Clandestine

by James Ellroy

  I shook my head.

  “Whassa matter, man?” Waldo asked.

  “You think that’s five dollars’ worth of information?”

  “I sure do!”

  “So do I. You want to make another fin?”

  “Yeah, man!”

  “Then take me to the Gluebird, now.”

  “Yeah, man!”

  * * *

  —

  We went cruising, in the front seat of my sweltering Ford sedan, zigzagging the streets of Milwaukee’s lower-class neighborhoods in a random pattern until we spotted pairs of ragged men tossing handbills onto lawns and front porches. Some venturesome winos even jammed them into mailboxes.

  Waldo said, “This is what sister call ‘saturation bombing.’ Bomb ’em right into her parlor, she says.”

  “How much does she charge?”

  “Three dollars!” Waldo bellowed.

  I shook my head. “Life’s a kick in the brains, isn’t it, Waldo?”

  “Life’s more like a kick in the ass,” he said.

  We drove on for another half hour. The Gluebird was not to be found among his colleagues. Exhaustion was catching up with me, but I knew I couldn’t sleep.

  Finally Waldo exclaimed, “The hobby shop!” and started jabbering directions. All I could pick out was “Lake Michigan,” so I turned around and pointed the car toward a bright expanse of dark blue that was visible from our hilltop vantage point. Soon we were cruising down Lake Drive, and Waldo was craning his head out the window looking for the Gluebird.

  “There!” he said, pointing to a row of shops in a modern shopping center. “That’s it.”

  I pulled in, and finally spied a joint called Happy Harry’s Hobby Haven. At last my exhausted, dumbfounded brain got the picture: Happy Harry was George Melveny’s glue supplier.

  “Stay here, Waldo,” I said. I parked and walked into the little store.

  Happy Harry didn’t look too happy. He was a fat, middle-aged man who looked like he hated kids. He was suspiciously eyeing a group of them, who were holding balsa wood airplanes over their heads and dive-bombing them at one another, exclaiming “Zoom, karreww, buzz!” Suddenly, I felt very tired, and not up to sparring with the fat man, who looked like he would give a good part of his soul to converse with an adult.

  I walked up to him and said, “George ‘The Gluebird’ Melveny.”

  He said in return, “Oh, shit.”

  “Why ‘Oh, shit’?” I asked.

  “No reason. I just figured you was a cop or something, and the Bird set himself on fire again.”

  “Does he do that often?”

  “Naw, just once or twice. He forgets and lights a cigarette when his beard is full of glue. He ain’t got much of a face left because of that, but that’s okay, he ain’t got much of a brain left either, so what’s the diff? Right, Officer?”

  “I’m not a cop, I’m an insurance investigator. Mr. Melveny has just been awarded a large settlement. If you point me in his direction, I’m sure he will repay the favor by purchasing glue by the caseload here at your establishment.”

  Happy Harry took it all in with a straight face: “The Bird bought three models this morning. I think he crosses the drive and goes down to the beach to play with them.”

  Before the man could say anything more, I walked out to the lot and told my tour guide we were going beachcombing.

  * * *

  —

  We found him sitting in the middle of the sand, alternately staring at the white, churning tide of Lake Michigan and the pile of plastic model parts in his lap. I handed Waldo five dollars and told him to get lost. He did, thanking me effusively.

  I stared at the Gluebird for several long moments. He was tall, and gaunt beyond gaunt, his angular face webbed with layers of white scar tissue burned to a bright red at the edges. His sandy hair was long and matted sideways over his head; his reddish-blond beard was sparkling with gooey crystalline matter that he picked at absently. It was a breezeless ninety degrees and he was still wearing wool slacks and a turtle-necked fisherman’s sweater.

  I walked up to him and checked out the contents of his lap as he stared slack-jawed at a group of children building sand castles. His bony, glue-encrusted hands held the plastic chassis of a 1940 Ford glued to the fuselage of a B-52 bomber. Tiny Indian braves with tomahawks and bows and arrows battled each other upside down along the plane’s underbelly.

  The Gluebird noticed me, and must have seen some sadness in my gaze, because he said in a soft voice: “Don’t be sad, sonny, the sister has a cozy drift for you and I was in the war, too. Don’t be sad.”

  “Which war, Mr. Melveny?”

  “The one after the Korean War. I was with the Manhattan Project then. They gave me the job because I used to mix Manhattans for the fathers. By the pitcherful, with little maraschino cherries. The fathers were cherry themselves, but they could have told the sisters to kick loose, but they were cherry, too. Like Jesus. They could have got fired, like me, and left the sisters to work for the sister.” Melveny held his mound of plastic up for me to see. I took it, and held it for a moment, then handed it back to him. “Do you like my boat?” he asked.

  “It’s very beautiful,” I said. “Why did you get fired, George?”

  “I used to be George, and it was George with me, but now I’m a bird. Caw! Caw! Caw! I used to be George, by George, and it was George by me, but the padres didn’t know! They didn’t care!”

  “Care about what, George?”

  “I don’t know! I used to know, when I was George, but I don’t know anymore!”

  I knelt beside the old man and placed an arm around his shoulders. “Do you remember Johnny DeVries, George?”

  The old Gluebird began to tremble, and his face went red—even the white scar tissue. “Big John, Big John, squarehead kraut-eater. Big John, he could recite the table of elements backward! He had a prick the size of a bratwurst! Eight foot four in his stocking feet, Big John. Big John!”

  “Was he your friend?”

  “Dead friend! Dead man! Guy Fawkes. Welcome back, Amelia Earhart! Redivivus Big John! Big John Redux! Didn’t know a Bunsen burner from a bratwurst, but I taught him, by George, I taught him!”

  “Where did he get his morphine, George?”

  “The n——— had the dope—Johnny just got the cat’s bones. The n——— got the pie and Johnny got the crust!”

  I shook the Gluebird’s bony shoulders. “Who killed Johnny, George?”

  “The n——— had the pie, Johnny had the crumbs! Johnny Crum-bum! Johnny said the slicer paid the piper, the slicer’s gonna get me, but I got my memoirs at the monastery! Buddha’s gonna get the slicer! And make my book a bestseller!”

  I shook the Gluebird even harder, until his glue-streaked beard was in my face. “Who’s the slicer, goddamnit?”

  “Ain’t no god, Johnny-boy. The Buddhist’s got the Book and they don’t believe in Jesus. Turnabout’s fair play, Jesus don’t believe in Buddha! George don’t believe in George, by George, and that’s George!”

  I let go of the Gluebird. He caw-cawed at the sea gulls flying above the lakefront, and flapped his emaciated arms in longing to join them. On the extreme off chance that God existed I said a silent prayer for him. I walked back to my car knowing I had gleaned enough from his ravaged mind to take me at least as far as Fond Du Lac.

  22

  I got a room in a motor court on Blue Mound Road and slept for sixteen hours straight, dreaming of Michael and Lorna floating on life rafts in a sea of airplane glue. It was just before dawn when I awoke and called Will Berglund in Tunnel City. Did the Clandestine Heart have a monastery near Fond Du Lac? Yes, he said, his voice blurred by sleep, it did. Did it have an orphanage? No, it didn’t. Before I hung up I got explicit directions on the shortest route to the order. Will Berglund ca
me awake as he sensed the anxiety in my voice, and he said he would call the prelate at the monastery and tell him I was coming.

  I stopped for gas and a quick breakfast, then swung north in the direction of the lake country, certain that what awaited me at the Clandestine Heart Monastery would not be dull.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours later I was skirting a crystal blue lake dotted with small pleasure craft. Sunbathers were jammed together on the narrow sandy lakefront, and the pine forests that surrounded Fond Du Lac were alive with camera-toting tourist families.

  I checked the directions Will Berglund had given me: edge of lake through mountains to farmland, past three farmhouses, one mile to the road with the sign depicting major faiths.

  I found the mountain road, then the flat grazing land and the three farmhouses. It was sweltering, close to one hundred degrees, but I was sweating more from nervous anticipation as I turned onto the road. It cut through a half mile of sandy-soil pine forest before ending at a clearing where a plain whitewashed cement building stood, three stories high without ornamentation or architectural style or signs of welcome. A parking area had been created next to the building. The cars that were parked there were spare, too: World War II vintage jeeps and a prewar Willys sedan. They looked well kept up.

  I stared at the large wooden door as if expecting an austere miracle. Gradually I realized I was scared and didn’t want to enter the monastery. This surprised me; and by reflex I got out of my car and ran to the door and banged on it as hard as I could.

  The man who answered had a fresh, well-scrubbed look. He was small and refined looking, yet I got a distinct impression that he had known protracted bad times and had surmounted them. He nodded demurely and bade me enter into a long corridor of the same whitewashed cement as the exterior of the building.

  At the end of the hallway I could see a meeting or worship hall of some kind.

  The man, who could have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five, told me that the prelate was with his wife and would see me in a few minutes.

  “You guys can get married?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer me, just shoved open a small wooden door in the corridor wall and pointed me inside. “Please wait here,” he said, shutting the door behind me. The room was a monk’s cell, with few furnishings and no adornment. I checked the door. It was unlocked. In fact, it held no locking mechanism—I was free to leave if I chose. There was one unbarred window, at about the eye level of a tall man. I peeked out and saw a garden behind the monastery. A man in dirty farmer’s overalls was hoeing a row of radishes. I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled at him. He turned his head in my direction, smiled broadly, waved, and went back to his work.

  For five minutes I stared in eerie silence at the naked light bulb that illuminated the cell. Then my escort returned, telling me that the prelate had been contacted by Will Berglund and was anxious to give me all the help he could. He went on to add that although members of the Clandestine Heart Order eschewed the trappings of the world, they recognized their duty to participate in the world’s urgent matters. In fact, it was in many ways the basic tenet of their faith. The whole spiel was as ambiguous as the rest of the religious rebop I had heard in my life, but I didn’t tell the man that, I just nodded mutely and hoped I looked properly reverent. He led me past a main worship room and into a small room about double the size of the monk’s cell, this one furnished with two metal folding chairs stenciled “Milwaukee General Hospital” on the back. He told me the prelate would join me momentarily, then padded out the door, which he left ajar.

  The prelate showed up a minute later. He was a robust, stocky man with jet-black hair and a very dark, roughlooking razor stubble. He was probably somewhere in his forties, but again, his age was hard to discern. I stood as he entered the room. We shook hands, and as he motioned me back to the chair he gave me a look that said he was all business. He sat down and let loose with a startling belch. It was a superb icebreaker.

  “Jesus,” I said spontaneously.

  The man laughed. “No, I’m Andrew. He wasn’t even one of the apostles. Are you versed in the scriptures, Mr. Underhill?”

  “I used to be. I was forced into it. But I’m not what you’d call a believer.”

  “And your family?”

  “I don’t have a family. My wife is Jewish.”

  “I see. How did Will Berglund impress you?”

  “As a guilt-ridden man. A decent, gentle man. Possibly an enlightened man.”

  Andrew smiled at me. “What did Will tell you about our order?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Although I admit it must have some appeal to the intellect or an intelligent man like Berglund wouldn’t have been so hopped up on it. What interests me, though, is why John DeVries—”

  “We’ll talk about John later,” Andrew said, interrupting me. “What I am interested in is what you will do with any information I give you.”

  The ascetic surroundings and Andrew’s patient voice started to irritate me and I felt the periphery of my vision begin to blacken. “Look, goddamn you,” I said harshly, “John DeVries was murdered. So was his sister. These are lives we’re talking about, not biblical homilies. I…” I stopped.

  Andrew had gone pale beneath his dark stubble, and his huge brown eyes were clouding over with grief. “Oh, God, Marcella,” he whispered.

  “You knew her?”

  “Then it was true…”

  “Then what was true, goddamnit?!”

  Andrew faltered while I tried to control my excitement. He stared at his hands. I gave him a few moments to calm himself, then said gently: “Then what was true, Andrew?”

  “Marcella told my wife and me last month that she was in danger, that her husband wanted custody of their son, that he was going to kidnap him.”

  “Last month? You saw Marcella Harris last month? Where?”

  “In Los Angeles. Some awful town east of L.A. El Monte. Marcella phoned my wife. She said she needed to see us, that she needed spiritual counsel. She wired us plane fare and we flew to Los Angeles. We met Marcella at a bar in El Monte, my—”

  “On a Saturday night? June 21? Does your wife have a blond ponytail?”

  “Yes, but how do you know that?”

  “I read it in the papers. The L.A. cops were looking for you as suspects in Marcella’s murder. She was killed late that very night, after she left you at the bar. You should have listened, Andrew.”

  I let that sink in, watching Andrew sink into his grief. The calmness of that grief was unnerving: I got the feeling he was already bartering with God for a way off the hook. “When did you first meet Marcella?” I asked gently. “Tell me how she came to call on you for help last month.”

  Andrew hunched over in his chair in an almost supplicant’s position. His voice was very soft: “Marcella came to the order four years ago. Will Berglund had told her about us. She was distraught, she told me that something terrible was going to happen and she was powerless to stop it. I told her that the Clandestine Heart Order is a spiritual discipline based on anonymous good deeds. We have a few wealthy patrons who own a print shop that prints up our little tracts, but basically we operate our farm here and support ourselves and give our food away to hungry people. We have three hours of silent meditation every day and a day of fasting every week. But mostly we journey to the cities. We put our little tracts in missions on skid rows, in jailhouse chapels, wherever there are lonely, despairing people. We walk city streets, picking lonely, drunken people out of gutters, feeding them, and giving them comfort. We don’t actively seek recruits—ours is a severe discipline, and not for the capricious. And we are anonymous: we take no credit for the good we do. I told Marcella all this when we talked back in ’51. She told me she understood, and she did. She was a tireless worker. She picked rag women up off the street and bathed and fe
d them, spending her own money to buy them clothes. She tendered love as no one I have ever seen. She waited outside the gates of the Milwaukee County Jail and drove the released prisoners into the city and talked to them and bought them dinners. She stood guard for twenty-four-hour stretches outside the emergency room at Waukesha General Hospital, offering her nursing skills for free and praying for accident victims. She gave and she gave and she gave, and in so doing transformed herself.”

  “Into what, Andrew?”

  “Into someone who accepted life, and herself, on God’s terms.”

  “And then?”

  “And then she left, as abruptly as she came.”

  “How long was she with the order?”

  “For about six weeks.”

  “She left in August of ’51?”

  “Yes…Yes, that’s correct.”

  Something crashed within me. “I’m sorry I was abusive,” I said.

  “Don’t be sorry, you want justice.”

  “I don’t know what I want. Johnny DeVries came here independently of his sister, is that right?”

  “Yes. Will Berglund sent him also. I think it was around Christmas of ’49. He was no Marcella. He was a volatile drug addict with a lot of self-hatred. He tried to buy his way in here. Dirty money he’d earned from selling drugs. He made half-hearted attempts to listen to our message, but—”

  “Have you ever operated an orphanage here?” I interjected.

  “No, that requires a license. We serve anonymously, Mr. Underhill.”

  “Did John DeVries ever mention a woman named Margaret Cadwallader? Or a child he fathered with her out of wedlock?”

  “No, mostly John talked about chemical formulas and the women he had sexual relations with, and—”

  I stabbed in a darkness that was becoming increasingly brighter. “And he left his memoirs here, right, Andrew?”

  Andrew hesitated. “He left a carton of personal effects, yes.”