The letter was written on the letterhead of the Los Angeles County Hospital.
"I don't need the money, Mike," the letter said. "Thanks anyway. I keep telling you that interning at County is luxury after medical school. I get room and board and fifty bucks a month. When things get too bad I swipe some absolute alcohol and distilled water from the storeroom and mix myself a stiff drink. It was good of you to send the check, but I just don't need it. In short, I'm set up. Again thanks.
"How about going for a swim some day soon? They say the waves are really humping this year."
Mike laughed and threw the letter in the wastebasket. He tore the check up. He picked up the file labeled "Aaron Blenner."
It was full of the usual stuff. Date of birth: 1895. Location: Minsk, Russia. Schooling: no record. Family background: no record. Religion: Jew. Clubs: none. Charities: Mount Sinai Hospital, National Jewish Fund, numerous Jewish groups. In the file there were also a number of sheets with just a single paragraph on them. The sheets were not signed and they bore no identifying marks. Mike picked up one of them:
"Informant states that Aaron Blenner has been subjected extensive investigation Bureau of Internal Revenue. All results negative. Evidence that Blenner has used some of wholly owned companies to finance escape of refugee Jews from Germany, but nothing definite. Indirectly Blenner owns controlling interest in two French and one Portuguese import-export firms."
Mike leafed through the sheets-and picked out one labeled "Political Activity."
"No known political affiliation. No active political participation. Not carried as registered voter on rolls. No political contributions on record."
The buzzer under his desk sounded. Mike put the file in a drawer. The door opened and Blenner walked in. A woman walked in with him.
"Hello, Mr. Freesmith," Blenner said. "This is my daughter, Georgia."
He walked a few steps into the room and sat down quietly.
Blenner was a tiny pear-shaped man. He held a derby hat in his lap and occasionally he brushed the nap of the hat lightly. He wore very small black shoes that had a careful dull polish. His feet did not quite touch the floor and he swung them back and forth. His hands were normal size and against the black material of the derby they seemed large and out of proportion. His face, except for the eyes, had an innocent quality. His large jaw did not look as if he had ever been shaved. His eyes were small and bright. They looked exactly like Italian olives: small, hard, glistening.
His daughter was quite tall. She was wearing a cashmere coat. When she sat down she looked out the window. She was about twenty years old.
"Mr. Freesmith, for some years I have been in the motion picture business," Blenner said.
"Yes, I know that," Mike said.
"Recently I have felt that the motion picture business was getting in a bad way. High costs, television, foreign films, and a number of other things. A very complex situation. I won't bore you with the details." He paused and closed his eyes. He went on talking. "For some time I have been thinking of various forms of new enterprises. I have decided that land is the best form of investment."
Mike waited for him to go on, but he said nothing. The office became silent except for the kaaing of the gulls, the muted staccato of the typewriters in the outer office and the faraway sound of traffic. Mike waited.
"I don't know anything about land," Mike said at last.
Blenner opened one eye. The moist hard eye stared at the ceiling.
"I do," Blenner said. "Land, farm land, is the best thing."
"Why?" Mike asked.
Blenner closed his eye.
"I'm an old man. It takes me a little time to get to the point," Blenner said and smiled. He had no accent and he spoke very slowly; very precisely. "Let me tell you about old-time business, Mr. Freesmith. When I was a boy, business was pure competition. The most efficient business drove the least efficient out of business. Everyone thought this was good. Inefficiency was always punished: it disappeared. Efficiency was rewarded: it made a profit. It got more and more of the market. I like that idea and I did pretty well under those rules."
"So I have heard," Mike said.
Blenner opened his eye again and smiled at Mike. Then he closed his eye.
"But businessmen didn't like competition, Mr. Freesmith," he said. "They were frightened of going bankrupt or failing or being driven out of business. Even the men who were successful became afraid they might be ruined. Publicly they still sounded brave and courageous, but privately they were frightened. So they asked to be protected by the government. They asked to be socialized."
"The business community asked to be socialized?" Mike asked.
"That surprises you. But it is the truth. Oh, the businessmen did not use the word 'socialism.' They asked for regulation, elimination of unfair competition, for subsidies, for protective tariffs, for government support of mortgages, for cheap money, for control of the stock market and thousands of other little things. No one of these things was socialism. But together, all added up, they meant the end of competition. Without saying it, the businessmen killed competition and got security. Do you know that if someone sells a bottle of whisky for less than his competitor, in California he can be punished by law?"
"Yes," Mike said softly. "I know that."
"Today there is no competition and because there is no competition the rewards have been narrowed down. Few people fail, but also everyone makes much less." Blenner paused and looked at the ceiling again. "Understand, Mr. Freesmith, I don't object to this. People can do whatever they want. I'm not a crusader. I don't want to change anything."
"What do you want?" Mike asked.
"Just to know the rules," Blenner said. With his eyes closed he smiled. "And then to do the best thing under the rules. See, I liked the rules of the old game. It seemed to me that there was a kind of hard justice about the most inefficient producer being always forced out of the game. But then they changed the rules. Not much, just a little. They asked that the inefficient producer be protected. It took a little time for me to realize that this made it a new game. You see, Mr. Freesmith, I'm an old-fashioned person."
He laughed; a clear trilling laugh, a sound of pure joy.
"Now that you know the new rules, what do you want to do?" Mike asked.
"I want to play inside the rules and make the best profit possible," Blenner said. "That's all. Just make the best legitimate profit that can be made."
"I still don't see why you came to me," Mike said.
"Because I want to go into farming," Blenner said.
Mike said nothing because he could think of nothing to say.
"You see, under the new rules, farming or just owning agricultural land is the best investment you can have," Blenner went on. "Strange things have happened, Mr. Freesmith. Thirty years ago the farmers were in a bad way. They started to elect congressmen and senators and governors who would help them. First, they asked for cheap farm loans and then they asked for a guaranteed price and then they asked for a regulated market. Finally they got all of that. Finally they got it to the point where the farmer could actually get paid for producing nothing." Blenner opened his eye, rolled it in wonder. "Imagine that~ Imagine being paid for producing nothing. Just for promising not to produce corn or wheat or cotton you get paid. The farmers are the winners under the new rules. It's impossible for them to lose."
"But a lot of farmers still go broke," Mike said uncertainly.
"You're right. It's incredible, but they do. They're the ones who buy new Cadlilacs with their winter wheat or build a big new house or buy two tractors when they only need one. Those are the ones who go broke. It's hard to do it, but some people manage. Some people just work at being fools. Even with everything designed to prevent them from going broke they go broke. But it doesn't happen often, Mr. Freesmith. And then you have to remember that the farmers who do go broke don't have capital. I'll have capital."
"I'm not an expert on farming, Mr. Blenner, but it was my impre
ssion that the government supports were designed to help the small farmer," Mike said.
Blenner sat up straight in his chair and opened both of his eyes. His large white hands caressed the smooth nap of the derby hat. He smiled a withered, slight smile at Mike.
"I came to see you for two reasons, Mr. Freesmith," Blenner said and his voice was slower, more precise. "First, because they tell me that you are a clear-sighted person and you learn new things very fast. And secondly they tell me that you aren't committed to anyone; no political party or company or individual."
Blenner paused, but this time Mike did not speak and the silence grew long. The girl turned and looked carefully at Mike. Finally Blenner spoke.
"You could do two things for me, Mr. Freesmith," Blenner said and his voice was subtly reproving. "First, you could learn something about farm lands in California. How much they cost, what they could grow, that sort of thing."
"I'm not interested," Mike said. "I don't know anything about farm lands and don't want to."
"And the second thing you could do is have the agricultural laws changed," Blenner said, ignoring Mike's remark. "Not a lot. Nothing illegal. But just enough so the big landowner would get the same treatment from the government as the small landowner. That's all."
"I don't want to be a lobbyist," Mike said.
Mike picked up a folder, tapped it on the desk. He hoped they would leave.
Blenner looked at the folder, smiled and closed his eyes again.
"I don't want you to become a lobbyist," Blenner said softly and this time there was something cold in his voice and Mike knew he was being warned. "It just occurred to me that if your colleague, Mr. Cromwell, became governor of the state he would be in a good position to help out."
Mike looked at Blenner's daughter. Her lips were slightly open as if she were surprised at Mike. It was a curious expression; mostly admiration, but also something of fright. Mike looked at Blenner and now the small, well-tailored, neat, poised man looked powerful and ominous; almost reptilian.
"Maybe you had better talk to Mr. Cromwell," Mike said. "I didn't know he wanted to be governor."
"I understand that he takes your advice on such matters," Blenner said and again his voice was warning. He took an envelope out of his coat pocket and tapped it against his fingernails. "I'll be frank with you. This envelope contains a very brief report. The report indicates under what circumstances Mr. Cromwell could be elected governor of California. The report states that he has a following among a number of small groups in California. He is weak among Democratic leaders, but if he could get the nomination and all other things were equal he would win."
"What if all other things were not equal?" Mike said. Mike said it protectively, to gain time. For the back of his throat had suddenly gone dry. He sensed that Blenner had the secret, had stumbled upon it somehow. Go slowly now, cautiously, easy, Mike said to himself.
"Can you think of many things that money could not make equal?" Blenner asked. "If Cromwell had ample money, that would equalize things, wouldn't it?"
"It would help," Mike said. "But why don't you talk to one of the big people in the Democratic Party? You know there are a number of other people who are considered to be much better risks for the governorship than Cromwell."
"That's why I don't want them," Blenner said. "A good risk always pays a low profit. I'd rather take a risk . . . maybe the rewards would be larger." Blenner opened one eye and with that single eye he regarded Mike as an equal, was completely frank, open. "And besides, the prominent candidates are already committed to other people. I would not like that."
You son of a bitch, you lizard-looking, ugly dwarf, Mike thought. You've figured it all out. It took me years to work it out and you come in here with the whole thing down in a white envelope.
Rage rose in Mike, hot as a fever. But he forced himself to calmness.
"Who wrote the report?" Mike said.
"My son."
"Politics is complicated," Mike said. "It's easy to make mistakes. Things don't work out neatly."
"I know that," Blenner said. "But I don't act on bad advice and I'm prepared for things to be difficult. You can take care of the difficult things. I'll supply the money and whatever influence I have. We would not need to sign an agreement or anything like that. We would merely trust one another."
"I'll talk it over with Mr. Cromwell," Mike said.
"Fine. You do that," Blenner said.
He jumped out of his chair, stuck the derby on his head. He shook hands with Mike and his hand was cool, firm and uncomfortably strong. His daughter followed him to the door. He turned.
"You ought to get out and look at some farm lands," Blenner said. "Start to get the feel of the thing. "Then you could talk things over with my son. You won't be seeing much of me anyway."
"I'd like to go along with him," the daughter said suddenly. "I know the country around Los Angeles. I'd like to do it."
Blenner looked at his daughter and his eyes were utterly bored. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at Mike.
"I'll give you a call," Mike said. "If we decide to do it, I'll buzz you."
The girl smiled and then quickly followed her father out of the office. Mike noticed that she limped slightly.
CHAPTER 17
The Ocean and the Desert
Georgia Blenner called Mike four days later.
"I've found some farming land," she said. Her voice was cool and unexcited. "Would you like to go look at it? I've arranged to pick up an agricultural expert from the University to give us some advice. Could you go this afternoon?"
"I can get free, but I don't want an expert along."
"Why not?"
"All an expert can do is tell you what worked in the past. They're always too conservative. Always hedging; afraid they'll hurt their reputation. The time for experts is later."
Georgia laughed.
"All right," she said. "We won't take the expert. Can you meet me at Karl's Drive-in on Wilshire . . . out by Westwood? Around one-thirty?"
"Sure. I'll be there," Mike said.
When he put the phone down, he leaned back in his chair. He hadn't talked to Cromwell about Blenner's proposal. He knew he would not. He also knew that he would go along with Blenner.
It isn't the money, Mike thought. We can win without Blenner's money. But it was the crazy idea about going into farming. it was a little fishhook of curiosity that sunk into his flesh; a curious little gnaw of interest.
She was sitting in the drive-in drinking coffee when he drove up. She saw him through the plate-glass window and walked out to meet him. She was tall and she walked with a peculiar gait. It gave her a coltish, angular appearance, although she had very full breasts and round hips. She opened the door and got in the car.
"The land is out in the San Fernando Valley," she said. "Why don't you drive out Wilshire to the coast and then over Tujunga to the valley?"
"It's shorter to go over Sepulveda," Mike said.
"I know that. But I like to drive along the ocean. It's warmer too." She turned and looked at him. She had a large mouth with fine white teeth. When she smiled she brought her lips quickly back over her teeth, with the curious sharpness that little girls have when they wear braces. Her hair was very black and cut short. Her skin was white; the sort of white that never tans, although she had a pattern of freckles across her nose. "I'm cold most of the time. I had polio when I was a kid and although the doctors say it's impossible, I've been cold ever since. I like the sun."
That explains her gait, Mike thought. She never recovered from the polio. She must be a little paralyzed.
They did not speak as they went through the heavy traffic around Westwood. They drove by the big new Robinson store and the sleek modern apartment houses of Westwood. The traffic moved in great slooping rushes from one signal to another, like a flight of orderly birds. The fast drivers slid in and out, jockeyed for position, and between each signal gained a place or two. As they went up the hills of Westw
ood they could see other platoons of cars ahead of them, marked off by signal lights, moving rhythmically up the soaring strip of highway.
They went through Westwood Village, past the golf range which was crowded with people driving balls. On the other side of the highway was the Veterans' Cemetery, and behind the hedges the little white crosses, broken by an occasional Star of David, ran in perfectly straight lines until they shattered against a hillside.
They stopped at a light and Mike watched a little group of veterans walk out from among the palm trees that bordered the Veterans' Hospital and stand on the curb. One of them was wearing a bathrobe and slippers. His bathrobe was open and the sun splintered on the gray wiry hair on his chest. The neck of a bottle showed in the pocket of the bathrobe. They were all slightly drunk and they stared brazenly, defiantly at the cars.
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