December '41, page 16
Vivian stepped from the bathroom wearing fresh lipstick and more powder over her bruise.
Martin told her, “We’re discussing that man who invited me to play cards. The one with the slicked hair and the mustache.” He watched for a reaction, and yes …
Her eyes shifted. Her laugh came out more nervous than amused. “You mean the one trying to look like Rhett Butler with a beer belly?”
Martin said to Stanley, “I bet Sinclair Cook never tipped you a fiver.”
Contrary to the expectations of Martin Browning, who’d had little direct contact with Negroes but had seen too many Hollywood movies, Stanley’s eyes didn’t widen into bright white saucers at the sight of cash. They narrowed instead.
“Nobody tips me a five ’cause he likes how I make up a room.” Stanley was careful to add a “sir” at the end.
Martin put another bill into the Negro’s hand. “I tip lots of fives for information.”
“Well, sir, you never heard it from me. But if you plannin’ to play cards with Mr. Cook tonight, take a nap this afternoon. Once that game gets goin’, they play till breakfast. If Cook is winnin’, he’ll play right the way through to Chicago, and sometime around three in the mornin’, when everybody’s gettin’ sleepy, he’ll start dealin’ from the bottom.”
“Thanks, Stanley,” said Martin. “I’ll pace myself.”
As soon as the Negro stepped out, Vivian went to the control panel for air-conditioning, lighting, and radio and asked, “What kind of music would you like?”
Martin said, “Do you know how important it is to know your enemy?”
“My enemy?”
“A man who stalks a railcar, smelling of cheap aftershave and hair cream, leering at other men’s wives, even with a wife of his own on his arm? Such a man is a bluffer.”
“She’s not his wife.” Vivian turned up the music. Glen Miller, “Sunrise Serenade.”
“How would you know?”
And she decided on the truth. “Because I was his wife … once.”
“Married from Chicago to Los Angeles?”
“I performed wifely duties to earn my fare.”
“And then you regained your innocence?”
“I never regained my innocence. But I never lost my self-respect.”
And he thought better of sarcasm. He said, “You’re not expected to perform wifely duties for me, except in public.”
“I’d have ridden a covered wagon to get to California. That’s how big my dreams were. But California can kill your dreams.”
“So can men like that. Sometimes I think they’re the ones who deserve the killing.”
She didn’t hear the chill in his voice, only the confidence of a man who’d protect her from predators. She liked it. She stepped closer. The wheels rattled as the train curved toward the north and the warm rays of the morning sun slanted in.
She whispered, “That’s why I trust you. Cook was a pig.”
“Most men are. But he will not come rooting in our clean cabin.”
Glen Miller hit a high note as the gentle turn of the train caused her to lean into her “husband.” And she stayed close, so that their bodies were touching.
He whispered, “The room is too small to dance.”
“But to kiss?” She pressed her lips to his.
And he kissed her back. He couldn’t help it. He was not that cold.
* * *
KEVIN CUSACK COULD HAVE gazed out the window all day. It was like a Technicolor movie going by. Instead, he asked Sally, “What are we doing till lunch?”
“I’m doing it.” She held up her copy of Life magazine, the December 1 issue, with the B-17 on the cover. “And you wanted time to write, so write.”
“Writing wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he said, “if I had any ideas.”
“So … write about your friends in the FBI.”
Before that sarcasm blossomed into outright hostility, there was a knock: Stanley Smith, checking to see if everything was “up to snuff.”
“Snuffed up nicely,” said Kevin. “You work fast.”
Sally said, “Tell me, Stanley, about that couple my brother had breakfast with—”
“Oh, I don’t work Cochiti, ma’am. Dinin’ car is Harvey Company territory.”
“But the Kelloggs—are they regulars?”
“Now, ma’am, we don’t talk about other passengers.” Stanley waited to see if a hand dipped into a pocket, but some people never tipped until the end. So he offered a little gossip now for a bigger tip later. “They’re ridin’ my car for the first time, ma’am.”
After Stanley left, Kevin said, “Why did you ask that?”
“Something about that Harold Kellogg. I can’t place him, but—”
“He’s not FBI, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Kevin grabbed his briefcase. “I’ll be in the observation car. I need a smoke. Helps me to think. Maybe I’ll think up the Great American Screenplay.”
* * *
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES SOUTH OF downtown L.A., Terminal Island gave home to three thousand Japanese and their American-born descendants, all living close-knit around the tuna fleet and the cannery, a whole community of experienced fishermen, hard workers, good citizens, and since December 7, all suspects. So nobody was getting on or off the island ferry unless they had a good ID, like Frank Carter’s FBI badge.
Seaside Avenue, the main drag, ran past Japanese homes and docks, down to the new federal detention center at the southern tip of the island. The steel bars and poured concrete were all painted a pretty yellow, and a red tile roof made the whole joint look like one of those Spanish missions. In Hollywood, even the slammer had a false front.
Among the Germans at Terminal: Hans Schmidt, caretaker of the Murphy Ranch, and Hermann Schwinn, self-proclaimed Führer of the Bund.
Frank Carter called first for Schmidt, who’d pleaded ignorance on Monday morning and by Saturday acted as if he’d been struck dumb. No, he had no list of the marksmen who used the target range. No, he didn’t know the dead men in the autopsy photos. No, he’d have no more to say. He’d respect the chain of command and let Herr Schwinn speak for them all.
So Carter sent Schmidt back to his cell and called for the big fish.
While he waited, he reread the file on Schwinn: former bank clerk who migrated to America in 1923; ran a travel agency for tourists to Germany; became leader of the Bund in 1934; suspected to have planned the theft of weapons from armories on the West Coast; plotted the kidnapping and hanging of Jewish movie executives; bribed L.A. police officers; and planned a gas attack in the Shrine Auditorium during the ’38 Anti-Nazi League rally. Most of the plots had fizzled, thanks to incompetence and info from spies in the LAJCC.
But if these Nazis were flops as terrorists and saboteurs, they were hotshots at publicity, and in Hollywood, that was the name of the game. Every few months, Schwinn had sent Bundsters to the roof of some building on Hollywood Boulevard to toss leaflets. They called it snowstorming. But their stunts weren’t about selling movies. They sold hate: “Jews! Jews! Jews everywhere! Out with the Jews! Let white people run this country as they did before the Jewish invasion.”
Schwinn had lost his citizenship on a technicality, but he was married to an American, so he’d avoided jail or deportation … until now. He sauntered into the interrogation room looking relaxed and arrogant in a denim shirt and blue dungarees.
Carter gestured for him to sit, then threw a folder on the table. “You know what’s in there? Names, money, maps…”
Schwinn looked at the folder. “Did you get them from the Jew Lewis?”
“I got them from you, when you gave us the keys at Deutsches Haus.”
Schwinn folded his arms, as if to say that he—and not they—were in charge here.
“You really think you’re smarter than you are, don’t you?” said Carter.
“Smarter than we are,” added Agent McDonald, who took his lead from his boss.
Carter pulled out an envelope containing a wad of cash, big bills, all crisp and new. “We also found this.”
“I hope you signed for it.” Schwinn spoke perfect English, right down to the sarcasm.
“It’s not counterfeit. That would be too easy. But you’re getting this dough from somebody who thinks big envelopes of cash are a good investment.”
“In what?” asked Schwinn.
“In doing the stuff that put you in prison denims.”
Schwinn said, “Denims or Bund uniform, it’s all the same if you serve an idea.”
“What do you serve?” asked Carter.
“I serve the ideals of German culture,” answered Schwinn with a kind of bland detachment. “I am no anti-Semite, and I have no connection to any Nazi officials.”
“Stop the bullshit!” Carter slammed his hand on the table.
McDonald jumped back, as if shocked by such a show of anger from Carter. Good cop and bad cop was the play.
Schwinn smoothed his little Hitler mustache and straightened his rimless Himmler glasses and shot a glance at McDonald, as if to ask, What’s wrong with your boss?
Carter leaned over Schwinn’s shoulder, opened the folder to an autopsy photo. “Who’s that?”
Schwinn looked. “Emile Gunst.”
“He took cyanide to keep from talking.”
That was a lie, but maybe the picture would get Schwinn talking. It didn’t.
So Carter flipped to another photo. “This man was found in the trunk of his car in the parking lot of the Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank.”
Schwinn looked at the name. “‘Arthur Koppel.’ A Jew. In the Bund? Do you try to be funny, Agent Carter, or does it come like nature?”
Carter flipped to the next picture. This time, he heard a sharp intake of breath.
Whether Schwinn knew of Kessler’s death, he was shocked by the sight of him, cold, naked, cut and dried, in glossy black-and-white.
Carter let Schwinn swallow his shock, then said, “We think the same guy who killed the lawyer killed Kessler. Same weapon. Same cut. Quick and clean. Kessler worked for you, didn’t he?”
“What would Kessler have in common with a Jew lawyer?”
“He was also one of the Bund bouncers. Did he carry brass knuckles?”
Schwinn said, “A good weapon stops trouble before it happens.”
“Speaking of weapons”—Carter flipped to the photo of a Springfield rifle—“we found this in Kessler’s trunk. His prints were all over it. The only other prints belonged to this man”—Carter turned to another photo—“found under the Hyperion Bridge.”
Schwinn drew another breath, brought a hand to his mustache, then to his glasses.
McDonald gave Carter a nod. They both knew a giveaway when they saw one.
Carter said to Schwinn, “Who is he?”
Schwinn shook his head. “I know Kessler, but this one—”
“Don’t bullshit us.” Frank Carter homed in. “The coroner’s report says he died from the fall, but first, somebody beat the shit out of him … with brass knuckles.” Carter flipped to a picture of the bloody bruise in the victim’s rib cage.
Schwinn turned toward the barred window, as if none of this were his concern.
Carter put a rifle cartridge on the table. “I picked up a dozen of these on the target range at the Murphy Ranch. We think these two stiffs were there Monday. Shooting.”
Schwinn straightened his glasses again.
Carter produced the other cartridge. “We also think there was another shooter, practicing with a pistol. Maybe a Mauser C96. Who are the pistol champs in your Bund?”
“You have my papers,” said Schwinn. “Go through them.”
Carter kept pushing. “Whoever the third man was, he killed Kessler, didn’t he? And he was a trained professional, too, not like the slobs in the Bund.”
“I know of no third shooter.”
“But somebody killed Kessler after Kessler killed this young guy—”
“His name is Stengle. Thomas Stengle.” Schwinn said the name as if he’d decided to give up something. Was he cracking … or playing them? “A tradesman, like Kessler.”
Carter looked at McDonald. “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”
“They practiced at the Murphy Ranch on Monday mornings,” said Schwinn. “Just the two of them.”
“One with a Springfield and one with a Mauser?” asked Carter.
Schwinn nodded. “Stengle spoke often of how much he loved his Mauser. Find his apartment, you might find his gun.”
“What’s his address?”
“I can’t do all your work for you. Find it yourself.”
“We will,” said Carter. “But help me to understand something, Hermann: Two men practice shooting in a secluded location. One of them kills the other. Then he’s killed by a guy who also kills a Jewish lawyer. What’s going on?”
“Coincidence?” Schwinn rolled his eyes. “Or logic.”
“Logic?”
“Kessler could be annoying. Jews are annoying. Therefore killing Kessler is like killing a Jew.”
“Is it coincidence,” asked Carter, “when the dead Jew lives in Pacific Palisades, right up the street from the Murphy Ranch?”
Schwinn offered nothing but another round of telling fidgets.
Carter leaned close. “There was a third man on that range, wasn’t there?”
Schwinn raised his chin. “Kessler and Stengle practiced together. They were getting ready for der Tag. That is what I know.”
“What we know is that you’re a good liar. You might even be good enough to get by when they haul you in front of the Alien Enemy Hearing Board. But if something bad happens, something that includes a Mauser C96—”
“I have told you what I know.”
“—I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life, which may be very short if you end up in general population.” Carter swept everything up and called for the guard.
* * *
KEVIN CUSACK WAS SITTING in the observation car. He lit a cigarette and looked around. At the writing desk, a mother and her little girl worked on a coloring book. On the other side, two older women who looked like sisters talked and laughed as if they hadn’t seen each other in a long time. In a seat by herself, the young “wife” of Mr. Brylcreem thumbed a magazine and looked worn out. By what? he wondered.
And that was how a writer was supposed to work. Observe the surroundings, consider the people inhabiting them, collect details, take notes, invent situations. Maybe that’s why they called this the observation car.
Now, Harold Kellogg pushed through the door, saw Kevin, came toward him.
Kevin liked this guy, who seemed more relaxed than most salesmen, as if he was so confident of his product—or himself—that he knew both would sell themselves. In a world of glad-handers, a guy like this stood out.
He dropped into the chair next to Kevin and asked, “How’s your sister?”
“She’s reading. It puts her in a better mood.”
“My wife’s reading Gone with the Wind. I had to leave when she started blubbering over the death of little Bonnie.” In truth, Martin Browning had removed himself after kissing Vivian … because he’d kissed her. She was a tool, he told himself, not a plaything. He put a cigarette between his lips, and Kevin flicked his lighter. After a drag, Martin asked, “So how is it that your name is Cusack, and your sister—”
Kevin leaned closer. “Can you keep a secret, Harry?”
Harry: So they were now on a nickname basis, thought Martin. Americans quickly overcame any pretension to formality. It was a quality that he disliked. But he was glad his deception was working. He said, “I am excellent with secrets.” He did not say he would keep them, because secrets, like everything else, were meant to be used.
Kevin Cusack said, “She’s not my sister.”
Martin wondered if that revelation was a ploy to gain his trust or actually revealed how little Kevin Cusack knew about the man he was talking to.
“Not every couple aboard is married,” said Kevin. “Not like you and your wife.”
If Cusack was looking for information, thought Martin, he wouldn’t get any. He said, “The talent agencies are full of girls who got to Hollywood with the help of a gentleman who was neither her husband nor her brother—”
“Nor a gentleman,” said Kevin.
“And when those girls give up, they go home the same way they got out here. Like her.” Martin gestured toward Mr. Brylcreem’s “wife.” She’d pulled the curtains behind her and appeared now to be asleep behind her sunglasses.
Kevin said, “I’ve traveled out and back twice. Seen a lot of guys like Sinclair Cook. Cheats on his wife, probably cheats at cards, too.”
Martin Browning was still on his guard, but the concerns of Kevin Cusack seemed to have nothing to do with Nazi hunting. He asked, “Will you play in his game tonight?”
“I hope to be otherwise engaged.”
Martin Browning laughed. When a man told you something so private, best to laugh like a brother and file the information. Then he picked up the L.A. Times. Kevin Cusack looked again at his work. And there they sat, sipping coffee, smoking, reading and writing, while the train roared across the desert.
After another ten minutes, Martin looked over Kevin’s shoulder and said, “What are you writing? Something ripped from the headlines, maybe?”
“Plenty of headlines to rip from.”
“Imagine the story you could tell about this place”—Martin held up the newspaper—“this Deutsches Haus.” The headline read, DOWNTOWN BUND HALL SHUTTERED; FBI RAID LEADS TO ARRESTS.
Kevin glanced at the paper and said, “The Bund Hall? On Fifteenth at Figueroa.”
Martin noticed a tightening of the voice, a shifting of the eyes. “You know of it?”
“Everybody knows where the L.A. Nazis hang out.”
Martin noticed “Mrs. Cook” look up and pay attention from behind her sunglasses. Talk of Nazis could get anyone’s attention these days.
“But what do I know of Nazis?” said Kevin. “It’s just something I heard.”
Martin smiled an innocent smile, straight out of the Harold Kellogg smile book.
Kevin said nothing more. None of it mattered anymore. He’d left the Bund behind. He’d left the LAJCC behind. He’d left Hollywood behind. He was done sticking his neck out.
