December '41, page 9
Carter said to the German, “Did he take any of these?”
“One,” answered the German. “He said it would make him feel better.”
Carter looked at Hood. “Maybe it did.”
* * *
FROM OUTSIDE, THE ROSSITER Agency looked like an old colonial mansion on the Sunset Strip. But inside was a hive of offices, reception areas, and meeting rooms, all decorated with glorious posters from the movies that clients had appeared in. Beau Geste, Bringing Up Baby, Jezebel, and a lot more.
The receptionist gave Vivian Hopewell the usual runaround. “Mr. Rossiter’s at a meeting. If you’d like to leave your headshot—”
Vivian was having none of it. She said, “Tell him I have a one-time-only proposition. If he wants it, he gets the best Marlene Dietrich look-alike in town. If he doesn’t, he can go and screw himself, because I sure won’t—”
“Why, Vivian … hello.” Rossiter came in behind her.
She turned, embarrassed. Much easier to stand up to the secretary than the boss.
“I’m just back from Paramount.” Rossiter grinned. “Had a breakfast meeting with DeMille. In fact, I was talking about you.”
She felt her resolve melt. “DeMille?”
Rossiter told the receptionist to hold all calls. Then he made a little gesture to Vivian. This way … up the circular staircase to his second-floor office. He held the door for her, then ever-so-quietly closed it and turned the latch.
Just like last time, she thought. DeMille, my ass.
He told her to have a seat. He dropped behind his desk and popped a Sen-Sen. Then he leaned forward, put his elbows on his blotter, and tented his fingers as if he were studying her through the lens of his own camera. He was a small man … and a little one, too. All comb-over and mustache and dirty thoughts radiating off his round face.
Behind him was one of the best views in town. The Sunset Strip ran along a ridge that overlooked the whole L.A. basin. When she’d been on her knees under that desk six weeks earlier, she’d distracted herself from a distasteful task by admiring the view.
Rossiter asked if he could get her anything.
“A job. You promised me a job six weeks ago. I paid in advance. Remember?”
“Well, there’s nothing just now, kiddo. But I’ve been thinking about you”—he leaned back in his chair and spun toward the window—“and I think I can help you”—he spun back and said—“if you’ll help me through a tough time. You see, my wife—”
“Third wife,” she said.
“—has left me, and I’m, well—”
“Your fly is down. Pull it up before your soul pops out.”
His mood changed in an instant. His voice got hard and harsh. “Hey, listen, baby, you’re nothin’ but jawbone and bleached-blond rag mop. That’s what they all say when I show them your headshot. Broads like you are a dime a dozen.”
She stood. She was done. “Worth more than you, you horny little runt.” She turned toward the door.
“Hey, Viv,” he said.
The sudden, surprising gentleness of his voice made her stop. “Yeah?”
“Tell the guy who smacked you … he didn’t hit you hard enough.”
She brought a hand to her cheek. She’d layered on the face powder to cover up the bruise she’d gotten in Buddy Clapper’s back seat.
“And you give a lousy blow job,” he added.
“There’s no such thing.” She slammed the door so hard that the poster from Gunga Din fell off the wall.
* * *
WHEN SHE STRODE ACROSS the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel a few hours later, she’d made her decision: unless she fell in love with this Harold guy, she was going home.
He was sitting on the edge of the tiled fountain, the centerpiece of the faux-Spanish lobby. He hopped up at the sight of her.
Such a gentleman, she thought, not like Rossiter or Clapper. So she added a little lope to her gait, a little performance to her walk, just to please him.
He offered his arm and whispered, “You look ravishing.”
Outside, he tipped the doorman, who opened her door with a flourish that made her feel like a star. Then they headed east on Hollywood, full of chatter about all the pictures playing at all the famous movie palaces—the Egyptian, the Pantages, and so on—until they came to Western Avenue, where he turned up the hill toward Griffith Park.
Her thoughts began to spin darkly, dramatically, maybe melodramatically.… Was this some kind of setup? Had he given her a night of freedom so he could use her now the way Buddy Clapper wanted to? Was she just a pawn in a turf war between pimps?
She said, “Unh, where are we going?”
“Walt Disney’s favorite restaurant. The Tam O’Shanter.”
And she almost laughed … at herself. “Melodramatic” was the word. She said, “In Glendale? On Los Feliz? The one that looks like a British manor house?”
“They say that’s why Disney likes it.”
Soon, they were seated in a dining room dressed like a set from Mary of Scotland, with banners hanging from the ceiling, swords and bucklers on the walls, and an atmosphere that promised skirling bagpipes and kilted rebellion if the steak was overcooked.
Harold pointed out Disney’s table by the fireplace, but the father of Mickey Mouse wasn’t there that night.
“I expect he’s too busy,” said Harold. “Movies will help to win this war.”
“Disney movies?” She laughed. “Like Donald Duck and Goofy?”
“All kinds of movies,” he said. “The visual image is powerful. The Nazis understand. Have you ever seen Triumph of the Will?”
She shook her head.
“Disney’s Fantasia, then?”
She’d seen it. She didn’t much like it, except for the part with Mickey Mouse.
Harold said, “I bet you’ll never hear Beethoven’s Pastoral again without thinking of flying horses, will you?”
“Well, unh … no … or yes. Or—” She didn’t know much about that longhair stuff. But she remembered the horses with the wings. Kind of stupid.
“Once you’ve seen Triumph of the Will, you can never think of Germans as anything but a race of supermen marching toward the future like a well-oiled machine—”
“—and worshiping Adenoid Hynkel.” She had seen The Great Dictator.
Harold cocked his head, like a dog trying to make sense of a sound. Inside that head, Martin Browning was thinking that perhaps she was too unpredictable for what he was planning to ask her. Then he laughed. “Ah, yes. Charlie Chaplin … funny fellow.”
“I think he’s right about Hynkel … I mean Hitler.”
“Let’s not talk about Hitler,” he said. “We’re here to enjoy.”
And that was what they did, through three courses. They chose the Welsh rarebit appetizer. Then it was on to prime rib and Yorkshire pudding, followed by the famous strawberry trifle, all accompanied by wines that Harold selected and by conversation that ranged from their childhoods to their work to their dreams.
Childhood: He was the son and grandson of tailors from Flatbush, Brooklyn. He didn’t mention Koblenz. She was the daughter of a Maryland waterman.
Jobs: He was a salesman of agricultural implements, seeds, and accessories. She had … well … she had her waitress flats in case acting didn’t pan out.
And dreams: His was huge and idealistic—to bring peace to all nations and usher in an era of cooperation through agriculture. Hers was just as huge and, she admitted, just as unattainable—to make people laugh, make them cry, and make them see themselves in the characters she played on the screen.
She also admitted that she wanted to go home. On these darkest nights of the year, in these darkest days of history, she needed to touch something real again.
And Martin Browning knew that he’d chosen well after all.
He ordered two Laphroaigs, a great Scotch to finish a great Scottish meal. Once Vivian had sipped and her eyes were a little glassy and her laugh a little loud, he said to her, “Let me take you home.”
She stopped laughing. “To Mrs. Murray’s?”
“Home to Maryland, maybe,” he said. “But as far as Chicago, certainly.”
“Chicago?”
“By train.” He had a lie all ready. “My company likes married men. They are very traditional. I told them I was married, and since the boss is meeting the train in Chicago, it would be good for me to have a wife.”
She laughed. “You want me to be your beard?”
“Beard?” Here was an idiom he didn’t know.
“A disguise. A woman on a homo’s arm is a beard, so nobody thinks the guy likes to diddle other guys. A single guy escorting a married woman who’s sleeping with the guy’s married pal is a beard. It’s a Hollywood thing. Get it?”
He got it. A failed actress traveling with a German assassin as his faithful wife, making him seem like just another harmless businessman, would also be a beard.
“Will you do it?” he asked.
“Is that all I’ll have to do?”
“In public, we’ll be man and wife. In private, I’ll respect your wishes.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
She swirled the Scotch and tried to make sense of this. “But my things?”
“We’re just around the corner from your rooming house.” He didn’t tell her that he’d brought her here, instead of to some Hollywood hot spot, so that he could move quickly. Once her room was cleaned out, it would be harder for her to back out. He said, “I’ll give you cash to pay off Mrs. Murray. I’ll wait while you collect your things. I’ll watch in case Buddy Clapper is in the neighborhood.”
She finished her Scotch. “All right. Just call me Mrs.… Say, what’s your last name, anyway?”
“Kellogg,” he lied.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, VIVIAN Hopewell was back in the Roosevelt, wondering what she’d gotten herself into. At least she had her two suitcases.
They contained three years of life in Los Angeles … the clothes she’d brought, the clothes she’d bought, the headshots, and the script for a part she didn’t get in a Three Stooges short called You Nazty Spy! She would have played a woman looking into one of those silly plastic eight balls to tell the fortunes of the Stooges. She wished that she had an eight ball now to tell her own.
* * *
EVERY NIGHT AT TEN o’clock, Fritz Kessler walked his twin dachshunds around Echo Lake. He could do the circuit in fifteen minutes or thirty, depending on how often the dogs stopped to sniff and sprinkle, or how often he met a familiar face and stopped to chat. He could be surprisingly talkative with a man he liked or a woman he’d like to go to bed with.
This evening, the path was all but deserted, until he came to a man—nothing more than a shadow—sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore.
The man said, “Guten Abend, mein Herr.”
Kessler came closer. The dogs tugged on the leads. He said, “Costner?”
“We must talk.”
“You look … different.”
“We change, Fritz, as circumstances change.”
“Are you alone?”
Martin Browning had escorted Vivian across the Roosevelt lobby and tipped the elevator operator to see her to her room. He’d resisted the impulse to do it himself. Though he sometimes failed, he always tried to resist impulses that might lead him astray. Then he’d driven down to Echo Park.
His instinct now was to let Kessler live. The wider the swath of murder he left, the easier to track him. But Kessler alive was a greater danger than Kessler dead.
“I’m alone.” Martin gestured to the little dogs. “Call off your Rottweilers.”
Kessler came over, led by the dachshunds, and sat on the bench in the darkness. “What do you want?”
“To meet Miss Hildy and Mr. Hansy.” Martin patted the dogs.
Kessler said, “They are my pride and joy. They and my wife, who watches from our apartment each night when we walk.”
Martin looked over his shoulder at the building across the street. He saw no one in any of the windows. Then he looked at Kessler’s right hand. It was entwined with the two leads. It would be difficult for him to get the brass knuckles in the right pocket.
Kessler went on, “You know, she’s very worried, my wife. Worried that Stengle might give us up. Perhaps we should neutralize him.”
So now Kessler was lying to him. All the more reason to kill him. Martin said, “Neutralize? Why?”
“To protect the cell. To protect your mission.”
“What mission?”
Fritz Kessler looked out at the water. “You show yourself, Herr Costner, by showing nothing. I think you are dangerous. So did Herr Schwinn. That is why he asked me to watch you. I told him how deadly you were with the Mauser. We both wondered what use you plan to make of it … and why you always pick up your cartridges.”
The dogs tugged at the lead. One of them began to whine.
Martin said, “You were at the Bund when Schwinn was arrested last night?”
“I work every Monday night.”
“Who else was there?”
“The old Kraus couple. They cannot live without schnitzel. And Emile Gunst, who will fill his face with wurst every night until he dies. And a Hollywood boy named Kevin Cusack. He is a friend of Gunst. You may have seen him at Deutsches Haus.”
“I don’t go to Deutsches Haus.”
“Another reason they wondered about you.” Kessler smiled. “I wondered why a Hollywood boy would go to the Bund last night, of all nights. He asked Gunst about the Murphy Ranch. He asked me, too. He said he had heard of target shooting there.”
Martin got up, went close to the lake, watched the lights of the city reflecting off the surface. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” Martin had heard the name of this Cusack from Gunst, too. So he knew that in this small detail, Kessler was telling the truth.
“Gunst likes him,” added Kessler. “I don’t.”
To put Kessler at ease, Martin asked a bit more about this outlier. “Why do you not like him?”
“A man who asks too many questions may not be who he says he is. He may be a friend of the Jews … or the FBI. We know there are informers in the Bund.”
Martin would remember the name. Kevin Cusack. But that was not why he was here. He took out his calfskin gloves and pulled them on.
Kessler said, “See? I told you I can be trusted.”
“I trust you, Fritz. You are a loyal son of the Fatherland.” This was the kind of compliment that Martin seldom offered. But he knew how to inflate an ego, if only to put a man at ease. He sat beside Kessler again and said, “So you can tell me, Fritz, is that why you killed Stengle and lied about it? Because you are a loyal son of the Fatherland?”
“I did not kill Stengle.”
“Someone did. And that someone might be inclined to kill me.”
“So, what will you do?”
“Kill him first.” In an instant, Martin’s knife was driving upward, into the throat, through the tongue and the back of the mouth, deep into Fritz Kessler’s brain. It happened so quickly, not even the dogs reacted.
Kessler’s eyes opened wide. He shuddered. Then he was motionless.
Martin withdrew the knife, wiped the blade on Kessler’s trousers, then took Kessler’s wallet and watch to make it look like a robbery.
By the time the dogs sensed that something was wrong, Martin Browning was in his car. By the time they started to yap, he was halfway to Glendale.
WEDNESDAY,
DECEMBER 10
SALLY DRAKE CAME BY Kevin Cusack’s desk around ten. She said, “Still working on that thing about Casablanca?”
“I’m going to tell Hal Wallis to buy it.”
“Then what?”
He leaned his arms on the typewriter. “Like I told you yesterday, I’m leaving. If they promote Jerry Sloane ahead of me, they’ll promote my wastebasket first.”
She slipped her glasses down and looked over them like a schoolmistress. “Jerry Sloane writes better than a wastebasket.”
“Everything I write ends up in one. A biopic about Andrew Jackson, a Western for Errol Flynn, romantic comedies—”
“You crack better jokes than you write.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Tell me … did you really mean that ‘brother-and-sister’ business?”
He held very still at the typewriter. No fast moves. She was asking the right question without any prompting. “Sure.”
“So … no funny stuff in the compartment?”
“You just told me I crack funny jokes. Can I crack jokes?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Maybe I should ask Jerry Sloane.” He couldn’t resist a low blow.
But she cleared the air. “Leave Jerry out of this. You could be a good beard. You could play my big brother, keep the mashers at bay … and the FBI, too.”
He wanted to cheer. But he was still playing it cool. So he ignored the FBI remark and went back to typing.
Then she said, “So … if I keep my glasses on, will I be safe?”
“Glasses?” He kept typing.
“Like Dorothy Parker also said, and I know she said this: ‘Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.’ Be at Union Station, Friday night at seven o’clock. The train leaves at eight.”
Kevin watched her walk away and thought of something that Dorothy Parker never said but should have: “Men always make passes at girls with nice asses.”
* * *
MARTIN BROWNING READ HIS paper at the Adams Square Pharmacy. He expected that no identification had been made of Stengle. It would take weeks for loved ones to notice that a young construction worker with dreams of California and a love of German good fellowship was no longer sending letters back to his parents in Bangor, Maine.
As for Kessler, the LAPD had called it a murder/robbery. Someone in the FBI might cross-reference the name, notice that Kessler was a waiter at Deutsches Haus, and start asking questions, but by then, Martin Browning would be long gone.
