slowly, like a parachutist caught in a crosswind, descending at a snowflake's pace. I couldn't see my feet, then they flashed into view again, turning orange. The thought occurred to a part of me that I hadn't seen the man who had just smashed my skull, but it took much too long to think it all the way through, and as I neared the end of the thought, my shoes were racing up to meet me, and there was only time to crash.

8

A
  sea wind blew the closed blinds out and back, smacking against the open window. The room was dim and evening was settling into the ocean outside; gulls screeched and swooped to the rhythms of the dinner bell. Skimming the waters, I thought, adjusting their wings ever so slightly, fading orange sunset reflected on their bellies. Very free and beautiful. Very much unlike myself, a bald man bound hand and foot to a lumpy, fetid mattress.