'"The one-time Communists I know certainly are."
'"Ah," Agent Sweet said, "then you admit that you do know Communists."
'"Former Communists, like me."
'"Eric," Frankel said, "if you could just provide Agent Sweet with a few of their names . . ."
'"And destroy their lives in the process?"
'"If they are as innocent as you claim to be, then they have nothing to fear."
'"Unless, of course, they also refuse to name names. That's the game here, isn't it? You scare me into naming names. Then, after I commit an act of moral cowardice and shop a couple of people, you go to them and play the same game. Give us names, and we'll leave you alone. The problem is, after you leave me alone, I have to deal with myself. And I might not like the person with whom I am now left alone."
'"Are you saying you won't name names?" Ross asked.
'"I am saying that, as I do not know any active Communists, giving you a bunch of names would be a pointless exercise."
'"Let us be the judge of that, Mr Smythe," Sweet said.
'"And if I refuse?"
'"You can kiss your job goodbye," Ross said. "Not just at NBC, but at every network, movie studio, advertising agency, or college across the country. You'll be completely unemployable. I'll make certain of that."
'I met his stare. "I'm sure you will," I said.
'Suddenly, Bert Schmidt entered this Socratic dialog. "Eric, hear me out. You're one of the most talented comedy writers in America today. In my book, you're one of NBC's great assets; a major player in our industry, with a great prosperous future ahead of you. Put baldly, we don't want to lose you. I know this is unpleasant stuff – but everyone here is being asked the same questions. So even if you refuse to name names, somebody else will give us those names. And, unlike you, they will still be in a job. What I'm saying here is: don't make things hard for yourself. Tell Agent Sweet what he needs to know, and you can put the whole business behind you. Anyway, no one will ever learn that it is you who gave the names . . . isn't that right, Agent Sweet?"
'"Absolutely. Your signed affidavit will be marked Confidential and will only be for the eyes of Bureau officers, and certain investigators working for HUAC – the House UnAmerican Activities Committee."
'"So I too will never know who exactly shopped me to the Feds?"
'"No one shopped you, Mr Smythe," Agent Sweet said. "They simply did the proper American thing. Which is all we ask of you now."
'"I have a contract with this network. You can't just fire me on the spot."
'Golden and Frankel both began to leaf through their copies of my contract. Frankel spoke first. "According to clause twenty-one (a) of Terms and Conditions of Employment, you can be dismissed from the National Broadcasting Corporation on the grounds of moral turpitude."
'"Now that is total crap."
'"It would be up to a court of law to decide that," Frankel said. "You'd have to sue us – which, as you well know, would cost you a lot of money. Though I don't want to sound threatening here, the fact is that our pockets are deeper than yours, Eric. And the case would drag on for years – during which time you'd still be out of a job . . . and, as Mr Ross pointed out, sadly unemployable."
'I couldn't fathom what I was hearing. Kafka comes to Rockefeller Center. I decided I had to stall for time. So I said, "I need to think about this carefully."
'"Of course," Agent Sweet said. "We're happy to give you seventy-two hours to contemplate your decision. Do understand, though – if you refuse to cooperate, not only will NBC have grounds for dismissal, but the Bureau will also be beholden to report you to HUAC. Without question, you will then be subpoenaed to testify in front of the committee. Should you refuse to do so – or should you go to Washington and refuse to answer any of the committee's questions under oath – you will be found in contempt of court, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment.'
'"My, what a pretty picture you paint of my future."
'"This doesn't have to be your future," Agent Sweet said, "as long as you cooperate."
'Then he played his trump card. Opening up his file, Sweet pulled out a picture of Ronnie and held it up. My stomach started doing backflips. I had to hide my hands below the table, because I didn't want anyone to see them shaking.
'"Do you know this man?" Sweet asked me.
'"Yes, I know him." My voice sounded jittery.
'"How do you know him?"
'"He's a friend."
'Sweet leaned forward. "What kind of friend?"
'You should have seen this asshole's judgmental gaze – as if I was Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one. I looked over at Bert Schmidt for support, but once again, he gave me one of those desperate looks which said, I can't help you here.
'Sweet didn't like my silence. "Please answer the question, Mr Smythe. What kind of friendship do you have with this man:
'All eyes at the table were on me. Ross was smirking. I found it difficult to speak. "We're just friends," I finally said.
'Sweet let out this big sigh. Then he pulled a small file out of my big file, opened it up, and started reading from it:
'"Ronald Garcia. Born, Bronx, New York. Age: thirty-one. Profession: musician. No prior convictions, no criminal record. Current address: Suite 508, Hampshire House, 150 Central Park South, New York, New York. That also happens to be your address, Mr Smythe."
'"Yes, it's my address."
'"So Mr Garcia, in essence, lives with you."
'"As I said before, we are friends. We know each other through the entertainment business. Ronald was between apartments. Money was tight, so I offered him a place to stay for a while."
'"And where does he sleep in your apartment?"
'"On the sofa. It's one of those pull-out-into-a-bed jobs . . ."
'Sweet studied the file again. "According to two of the Hampshire House maids that we interviewed, your sofa bed has never been used. They both made statements, clearly stating that they had seen Mr Garcia's personal belongings on the table by your bed, his toiletries in your bathroom. What's more, the . . . uh . . . condition of the linen on your bed indicated that . . . uh . . . two people were definitely sharing the bed, and engaged in . . ."
'Frankel cut him off. "I think we've all heard enough, Agent Sweet. And I'm certain Mr Smythe gets the point."
'I put my face in my hands. I really felt as if I was about to be sick. They had me in a corner. And the bastards knew it.
A hand touched my shoulder. Then I heard Bert Schmidt's voice.
'"Come on, Eric – let's get a cup of coffee."
'He helped me up from the table. I was in shock. I couldn't bear to look at any of those shits again. But as we walked out, Agent Sweet said, "Seventy-two hours, Mr Smythe. No longer. And I do hope you'll do the right thing."
'Schmidt and I rode down in the elevator to the lobby. He got us a cab outside, and told the driver to take us to the Carnegie Deli on Fifty-Sixth and Seventh.
'"I'm not exactly hungry, Bert," I said.
'"I just want to get away from that fucking building," he said.
'At the Deli, we got ourselves a booth right at the back. After the waitress showed up with our coffee, Schmidt started talking to me in a low, conspiratorial voice.
'"I'm sorry," he said. "You don't know how sorry I am."
'"What did you tell them?"
'"They didn't investigate me."
'"Bullshit. Of course they questioned you. Because I've heard you brag about your days with Odets and Harold Clurman at the old Group Theater . . . a real hive of political subversion if there ever was one . . ."
'"Unlike you, I wasn't a member of the goddamn Party . . ."
'"But you still knew plenty of people who were. And I bet, when pressed, you had to give those fuckers a couple of names, didn't you?"
'"I would never dream of . . ."
'"Bullshit, Bert. You've got two ex-wives and three kids in private school. All you kvetch about is how you haven't got enough money to pay for those showg
irls you like to bang . . ."
'"Keep your fucking voice down . . ."
'"They're destroying me, and you want me to fucking whisper?"
'"All right, all right," Bert said quietly. "This is awful. This is shit. I can't agree with you more. But Eric, I have no influence with these assholes. Nobody does. They have their own rules . . ."
'"Unconstitutional rules."
'"That may be . . . but everyone's too scared to say that."
'"Bert, you've got to tell me: did you give them my name?"
'"Hand on my heart, on my children's lives, I swear to you: no, I didn't."
'"But you did cooperate with them, didn't you?"
'"Eric, please . . ."
'"Answer me."
'He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. When he pulled them away, his eyes were wet. "Yeah," he said softly. "I gave them some names."
'"Some?"
'"Two or three . . . maybe four. But honestly, Eric – the names I gave . . . they were people who were going to get investigated no matter what. I mean, I was telling them stuff they already knew."
'He looked at me, begging for understanding, for absolution. I didn't know what to say. He saw this. "Don't give me that contemptuous silent shit," he said, suddenly angry. "I had no choice. I have mouths to feed, responsibilities to meet. If I'd refused to cooperate . . ."
'"I know: you would have lost everything. Now if the guys you named refuse to cooperate, they'll lose everything. I think it's called passing the buck."
'"Go on then," he hissed at me. "Play the goddamn saint. Win a fucking Oscar for virtue and nobility."
'"They're going to fire me anyway – now that they know my dirty little secret."
'"If you cooperate with the Feds, the network won't fire you."
'"You don't know that."
'"Yes, I do. Because Frankel and Golden in Legal Affairs assured me that, as long as you helped Agent Sweet, NBC would turn a blind eye to . . . uh . . . your domestic arrangements."
'"You have that in writing?"
'"Are you nuts? They're not going to put that in writing, because they're holding all the cards. But I know for a fact that if you help them out, they won't fire you. As I said upstairs, no one wants to lose you. You're valuable to the network. And, personally speaking, I hope I can still call you my friend."
'That's when I stood up and walked right out of the deli. That was, what? Five yesterday afternoon. I've been walking ever since.'
I reached for the bottle of Hiram Walker and poured another slug into his coffee cup.
'You've not been home since?'
'Nah. I just kept walking around. Finally ended up in one of those all-night movie houses on Forty-Second Street. Trying to blot everything out.'
'Where's Ronnie?'
'Out of town for a couple of nights – as part of a band that's backing Rosemary Clooney down at Atlantic City. I was going to call him at his hotel . . . but I didn't want to upset him yet. There'll be time enough for that. Anyway, I couldn't bear going back to the apartment . . . knowing that the fucking Feds had actually gone to the trouble of interviewing a couple of maids about . . .'
He lifted his coffee cup and tossed back the bourbon.
'Am I that important, S? Am I such a threat to national security that they have to grill a couple of maids about who sleeps in my bed?'
'I can't believe it either.'
'Oh, believe it, S. Because these bastards are dead serious. It's cooperate with them, or commit professional suicide.'
'You need to get a lawyer.'
'Why? What's some overpriced legal eagle going to tell me that I don't already know? Anyway, even if the lawyer was able to work a miracle and somehow get the Feds off my back, the network would then be pressured into axing me on the grounds of "extreme moral turpitude". Once that was made public, my career would be beyond dead. I'd be finished.'
'You must find out who named you.'
'What good would that do?'
'Maybe you could exert some ethical pressure on them to retract their denunciation . . .'
'Ethical pressure. You're a bright lady, S . . . but right now, you sound like Pollyanna. There are no ethics to this game, S. None. It's every man for himself – and that's what Joe McCarthy and his asshole cronies are playing upon: that basic adult fear of losing everything you've worked so hard to achieve. Bert Schmidt is right: when faced with the choice of losing your livelihood, or shopping your friends, you're going to screw your friends.'
'So you're going to cooperate?'
'Don't look at me that way,' he said, suddenly hostile.
'I'm not looking at you any way, Eric. I was just asking . . .'
'I don't know. I've got. . . what? . . . two and a half days to make a decision. I've also got no money in the bank.'
'What do you mean, no money? You made over sixty thousand last year . . .'
'Yeah, and I spent over sixty thousand.'
'How the hell did you do that?'
'It's easy. So damn easy that I now also have something called debt.'
'Debt? On your paycheck? How much?'
'I don't know. Seven, eight thousand, maybe . . .'
'Oh my God . . .'
'Yeah: oh my God. So you see my problem here. If I don't cooperate, not only am I branded a Commie and a pervert, but NBC also turns off the money faucet. And I am bankrupt on all fronts.'
'So what are you going to do?'
'I haven't a fucking clue. What would you do?'
'Honestly?'
'Yes, honestly.'
'Honestly . . .' I said, 'I don't know.'
Seven
THE NEXT TWO days were nightmarish. I insisted that Eric see a lawyer. Naturally enough, he turned out to be Joel Eberts. As soon as nine o'clock arrived, I called Eberts' office. He answered the phone himself, and told us to come downtown immediately. Given his union background, Mr Eberts was completely sympathetic with Eric's dilemma. But after trawling through his contract with NBC – and also hearing about the FBI's information on Ronnie – he said he could do nothing except offer moral support.
'Of course, we could fight this in court. But – as the NBC counsel told you – they can well afford to have this thing drag on for years. In the meantime, you'll be branded a Red. And – although I don't give a damn about who sleeps with whom – I'm afraid they can hang you on the morals clause. Worst yet, if you do take them on, they'll leak stuff to some slimeball like Winchell. Next thing you know, the dirt'll be dished in his column. You'll be through.'
'So what am I supposed to do?' Eric asked.
'My friend – that is completely your call. And I don't envy you your options one bit. Because, either way, you lose. The real question here is: what do you want to lose least?'
The Pursuit Of Happiness Page 46