It was not the lynching message of the South, for the target wasn’t the handful of Negroes who’d come to Los Angeles during the Depression. No, the Klan in Los Angeles had its sights on Mexicans, Jews, and Catholics, all arriving in large numbers (though the Mexicans had been there first). When the Klan said white, it meant Protestant, Anglo-Saxon white. The Klan was behind the brochures sent out by cities like Glendale. Unwritten covenants were being established, and if the law kept racial and religious codes from being officially imposed, there were other ways. Unofficial ethnic enclaves were being established (no one dared call them ghettos) across the city. New residents had to pass interviews. It was no accident that Fred W. Gilmore was in real estate. Real estate agents know how to enforce covenants. If Willie had asked his brother about it, Eddie would have said, “What’s the problem? People have the right to live with their own, don’t they?”
He walked to the window and stood looking out over the panorama that brought him so much inspiration, over the city he loved more than any other, the only city he had ever loved. Could he ever repay Eddie for bringing him here? His eyes followed the mountains to the crest, the blessed green San Gabriels, his gaze slowly coming back down to the foothills and the mission, Mission San Gabriel, founded by the Franciscans, the fourth of the string of missions founded as the friars came up from Mexico.
“Protestant white values, Anglo-Saxon values,” the Klansmen said. Los Angeles was the last Anglo-Saxon city in America, the last pure city. Was there a sermon in there somewhere?
Butwho in Los Angeles was Anglo-Saxon? Who was pure? Yes, they’d taken him for Anglo-Saxon—how could they not with a name like Mull, taken from that windswept island off the coast of Scotland? The reality was that he was Anglo-Saxon mixed with German and Spanish and yes, Mexican, blood, the very people the Klan sought to drive from the city. Nothing pure about any of that. Grandpa Otto Herzog married Abuela Isabel who was the daughter of Adm. Jose Maria Cullel of Barcelona and Doña Isabel de los Santos, born in Mexico, of Spanish Catholic parents. Willie and Eddie never talked about it, but they were part Hispanic—the dark eyes, the slightly olive skin, the wavy dark hair, the knowledge of the Spanish language.
His eyes crawled over the mountains seeking inspiration. For once he thought not of Saint Augustine, but of Saint Gabriel, the angel who appeared to Christ at Gethsemane, who comforted Him, offered Him succor before He was taken, helped Him see that this earthly life was but a prelude to eternal heaven. Saint Gabriel, who gave his name to the mountains and to the city, Los Angeles, city of the angels. He turned to look at his painting of Christ at Gethsemane, not the original Hofmann, he’d not yet been able to pry it away from the Riverside Church, but he kept trying. Such a beautiful story! Yes, there was a sermon in that, a sermon about sacrifice and courage and fate—yes, fate, predestination above all. He never forgot his Presbyterian training.
The Klansmen had hit on something, something about preserving what the rest of the country had lost with their sordid ghettos and tenements. Congress had banned Asians a few years before and maybe Mexicans should be next. Why not? They were Catholics who never set foot in the temple. If there was a Mexican Soldier, Willie had never met him. And what of the Jews? Chandler at the Times had been railing against Jewish influence for years, especially in Hollywood. And Negroes? No, not many had come yet, but who could foresee the future? Maybe the Klan was right: Maybe the Times was right. Maybe it was time to stand up for the city before it was too late. Los Angeles must not become another New York, another Chicago.
Beautiful sight, the San Gabriels, beautiful pure city, God’s creation. He always let his ideas simmer. He closed his eyes, letting thoughts swirl, curious to see what would come. How long did he stand there? Five minutes, ten, maybe longer, but the only thought that came to him was Angie. He tried to push her away and concentrate on the message, but she would not go. The angel Gabriel had brought to mind his own angel, Angie l’Amoureux. Was that not the translation of her name—the angel of love? He felt a stirring in his loins. Everything else was wiped away. He could not work. He had to see her.
In middle age, the Rev. Willie Mull had discovered sexual ecstasy. It happens. “Renounce, renounce,” he read in Saint Augustine. “Let it be done.” But If it was to be now, Lord, he asked, why did you send Angie to me? It could hardly be coincidence. And should not a beautiful woman be admired? And cannot admiration lead to passion and love. And marriage. Yes, marriage. Is that not the point of earthly beauty? Can we not see a beautiful woman as we hear beautiful music or admire beautiful mountains, letting their purity and perfection lift our spirits, inspire our soul, resuscitate us, rejuvenate us? What would life be without beauty?
He went to the chapel, fell to his knees and prayed to Jesus: I could have entered any shop that day, he said. She was a lonely girl, I a lonely man. My body was stuffed up, bloated, deadening my work. You sent me to Angie, and with her I found catharsis. My sermons move people like never before. In her arms, I was reborn and passed the feeling of rejuvenation on to the Soldiers, who love her as I do. If not divine will, what is it that brings hundreds down the aisles each week to be healed and reborn as I have been; that brings contributions that enrich the church in the name of Jesus Christ? Sister Angie lit up my body and soul, and I transferred that light to my flock.
“Love her, love her!” You said.
And I did.
Chapter 14
The distance from Cal’s office at the rear of the temple to Willie’s in the front was forty-seven paces, at the opposite end of the second-floor roundabout. He knew the precise distance, though rarely made the trip. He had no interest in religion and Willie no interest in accounting. He wasn’t the first son reluctantly to work for his father during the Depression, when jobs were hard to find, even in Los Angeles. He’d worked his way up from part time bookkeeper while still at USC to fulltime business manager. The Depression had not hit Los Angeles as hard as some cities, but that was the problem: Armies of the unemployed trooped westward looking for work. The West did not have enough jobs for them all.
“Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays,” said Miss Shields with a big smile as he stepped into the reception room. He liked the lady, briskly cheery and efficient, someone who kept him informed on the phone and took good care of his father. He never failed to ask about her cats, and she never failed to give the same answer: that she couldn’t let them outside for fear of coyotes. She lived up somewhere in the Hollywood Hills where the critters had been used to living alone and took out their resentment on human intrusion by dining on their pets. Cal wondered if Miss Shields knew of Willie and Angie.
“He’s working on a Sunday script,” she said. “Go right in.”
“Morning, Dad.”
Jacket off, dressed in a starched white shirt with silver cufflinks and dark tie, Willie looked up and smiled. There’d been some awkwardness following the unexpected meeting at Sunset Tower, but it had passed. Father and son had been through too much together to stop being friends. Cal still had his key for Sunset, though hadn’t been back since That Night, as he thought of it. Even when he worked late, he drove home, taking no chances. Maggie had not used his apartment again. Harold was history, and as far as Cal knew, had not been replaced.
He surveyed the room, looking for changes. His eye ran over the bookshelves, old oaken desk, leather chairs and soft couch for afternoon naps. He saw the fresh flowers—brought by Miss Shields every morning, even in winter. Church people always know where to find flowers. He glanced out the picture windows with their view of the mountains, a view he did not have at the rear. He spied the chessboard from Tesoro. As usual, a game was in progress, most likely with Henry Callender. His eyes came to rest on the 1536 first edition Tyndale Bible on the reading stand by the desk. The bible and the chessboard were his father’s two most prized possessions. It was a tidy, scholarly, preacherly room with a beautiful painting of Christ at Gethsemane, and he fe
lt a rush of affection for his father.
Willie watched him examining the bible. “Never too late, you know.”
Cal smiled. “Got some news for you,” he said, sitting down.
Willie took off his reading glasses, laid down his pencil, waiting.
“I’m going to take a sabbatical, go off to Europe a while. Do the grand tour.”
Willie frowned. “Europe? This is hardly the time to be visiting Europe.”
“Calm before the storm.”
“This is calm?”
“There’s more: Maggie is coming with me.”
“Maggie, heavens—does Eddie know?’
“Would he care?”
“Of course, he would,” said Willie, annoyed. “I don’t like it. People talking about war before the year is out and you’re dragging Maggie off to Europe?”
“Just for the summer. I haven’t seen anything about war. The Austrians didn’t fight. They welcomed the Germans.”
“The Czechs don’t seem so enthusiastic.”
“It’s a chance to see things while we still can.”
“Hitler’s not done.”
They were talking past each other.
“Do you know I haven’t been out of the country since we came back from China? How old was I—four?”
Willie thought for a moment. “Yes, you were four. Where would you go in Europe?”
“We’re working on the itinerary. So far it’s London, Berlin, Prague and Paris.”
“Berlin?”
“Why not?”
His father swung around in the swivel chair to look out at his favorite sight. “Because you might get stuck there.”
“America isn’t involved in those quarrels. I don’t see a problem.”
“Why Prague?”
“Because of you, Dad,” he said with a huge smile. “Prague is where you went as a seminarian—at least that’s what you’ve told me enough times. Prague, Jan Hus, where the Reformation began.”
Pleased, Willie turned back from the mountains. “And what about the temple?”
“The department’s in good hands. Don’t worry.”
“I always worry. It is my nature.”
“Pray to overcome it.”
“I do pray, Cal, I do. Seriously, does Uncle Eddie know about Maggie?”
“Maggie does what she wants. Right now she wants to fly European planes.”
Willie nodded. “Impulsive girl—not one to let loose in Europe. Look a little odd, won’t it—I mean the two of you together like that? You’ll have to have separate rooms.”
Cal smiled. “We’ll manage.”
“You’re going to watch over her, right? Make sure she comes home again.”
“Do my best. No one really watches over Maggie.”
“What about Lizzie—she’s not going?”
“Lizzie has been hired by the Times.”
“I hadn’t heard. No one tells me anything. Is that what she wanted?”
“You bet.”
“Good for her. So when would you leave?”
“We’re aiming for a month. Lots of preparations.”
“You’ll stay in touch?”
“At every stop.”
“Say, I wonder if you’d do me a little favor before you go off.”
“Name it.”
“Take Angie to lunch.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t like it. Saw there was more in it than lunch.
“Cal, trust me on this.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Take the Cadillac. Take her to the Brown Derby. She said you two kind of clicked that night at my place. Get to know her, that’s all I ask. You never know.”
“You never know what?”
Willie laughed. “Look, we preachers have certain gifts, but I’ve never known one yet who could see into the future.”
Against his inclinations, Cal took Angie to lunch at the Brown Derby, the first time he’d seen her since That Night. As business manager he kept the keys to the Cadillac and thought he might as well use it for once. They parked on Wilshire and walked in unnoticed. They were seated at a booth by the window, ordered chicken salad sandwiches and iced tea. He was slightly surprised that no one came up for an autograph, for Angie was well known, though not yet quite well enough known to have her picture up on the wall with Willie’s and the other Hollywood stars. That would come.
Reflecting on it later, it occurred to him that no one approached because she was unrecognizable. The woman on stage at the temple, the woman in the display cases outside, the woman dressed in white and posing under a halo with her hands behind her head so that the long sleeves billowed down and resembled wings, was neither the girl at Sunset Tower nor the girl next to him at the Brown Derby in tight yellow sweater and swishy skirt.
There were two Angies, and at lunch he decided that the Brown Derby Angie was the real one. The other one, Sister Angie, who preached and saved and healed on the stage at the temple and was adored by millions nearly as much as Willie himself, for him was no more than a plastic personage borrowed from a Hollywood stage set. For two hours they exchanged not one word about God or Jesus or the temple or Willie. It was as if they were on a real date, the kind he used to have at USC when he’d take a pretty sorority girl to a lunch counter on Jefferson. He was fascinated and he was aroused. Angie was deadly. He feared for his father. He feared for himself. He was glad to be leaving town.
♦ ♦ ♦
As war approached, the Los Angeles Times was a newspaper in search of an identity. Newspapers take on the characters of their founders even more than their cities and keep that character long after the founders are gone, especially when it is a family newspaper. It took four generations of Otises and Chandlers for the Times to transform itself from conservative to liberal, and when Elizabeth Mull went to work at First and Spring Streets in the summer of 1938 it had not yet begun the transformation. Harrison Gray Otis, the founder, was an antediluvian scoundrel. Harry Chandler, his son-in-law, a key figure in the San Fernando Land and Water Syndicate flimflammery, was only marginally an improvement. They pretended to run their newspaper in the community interest, but did so only when the community interest happened to coincide with their personal interest. The Times’s focus was always local. It had no national or international aspirations, but insofar as Southern California was concerned, it was the kingfish. Mayors, supervisors, councilmen, district attorneys, judges and police chiefs all came to pay obeisance at First and Spring.
Women weren’t entirely unknown on the third floor. Journalism has been a comparatively good profession for women because it is a literary profession where girls, as any boy who ever sat with them in an English class knows, tend to excel. “Comparatively” is the operative word. For most of the twentieth century and all centuries previous, women were largely restricted to two respectable professions: teaching and nursing. If writers they were, they labored anonymously at home or, for the more daring, under a pseudonym. It was during the first half of the twentieth century that women came to be found here and there in newsrooms, generally working on the “woman’s page,” which in time became the “society pages.”
The Times was the stodgiest of newspapers. Its city editor, a man named Larry McManus who’d come out from Detroit in the twenties and been hired by Harry Chandler himself, saw this as an anomaly in the entertainment capital of the world. With support from Norman Chandler, Harry’s son and heir, he set out to change things, if for no other reason than to keep pace with Hearst’s Examiner, which was not stodgy. Lizzie Mull was good enough to have gone if she’d wanted to New York, where newspapers were more enlightened, but since she had no desire to leave home, she accepted McManus’s offer. She let Nelly think it was her pleading that persuaded her to stay home, especially with Maggie off in Europe, but the truth was Lizzie never
intended to leave. Los Angeles was what she knew and loved. It was where she would make her mark.
Because of her name, she almost wasn’t hired. If there was a better-known name than Mull in Los Angeles it would have been Fairbanks or Pickford or the new fellow in town named Howard Hughes, but McManus had wanted to hire her since he’d read her article on the Klan and invited her in. He didn’t like that she came from a prominent local family and knew the males would complain about a female in the newsroom, but he wasn’t about to turn down someone he wanted because of her name or her sex. His solution was to send her provisionally to the society pages, where there were no males to complain.
The society editor was a prickly matron named Miss Adelaide Nevin, and no one in the city, not even the publisher’s wife, had more power in Los Angeles society than Miss Adelaide, as she was known. She could make or break anyone in the Blue Book or Junior League by the simple expedient of not covering—or not covering very well—her charity ball, cotillion or coming-out party. The publisher’s wife had long ago stopped passing on complaints to her husband from her friends in Bel Air, Hancock Park and San Marino about Miss Adelaide’s slights. The publisher refused to lock horns with his society editor for the simple reason that Miss Adelaide knew Los Angeles society better than anyone else, including his wife.
Lizzie was miffed. She’d been slighted and passed over on the Daily Bruin because of her sex, and the society pages seemed more of the same. McManus promised it would not be for long. “No one ever regrets working for Miss Adelaide,” he said. She never did.
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