And getting so chummy with an underling was strange. A couple of shared drinks and they were spilling their guts to each other—bad chain of command policy—ambitious policemen should keep it zipped while they climbed the ladder.
Mal showered, shaved and dressed, running book—De Haven versus Upshaw, even money as his best bet. At 8:30 exactly a car horn honked; he walked outside and saw Dudley leaning against his Ford. “Good morning, Malcolm! Isn’t it a grand day!”
* * *
They drove west on Wilshire, Mal silent, Dudley talking politics. “…I’ve been juxtaposing the Communist way of life against ours, and I keep coming back to family as the backbone of American life. Do you believe that, Malcolm?”
Mal knew that Loew had filled him in on Celeste—and that as far as partners went, he could have worse—like Buzz Meeks. “It has its place.”
“I’d be a bit more emphatic on that, given the trouble you’re taking to get your son back. Is it going well with your lawyer?”
Mal thought of his afternoon appointment with Jake Kellerman. “He’s going to try to get me continuances until the grand jury is in session and making hay. I have the preliminary in a couple of days, and we’ll start putting the stall in then.”
Dudley lit a cigarette and steered with one pinky. “Yes, a crusading captain might convince the judge that water is thicker than blood. You know, lad, that I’ve a wife and five daughters. They serve well to keep the reins on certain unruly aspects of my nature. If he can keep them in perspective, a family is an essential thing for a man to have.”
Mal rolled down his window. “I have no perspective where my son is concerned. But if I can keep you in perspective until the grand jury convenes, then I’ll be in grand shape.”
Dudley Smith exhaled laughter and smoke. “I’m fond of you, Malcolm—even though you don’t reciprocate. And speaking of family, I’ve a little errand to run—my niece needs a talking-to. Would you mind a small detour to Westwood?”
“A brief detour, Lieutenant?”
“Very, Lieutenant.”
Mal nodded; Dudley turned north on Glendon and headed up toward the UCLA campus, parking in a meter space on Sorority Row. Setting the brake, he said, “Mary Margaret, my sister Brigid’s girl. Twenty-nine years old and on her third masters degree because she’s afraid to go out and meet the world. Sad, isn’t it?”
Mal sighed. “Tragic.”
“The very thing I was thinking, but without your emphasis on sarcasm. And speaking of youths, what’s your opinion of our young colleague Upshaw?”
“I think he’s smart and going places. Why?”
“Well, lad, friends of mine say that he has no sense of his own place, and he impresses me as weak and ambitious, which I view as a dangerous combination in a policeman.”
Mal’s first thought of rising: He shouldn’t have confided in the kid, because half his juice was front just waiting to crack. “Dudley, what do you want?”
“Communism vanquished. And why don’t you enjoy the sight of comely young coeds while I speak to my niece?”
Mal followed Dudley up the steps of a Spanish manse fronted by a lawn display: Greek symbols sunk into the grass on wood stakes. The door was open; the lounge area buzzed: girls smoking, talking and gesturing at textbooks. Dudley pointed upstairs and said, “Toot sweet”; Mal saw a stack of magazines on an end table and sat down to read, fielding curious looks from the coeds. He thumbed through a Collier’s, a Newsweek and two Life’s—stopping when he heard Dudley’s brogue, enraged, echoing down the second-floor hallway.
It got louder and scarier, punctuated by pleas in a whimpering soprano. The girls looked at Mal; he grabbed another magazine and tried to read. Dudley’s laughter took over—spookier than the bellows. The coeds were staring now; Mal dropped his Weekly Sportsman and walked upstairs to listen.
The hallway was long and lined with narrow wooden doors; Mal followed Ha! Ha! Ha! to a door with “Conroy” nameplated on the front. It was ajar a few inches; he looked in on a back wall lined with photos of Latino prizefighters. Dudley and the soprano were out of sight; Mal eavesdropped.
“…bull banks and piñatas and spic bantamweights. It’s a fixation, lassie. Your mother may lack the stomach to set you straight, but I don’t.”
The soprano, groveling, “But Ricardo is a lovely boy, Uncle Dud. And I—”
A huge hand flashed across Mal’s strip of vision, a slap turned to a caress, a head of curly red hair jerking into, then out of sight. “You’re not to say you love him, lassie. Not in my presence. Your parents are weak, and they expect me to have a say regarding the men in your life. I will always exercise that say, lassie. Just remember the trouble I spared you before and you’ll be grateful.”
A plump girl/woman backed into view, hands on her face, sobbing. Dudley Smith’s arms went around her; her hands turned to fists to keep him from completing the embrace. Dudley murmured sweet nothings; Mal walked back to the car and waited. His partner showed up five minutes later. “Knock, knock, who’s there? Dudley Smith, so Reds beware! Lad, shall we go impress Mr. Nathan Eisler with the righteousness of our cause?”
* * *
Eisler’s last known address was 11681 Presidio, a short run from the UCLA campus. Dudley hummed show tunes as he drove; Mal kept seeing his hand about to hit, the niece cowering from her genial uncle’s touch. 11681 was a small pink prefab at the end of a long prefab block; Dudley double-parked, Mal jammed facts from Satterlee’s report:
Nathan Eisler. Forty-nine years old. A German Jew who fled Hitler and company in ’34; CP member ’36 to ’40, then member of a half dozen Commie front organizations. Co-scenarist on a string of pro-Russki turkeys, his writing partner Chaz Minear; poker buddies with Morton Ziffkin and Reynolds Loftis. Wrote under pseudonyms to guard his professional privacy; slipped through the HUAC investigators’ hands; currently living under the alias Michael Kaukenen, the name of the hero of Storm Over Leningrad. Currently scripting RKO B westerns, under yet another monicker, the work fronted by a politically acceptable hack writer who glommed a 35 percent cut. Best pals with Lenny Rolff, fellow writer expatriate, today’s second interrogee.
Former lover of Claire De Haven.
They took a toy-littered walkway up to the porch; Mal looked through a screen door into the perfect prefab living room: plastic furniture, linoleum floor, spangly pink wallpaper. Children squealed inside; Dudley winked and rang the buzzer.
A tall, unshaven man walked up to the screen, flanked by a toddler boy and girl. Dudley smiled; Mal watched the little boy pop a thumb in his mouth, and spoke first. “Mr. Kaukenen, we’re with the District Attorney’s Office and we’d like to talk to you. Alone, please.”
The kids pressed themselves into the man’s legs; Mal saw scared slant eyes—two little half-breeds spooked by two big boogeymen. Eisler/Kaukenen called out, “Michiko!”; a Japanese woman materialized and whisked the children away. Dudley opened the door uninvited; Eisler said, “You are three years late.”
Mal walked in behind Dudley, amazed at how cheap the place looked—a white trash flop—the home of a man who made three grand a week during the Depression. He heard the kids bawling behind wafer-thin walls; he wondered if Eisler had to put up with the same foreign language shit he did—then popped that he probably dug it on general Commie principles. Dudley said, “This is a charming house, Mr. Kaukenen. The color motif especially.”
Eisler/Kaukenen ignored the comment and pointed them to a door off the living room. Mal walked in and saw a small square space that looked warm and habitable: floor-to-ceiling books, chairs around an ornate coffee table and a large desk dominated by a class A typewriter. He took the seat furthest from the squeal of little voices; Dudley sat across from him. Eisler shut the door and said, “I am Nathan Eisler, as if you did not already know.”
Mal thought: no nice guy, no “I loved your picture Branding Iron.” “Then you know why we’re here.”
Eisler locked the door and took the remaining chair.
“The bitch is in heat again, despite reports that she had a miscarriage.”
Dudley said, “You are to tell no one that we questioned you. There will be dire repercussions should you disobey us on that.”
“Such as what, Herr—”
Mal cut in. “Mort Ziffkin, Chaz Minear, Reynolds Loftis and Claire De Haven. We’re interested in their activities, not yours. If you cooperate fully with us, we might be able to let you testify by deposition. No open court, probably very little publicity. You slid on HUAC, you’ll slide on this one.” He stopped and thought of Stefan, gone with his crazy mother and her new paramour. “But we want hard facts. Names, dates, places and admissions. You cooperate, you slide. You don’t, it’s a subpoena and open court questioning by a DA I can only describe as a nightmare. Your choice.”
Eisler inched his chair away from them. Eyes lowered, he said, “I have not seen those people in years.”
Mal said, “We know, and it’s their past activities that we’re interested in.”
“And they are the only people that you want to know about?” Mal lied, thinking of Lenny Rolff. “Yes. Just them.”
“And what are these repercussions you speak of?”
Mal drummed the table. “Open court badgering. Your picture in the—”
Dudley interrupted, “Mr. Eisler, if you do not cooperate, I will inform Howard Hughes that you are authoring RKO films currently being credited to another man. That man, your conduit to gainful employment as a writer, will be terminated. I will also inform the INS that you refused to cooperate with a sanctioned municipal body investigating treason, and urge that their Investigations Bureau delve into your seditious activities with an eye toward your deportation as an enemy alien and the deportation of your wife and children as potential enemy aliens. You are a German and your wife is Japanese, and since those two nations were responsible for our recent world conflict, I would think that the INS would enjoy seeing the two of you returned to your respective homelands.”
Nathan Eisler had hunched himself up, elbows to knees, clasped hands to chin, head down. Tears rolled off his face. Dudley cracked his knuckles and said, “A simple yes or no answer will suffice.”
Eisler nodded; Dudley said, “Grand.” Mal got out his pen and notepad. “I know the answer, but tell me anyway. Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party, U.S.A.?”
Eisler bobbed his head; Mal said, “Yes or no answers, this is for the record.”
A weak “Yes.”
“Good. Where was your Party unit or cell located?”
“I—I went to meetings in Beverly Hills, West Los Angeles and Hollywood. We—we met at the homes of different members.”
Mal wrote the information down—verbatim shorthand. “During what years were you a Party member?”
“April ’36 until Stalin proved him—”
Dudley cut in. “Don’t justify yourself, just answer.”
Eisler pulled a Kleenex from his shirt pocket and wiped his nose. “Until early in ’40.”
Mal said, “Here are some names. You tell me which of these people were known to you as Communist Party members. Claire De Haven, Reynolds Loftis, Chaz Minear, Morton Ziffkin, Armando Lopez, Samuel Benavides and Juan Duarte.”
Eisler said, “All of them.” Mal heard the kids tromping through the living room and raised his voice. “You and Chaz Minear wrote the scripts for Dawn of the Righteous, Eastern Front, Storm Over Leningrad and The Heroes of Yakustok. All those films espoused nationalistic Russian sentiment. Were you told by Communist Party higher-ups to insert pro-Russian propaganda in them?”
Eisler said, “That is a naive question”; Dudley slapped the coffee table. “Don’t comment, just answer.”
Eisler moved his chair closer to Mal. “No. No, I was not told that.”
Mal flashed Dudley two fingers of his necktie—he’s mine. “Mr. Eisler, do you deny that those films contain pro-Russian propaganda?”
“No.”
“Did you and Chaz Minear arrive at the decision to disseminate that propaganda yourselves?”
Eisler squirmed in his chair. “Chaz was responsible for the philosophizing, while I held that the story line spoke most eloquently for the points he wanted to make.”
Mal said, “We have copies of those scripts, with the obvious propaganda passages annotated. We’ll be back to have you initial the dialogue you attribute to Minear’s disseminating of the Party line.”
No response. Mal said, “Mr. Eisler, would you say that you have a good memory?”
“Yes, I would say that.”
“And did you and Minear work together in the same room on your scripts?”
“Yes.”
“And were there times when he said things along the lines of ‘This is great propaganda’ or ‘This is for the Party’?”
Eisler kept squirming, shifting his arms and legs. “Yes, but he was just being satirical, poking fun. He did not—”
Dudley shouted, “Don’t interpret, just answer!”
Eisler shouted back, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Goddamn you, yes!”
Mal gave Dudley the cut-off sign; he gave Eisler his most soothing voice. “Mr. Eisler, did you keep a journal during the time you worked with Chaz Minear?”
The man was wringing his hands, Kleenex shredding between fingers pumped blue-white. “Yes.”
“Did it contain entries pertaining to your Communist Party activities and your script work with Chaz Minear?”
“Oh God, yes.”
Mal thought of the report from Satterlee’s PIs: Eisler coupling with Claire De Haven circa ’38–’39. “And entries pertaining to your personal life?”
“Oh, Gott in himm…yes, yes!”
“And do you still have that journal?”
Silence, then, “I don’t know.”
Mal slapped the table. “Yes, you do, and you’ll have to let us see it. Only the germane political entries will be placed in the official transcript.”
Nathan Eisler sobbed quietly. Dudley said, “You will give us that journal, or we will subpoena it and uniformed officers will tear your quaint little abode apart, gravely upsetting your quaint little family, I fear.”
Eisler gave a sharp little yes nod; Dudley eased back in his chair, the legs creaking under his weight. Mal saw a Kleenex box on the windowsill, grabbed it and placed it on Eisler’s lap. Eisler cradled the box; Mal said, “We’ll take the journal with us, and we’ll put Minear aside for now. Here’s a general question. Have you ever heard any of the people we’re interested in advocate the armed overthrow of the United States government?”
Two negative shakes, Eisler with his head back down, his tears drying. Mal said, “Not in the way of a formal pronouncement, but that sentiment stated.”
“Every one of us said it in anger, and it always meant nothing.”
“The grand jury will decide what you meant. Be specific. Who said it, and when.”
Eisler wiped his face. “Claire would say ‘The end justifies the means’ at meetings and Reynolds would say that he was not a violent man, but he would take up a shillelagh if it came to us versus the bosses. The Mexican boys said it a million different times in a million contexts, especially around the time of Sleepy Lagoon. Mort Ziffkin shouted it for the world to hear. He was a courageous man.”
Mal caught up on his shorthand, thinking of UAES and the studios. “What about the UAES? How did it tie in to the Party and the front groups you and the others belonged to?”
“The UAES was founded while I was out of the country. The three Mexican boys had found work as stagehands and recruited members, as did Claire De Haven. Her father had served as counsel to vested movie interests and she said she intended to exploit and…and…”
Mal’s head was buzzing. “And what? Tell me.”
Eisler went back to his finger-clenching; Mal said “Tell me. ‘Exploit’ and what?”
“Seduce! She grew up around movie people and she knew actors and technicians who had been coveting her since she
was a girl! She seduced them as founding members and got them to recruit for her! She said it was her penance for not getting subpoenaed by HUAC!”
Big time triple bingo.
Mal willed his voice as controlled as Dudley’s. “Who specifically did she seduce?”
Eisler picked and plucked and tore at the tissue box. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I honestly do not know.”
“A lot of men, a few men, how many?”
“I do not know. I suspect only a few influential actors and technicians who she knew could help her union.”
“Who else helped her recruit? Minear, Loftis?”
“Reynolds was in Europe then, Chaz I don’t know.”
“What was discussed at the first UAES meetings? Was there some kind of charter or overview they worked on?”
The Kleenex box was now a pile of ripped cardboard; Eisler brushed it off his lap. “I have never attended their meetings.”
“We know, but we need to know who besides the initial founders were there and what was discussed.”
“I don’t know!”
Mal threw an outside curve. “Are you still hot for Claire, Eisler? Are you protecting her? You know she’s marrying Reynolds Loftis. How’s that make you feel?”
Eisler threw his head back and laughed. “Our affair was brief, and I suspect that handsome Reynolds will always prefer young boys.”
“Chaz Minear’s no young boy.”
“And he and Reynolds did not last.”
“Nice people you know, comrade.”
Eisler’s laughter turned low, guttural—and supremely Germanic. “I prefer them to you, obersturmbahnführer.”
Mal held his temper by looking at Dudley; Mr. Bad Guy returned him the cut-off sign. “We’ll overlook that comment out of deference to your cooperation, and you may call this your initial interview. My colleague and I will go over your answers, check them against our records and send back a long list of other questions, detailed specifics pertaining to your Communist front activities and the activities of the UAES members we discussed. A City Marshal will monitor that transaction, and a court reporter will take your deposition. After that interview, providing you answer a few more questions now and allow us to take your journal, you will be given friendly witness status and full immunity from prosecution.”