Hollywood and Levine (7 page)

“They're bright boys,” I said. “I could use a couple like that.”

Wynn ignored the remark. “LeVine, we're about to close the books on this Adrian suicide. I just want to tie it up with ribbons.” He leaned back in his chair and stuck a Kaywoodie pipe between his yellow teeth. It didn't make him look anything like a Harvard professor.

“You're absolutely sure it was suicide?”

Wynn lit up, smoke billowing from both sides of his mouth. “As sure as I have to be,” he said. “Your pal Adrian was as Red as a firetruck. That's why he croaked himself.”

“How Red is a firetruck?”

“Very. A firetruck carries a little card in its pocket which says it thinks Russia's the greatest thing since bottled beer.” His teeth clamped down hard on the stem of the pipe. “But I'm not telling you anything new.”

“Walter was a Communist?”

Wynn smiled with subpolar warmth.

“Not bad, LeVine. You take acting lessons in New York?” He started leafing through his folder.

“You're going to roll on the floor, Lieutenant, but he never told me.”

“The floor's too dirty,” the cop said without looking up, “but imagine that I'm rolling.”

Funny thing was that despite what I remembered about Walter's politics at City, and despite his disconnected remarks at Lindy's, I hadn't really figured on his joining the Party. Maybe I hadn't figured because I didn't want to, because I wanted to make the case simpler than it was, but there it was, suddenly as obvious as a cloudburst. Walter was a world-saver from day one, I knew that well enough; he wept for the ninety-nine percent of the earth's transients who got screwed from both ends and between the eyes. He'd sign anything and not ask why; he believed that his motives—concern, empathy, economic outrage—were everyone's motives. Besides which, Walter had delicate antennae for social survival; if the right people in Hollywood had begun joining the Party ranks, it probably occurred to him that following their lead would not have an adverse effect on his career. This is not to say that Walter's ideals were not genuine. It is to say that, like all of us, Walter's revolution began at home.

“What's your evidence?” I asked Wynn.

“It could fill a freight car, take my word for it.”

“Your what for it? Listen, even granting the evidence, why does Walter's being a Red necessarily prove suicide?”

Wynn continued to leaf through the folder.

“It doesn't, necessarily, but in this case I believe it does.”

“Why?”

“Because the word is that being a Red is going to go out of style around here, and fast.”

“Another Scare?”

“Something like that. A lot of people, and some very big people, are going to get burned.”

Things began falling into place. The tension among Adrian's friends. Carpenter's saying that they all might be needing help, the panicky questions about a suicide note.

Wynn broke up my line of thought. “Why did he fly you out here, LeVine?”

“He was worried.”

“About what?”

I shook my head. “He's still my client. I can't tell you that.”

Wynn's pipe went out. He relit it. “Okay, another tack,” he said. “Was he desperately worried?”

“Not suicidally, if that's what you mean. By the way, how come a writer kills himself and there's no note? And how come there's a swelling on the back of his head like someone might have sapped him?”

Wynn waved me off. “Quit it, LeVine, you're trying too hard. Lots of suicides don't leave notes, writers and stationery salesmen included. The swelling checks out as well; he got a crack on his head going through the trapdoor.”

“The door isn't that small,” I told him. “And I don't figure stringing yourself up on a gallows. How can you reach the lever while standing on a trapdoor?”

Wynn stared up at a large globe light suspended from the ceiling.

“Don't have to,” he said casually, distractedly. He extracted a yellow sheet from his folder. “LeVine, let me clear something up in my mind. Why did he fly you out here? Why not hire a local peeper?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that he's an old friend, that we attended …”

“‘In 1927,'” Wynn began reading from the yellow sheet of paper, “‘Levine's name appears on a petition in the City College of New York student newspaper, calling for a pardon in the case of Sacco and Vanzetti. In 1937, Levine, now a private investigator working under the name of LeVine,'” Wynn lifted his head and smiled, at which point I barely controlled an impulse to knock his teeth through the back of his head, “‘sent money and an offer of personal help to Spanish Refugee Aid. He repeated that offer, and forwarded another check to Spanish Refugee Aid in 1938.'” Wynn handed me the yellow sheet. “There it is, in black and white.”

The sheet was a memo to Wynn from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, from Agent Clarence White.

“You request these as a matter of routine?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he said sharply, “but this is a special case, highly sensitive.”

“I see. So you requested that the FBI run a check on me?”

Wynn was discomfited.

“The FBI is helping us on this one.”

“That's not an answer.”

“You're not in a position to demand answers, Levine or Vine or whatever you call yourself. Not with an FBI file on you.” He was getting pretty ugly.

“That's a file? A petition signed in '27 and two checks sent out a decade later? Come on, Wynn, you're being silly.”

His broad nostrils flared, he poked a finger at his chest.

“You won't find an FBI file on George Wynn,” he said proudly.

“Maybe that's because you never cared about a goddamn thing. I thought General Franco was a dog in 1937 and I still think he's a dog. Tomorrow I'll think he's a dog. Call me and I'll tell you so. As for poor old Sacco and Vanzetti, I don't remember what I thought. I was twenty-one and I didn't like to see people killed. I still don't. And I cannot believe that the FBI considers that chickenshit as worth keeping on file.”

“That's not for you to judge,” the lieutenant said coolly. His tone had changed. He had the goods on me, he was Mr. Prosecutor. “Are you still going to tell me that Walter Adrian hired you merely because you were a college chum?”

That was enough for me; that was plenty. I arose and started bellowing.

“Okay, Wynn, you got me dead to rights. I knew I couldn't hide it much longer from L.A. Homicide. You're too sharp for a bald Jewboy like me. Here's how it happened, but try and make it easy on me, willya? Adrian flew into New York, took a hack to my office, and slipped me the secret Red handshake. I can't reveal it to you here, even in the relative security of this office. Then he paid me three hundred bucks and expenses to fly out here. Why?
Voilà
, it's simplicity itself. Because he intended to hang himself, of course.”

“Sit down,” Wynn said fiercely, “or I'll throw you in the can.”

“For what, the petition about killing the shoemaker and fishpeddler or the checks to the refugees?” I put on my hat and went to the door. It opened and Lemon and Caputo stood blocking my way. They grabbed me by either arm. I turned to Wynn.

“So help me Christ, these two shitheads better let go,” I said in a low growl, as close to menacing as I could muster.

Wynn, in a sudden attack of intelligence, told them to leave. He snapped his fingers and they vanished.

“LeVine,” he said placidly, “you're behaving very badly today.”

I stood by the door.

“I don't enjoy threats, Lieutenant, but I particularly don't enjoy dumb threats. That FBJ crap,” I waved toward the folder, “that's an insult.”

The cop puffed bleakly on his pipe and I realized the G-man routine wasn't his idea.

“You don't like it too much yourself, do you, Wynn?”

“Go back to New York,” he said quietly, his eyes dull and unhappy. “We don't need you here anymore.”

“That's reason enough for me to stay. I was hired to find out why Walter was in trouble. I'd still like to find out.”

“You found out.”

“Not good enough; I'm not satisfied.”

“Sometimes you ought to be satisfied with being unsatisfied. It's part of life.”

“I'm unsatisfied and leave it that way too goddamn many times. I'm tired of it.”

Wynn stood up and walked to the door. He had had enough of me, enough of my mouth and enough of my doubts. There were loose ends all over the place and he knew it and couldn't do anything about it. No homicide dick enjoys that.

“Bye, LeVine,” he said, opening the door. “Hope we don't have to meet again.”

“I think we will.”

“I think we won't. This is being put to bed. Let it sleep.”

We didn't shake hands but only nodded to each other, unconvinced of each other's words and intentions. I don't think I've ever left a cop's office feeling any other way.

5

L
arry Goldmark was feeling much better today. Color had returned to his cheeks and he sat behind his mahogany desk sipping a Coca-Cola and smiling. He gestured around the room with his free hand. “What a mess, huh? We've only been here three weeks.”

Books and manuscripts littered the agent's desk, a coffee table, and miles of shelf space. Cardboard boxes, sealed and tied with rope, were stacked up behind a red felt-covered couch. Dark curtains shut out the afternoon sun. Goldmark caught me looking at them.

“You're having a typical New York reaction,” he said cheerily. “Why live in California if you're going to keep the curtains closed, right? I'll tell you something: after a couple of months you take the sunshine for granted. I work better in the dark. Sid keeps his drapes open and that, as the man said, is what makes horse races.”

Sid was Goldmark's partner in the agency, Sidney Margolies. They had relocated to a three-room suite in the La Paloma Building on Beverly Boulevard, a building as yet unfinished. Workmen still crawled around the lobby floor in white overalls. Goldmark-Margolies was one of a dozen tenants.

“We were in a tiny office on Wilshire and the lease ran out,” Goldmark explained. “We had to move. I don't give a damn if the lobby isn't finished, as long as the elevator runs.”

He laughed but I didn't, so he stopped.

“Business good?” I asked.

Goldmark solemnly rapped his knuckles on the desk.

“Knock wood. Like beavers. Since the war, Sid and I have built one of the most successful shops in town. And we started from scratch, I mean
scratch
.”

“You mainly represent writers?”

He leaned way back in his leather recliner and stuck a polished black shoe up on his desk, careful to place the heel on a script.

“We started with only writers, but we've picked up a director or three,” the agent said contentedly. “We're just starting to take off. Our growth has been terrific, considering the problems in the industry: postwar readjustment, the television scare.” He broke off. “But you're not interested in that end. Let's talk detective talk.”

“I'm not so hot at detective talk,” I said amiably. “The guys on radio do it better. But it's nice to see you so relaxed today, Goldmark. Seemed to me you were pretty hard hit last night.”

Goldmark nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, Jack. I was a man in total shock yesterday evening. Completely numb. Returning to Walter's house and remembering the good times, well …” His voice carefully trailed off. “To be perfectly frank with you, I just wanted to get the hell out of there. It got to me.”

“I can understand that. But today you feel fine.”

He tensed slightly. “Don't make it sound like a crime, pal. I'm still upset but today is today, and the big parade goes on, no?” He held out his hands in a gesture of philosophic acceptance. He understood life's mysteries and tragedies, this gold-plated putz.

“
Comme ci, comme ça
,” he continued. “I'll level with you, Jack, if you're interested.”

“Please.”

“Walter was a sick man,” he said, very serious and sincere now, “and he shouldn't have done what he did. It was irresponsible, to Helen, to his friends, to the industry. But it's done. You're not going to bring Walter back, I'm not going to bring Walter back. So let's go on.”

“With what?”

Goldmark looked at me oddly, then his phone buzzed and he picked up. “No calls, Judy. Who? Okay.” He smiled at me. “Sorry, Jack, but I've been waiting for this bum to return a call for a week.”

“I understand.”

“Business is business.” His apologies were nonstop. Goldmark winked at me and then began hollering into the mouthpiece. “Robby, my friend. How's the boy? Darryl told me you had some kind of a flu bug. Sure, Darryl talks to me. It's all in the technique.” He laughed and laughed, looking at me with a big grin as if I, too, were supposed to start guffawing. I responded by picking my teeth with my thumbnail.

“Listen, amigo, reason I called,” the agent was saying, was this …” He stopped and rolled out the mortician's carpet. “Oh, it's awful about Walter. Crazy. But between you and me, Robby, I saw it coming for a long time. He was a very unhappy man.” Goldmark paused and shook his head somberly, as if Robby could see him. “Of course he shouldn't have done it. It was irresponsible, to Helen, to his friends, to the industry. I'm sick about the whole thing. He was a client, sure, but before that, a friend.” He listened a bit more and looked at his watch. “Rob, reason I called is this: Mike Adler is coming into town next Monday and would love to talk to you people about an idea he's got. You've got a call from London? Okay. Listen, you'll be at Walter's funeral tomorrow? Fine, we'll put our heads together afterwards. Love ya.”