Hollywood and Levine (6 page)

“Why in the back lot, for heaven's sake?” blurted Carroll Arthur, Jr. Arthur had pasty cratered skin and was quite drunk. I don't think he heard Goldmark's question. “Why the back lot?”

“I don't know why the back lot,” I said. “No worse a place than any. If you don't die in your own bed, you might as well croak in a Ferris wheel. That's my opinion.”

“The note?” asked Dale Carpenter, clearly troubled behind his blankly handsome features.

“Yes, LeVine, a note?” This was Perillo, a stocky man with broad shoulders, a crewcut, and an earnest, friendly manner. His brown eyes protruded a bit, like Peter Lorre's.

Rachel Wohl came down the stairs.

“How's she doing?” I asked.

“She's strong as an ox,” Mrs. Wohl answered, with some admiration but very little love. She took a seat and peered at me coldly. “I hear talk about a note. What did it say? Did it mention anyone?”

Wohl threw his wife a murderous glance and she reddened.

“Did it give a reason?” she forged on, then turned on her husband. “For Christ's sake, Milt, stop staring at me! I know what I'm doing!” June Arthur started sniffling into her handkerchief. This was a very relaxed group of people.

“Folks, it is no business of mine to say whether or not Walter left a note,” I said, “let alone give it a dramatic reading.”

“Why?” demanded Mrs. Wohl.

“Because notes are much too private. It's Mrs. Adrian's prerogative,” I told her.

“He's right,” said Perillo.

“Thank you.” We smiled at each other, like two attendants in a lunatic asylum.

“I agree,” said Friedland. That made three.

“Did you read the note, LeVine?” asked Carpenter.

“I didn't say there was a note. I'm saying that if there was, it's up to Helen Adrian to do with it what she wants. Now if there
wasn't
a note, maybe it wasn't suicide.” I looked around and sipped my bourbon. “Anybody here know why someone would want to spring a trapdoor under Walter?”

I was always a terrible party pooper. There weren't any gasps, that's only in the Charlie Chan movies, but it got as quiet as a serious game of poker. Noses were rubbed, feet and hands were contemplated. The composer Friedland, a heavy-set man with red cheeks, untamed curls, and steel-rimmed spectacles, finally cleared his throat. In the silence, it registered like the downshifting of a truck.

“You are suggesting a murder, perhaps, Mr. LeVine?” was his thoughtful, heavily-accented question.

“I'm suggesting it, but not claiming it. I don't have any special information, Mr. Friedland. All I found was a dead man.”

“Then there
wasn't
a note.” Carpenter jumped on my words like a lawyer.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “Murder doesn't exclude a faked note, typed up and inserted in the victim's pocket. But why won't anyone tell me whether Walter had the kind of enemies who might conceivably do him in?”

“He didn't have those kind of enemies,” said Goldmark. “People in the industry loved Walter.”

“And Walter loved Walter, too,” mumbled Arthur. “It's all nuts.”

“I'm with Arthur,” I said. “So far, nothing matches.”

“Walter was very despondent recently,” said Perillo. “Terribly so. Why do you doubt suicide, Mr. LeVine?”

“It's my job to doubt things. That's why Walter hired me. But let me accept suicide. Okay, now why are you all so scared of a note? What do you think Walter wrote on it?”

The sound got shut off again. Goldmark got up and walked to a corner of the living room; with a twitch of his eyebrows, he gestured for me to join him. As I did, Wohl huddled with Carpenter, Perillo, and Carroll Arthur. Arthur had trouble getting to his feet.

Goldmark was chewing gum furiously. He winked at me. “You struck a nerve, LeVine,” he said quietly, lighting an Old Gold and squinting as the smoke sailed directly into his eyes.

“What goes on? I walk into a wake and it turns into Twenty Questions.”

“Things are happening,” Goldmark said.

“Thanks for the tip. Can I see you tomorrow?”

Goldmark looked over his shoulder, back to where Adrian's friends were buzzing among themselves.

“Why?”

“I'd like to know what happened to Walter.”

“He died. Let it be, LeVine. Don't get into a mess.”

“Sorry, but I can't just walk away from this. See me tomorrow and get it over with. It won't take long.”

He put on his coat and a tweed cap, and handed me a business card.

“Tomorrow at three. If you change your mind, call.”

Wohl, Perillo, Friedland, and Carpenter joined us.

“We've been discussing what you said, LeVine,” Perillo began. “If Walter could trust you, I guess maybe we can.”

“LeVine,” said Wohl, “we
are
worried about a note.”

“Excuse me,” Goldmark interrupted, eager to leave. “Night folks. Milt, see you tomorrow. Everybody.” He waved an undirected good-bye and slipped out the door.

“Agents,” snorted Friedland.

“Larry's a good boy,” Wohl said thoughtfully. “This just scared the shit out of him. Scares the shit out of me, too.”

Carpenter threw his arm around me, confidential-like.

“The problem is this, LeVine, straight and simple. We are worried that Walter was the first victim of something, call it a wave of fear, that's just begun in the last month or so to infect the movie industry. If we seem concerned, maybe a little hysterical, it's because those of us who were …” he groped for the word, “
associated
with Walter feel that his death marks a deepening of this crisis. We sense a chill in the air.”

“Does this chill have something to do with politics?” I asked. “Walter signed his name to everything but candy wrappers.”

Wohl's smile was a history of regrets. “So did we all, LeVine.”

“What exactly did Walter tell you when he asked you to come out here?” asked Perillo.

“That's confidential, even if he's dead now. But he basically told me very little. Just that there was some trouble he wanted me to investigate.”

“And that was it?” asked Wohl.

“Just about.”

“Let's not beat around the bush,” Carpenter said with sudden force. “LeVine, we might need you as much as Walter did. That's why we're standing around here now, trying to figure out what was on Walter's mind. We're not ghouls. It's a practical problem we're facing. Careers are at stake.”

There was much nodding of heads.

“I lived through it before,” Friedland said solemnly. “Progressive people being hounded to their deaths.”

Rachel Wohl came up to her husband and took his arm.

“Milt, I told the sitter we'd be back by eleven.”

Wohl looked sheepish. “Children.”

Friedland beamed like a Viennese Santa. “Ah,
die schönen kinder
.”

We all decided it was time to go. Carroll Arthur and his wife were going to stay overnight in case Mrs. Adrian needed anything. June Arthur was reasonably sober, but Carroll was still swimming at the deep end. Mrs. Arthur smiled at me.

“It'll be okay. Helen's a strong girl.”

I told her I thought so too, and then the whole pack of us got our coats and headed outside, saying our good-byes and shaking hands. It had gotten a good deal cooler and a stiff breeze had the palms bending like catapults. I looked back at the Adrian place; the upstairs lights were still on and I guessed that Helen Adrian wasn't going to sleep well tonight. Nothing in this world is as empty as a man's house on the evening he dies. Everything in the house seems to die with him.

The cars started backing out of the driveway. I got into my Chrysler and started up. No neighbors were out. There seemed to be peace and quiet and ignorance on Escadero Road. But as I drove off I was certain that dozens of eyes were peeking through dozens of curtains.

4

T
he sun was beating on the curtains and a brilliant patch of dust-filled light hung over my bed, the particles tumbling silently like snow in a glass paperweight. I watched with pleasure, a child waking in his crib, snug, and yawning. I stretched and kicked the sheets. It was a quarter to seven in the morning and there was no way, save anesthesia, that I could get back to sleep. My head was busy and lucid, my stomach was roaring; against all my historic principles and precepts, I arose for the day.

A shower and shave, fresh underwear and yesterday's brown suit. Humming all the while, I tied the tie and crossed the laces, hitting the street at a quarter past, a hungry lion stalking breakfast on the veldt. The day was a gleaming beauty, heralded by a chorus of birds perched in the Real's fruit trees. Gentle sunlight and easy warmth fell on my back; I smiled at a familiar bald shadow on the pavement. On Sunset Boulevard, an elderly couple sat on a bench in the sunshine, waiting for a bus. They looked very happy. I thought about moving to L.A. then remembered the reason I was out here in the first place. But it wasn't enough to make me feel bad; I felt a certain detachment from the Adrian case. It really wasn't my problem, was it? I had found my own bit of California, if only a California of morning walks to coffee shops. I felt wonderful. It lasted almost half an hour.

Over freshly squeezed juice, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a pot of coffee, I opened up the
Los Angeles Times
for news of Adrian's death. I figured it would be a page one item, given the bizarre circumstances, but the
Times
had the story, with a head shot of Walter, on the bottom of page three.

WALTER ADRIAN FOUND DEAD
SCREENWRITER APPARENT SUICIDE

Screenwriter Walter Adrian was found dead last night at Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank, an apparent suicide. The body of the forty-year-old Adrian, whose many credits included
Three-Star Extra, Boy From Brooklyn, Berlin Commando
, and
Beloved Heart
, was discovered by a close friend. Los Angeles Police Lieutenant George Wynn said the probable cause of death was strangulation and there was “no evidence of foul play.” He would not divulge whether a note had been found.

Studio officials and friends told the
Times
that Adrian had been despondent for some time, but all were shocked at the writer's death. Said Jack Warner, “All of us at Warner Brothers mourn the tragic passing of Walter Adrian. He was a man of great character, as well as a writer of enormous skill. Millions of Americans, who loved
Three-Star Extra, Berlin Commando, Beloved Heart
, and the forthcoming Easter release,
Alias Pete Costa
, will miss him.”

Adrian's long-time friend, Academy Award-winning scenarist Milton Wohl declared that “the world has lost a fighter for decency, the industry has lost a courageous and gifted voice, and I have lost a dear, dear friend.”

Adrian is survived by his wife, Helen. Funeral services will be held Friday at Temple B'nai Sholom, in Beverly Hills. Persons are asked not to send flowers, but to forward contributions to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and the American Civil Liberties Union.

The power of the press to play things up and play things down never ceased to amaze me. The spectacular fact that Adrian had been found dangling from a gallows on the Western Street at Warners, a fact my beloved
Daily News
would have spread all over the front page, with pictures (“SCRIBE'S LAST ROUNDUP”), went unmentioned. It appeared that Warners' flaks had worked overtime, either at getting the cops to keep mum or holding their advertising power to the
Times'
throat. For myself, I was grateful to have become an anonymous “friend.” The story left the unmistakable impression that all concerned were handling the matter with tongs.

When I got back to the hotel, the desk clerk handed me a piece of. paper with a telephone message from Lieutenant Wynn. The message was that I was to go, immediately and directly, to his office. The half hour was up; blue skies or gray, I was a small-time shamus in a familiar creek
sans
paddle.

Wynn didn't really have an office; it was a cubicle set in a bullpen on the third floor of the downtown L.A. police headquarters, a building that would not have looked out of place in Long Island City's warehouse district. The bullpen was a long green room full of cranky homicide dicks in threadbare sports jackets and the insistent din of teletype machines and ringing telephones. Wynn's cubicle had flimsy green partition walls topped by a foot of frosted glass, but there was a good fifteen feet between the glass and the ceiling. He had a kind of privacy, but not much more than you find in the pay toilets of a metropolitan bus terminal.

“Lovely setup here,” I told him.

Wynn was alone today. He chewed a pencil and surveyed me from behind a bare municipal-issue desk. “It'll do,” he said. “As a matter of fact it doesn't do, but it'll have to do. So it does. Have a seat.”

I perched myself on a municipal—issue chair a straights backed beauty with no arms and a seat treated with iron. Wynn sat swiveling back and forth in his small metal chair, never taking the pencil from his molars or his eyes away from me. It is what cops call psychology. They take courses.

“What are you trying to do,” I finally said, “break me?”

“Big mouth,” Wynn said softly. He stopped swiveling and leaned across the top of his desk. “A New York big mouth. We get lots of them out here, know-it-alls.” He smiled at me like he knew something that I didn't. Very likely, because I didn't know a thing.

There was a rap at the door; Lemon and Caputo strolled in, bored to death, and sat down on opposite sides of Wynn's desk, like bookends. Caputo handed Wynn a manila folder. The lieutenant opened it and examined the contents very critically, very police lab. Lemon and Caputo slid off the desk and left the office.