TWO O’CLOCK, EASTERN WARTIME

by John Dunning

  She smiled at him sweetly, the living image of the Gibson girl. “So, what’s this I hear about five shows in five days? . . . and what’s in it for me?”

  He stood at the open door and looked out at the black sea. Strictly speaking, he had not told the truth about Livia. There had always been something between them, hints beginning with that first look at the picnic tables. That and a hundred other looks he had denied. All the days and nights when they had worked together and she had gone beyond the call of duty to enrich his talent with her own. But bringing it out in the open now only had the effect of deepening his sense of isolation, not relieving it.

  The first day was done, just a trace of light remaining on the sand. He wondered where Holly was, and he couldn’t stop thinking of all these people who had changed his life so much. They came up from the beach and formed a little parade outside the house . . . Livia and Becky and Rue and Gus, Maitland and Harford and Kidd, Eastman and Stallworth and Hazel, even Poindexter and Barnet. And of course, his black players, Eli, Rudo, Emily, Ali. And Waldo, God bless him. He thought of all the things that had to be done by next Tuesday, and it seemed like such a short time and yet so far away. And out of the dark he saw the pages of a script fluttering—not the script yet to be written, for that was now safe, whole and alive inside his head, but the Boer script, and what he must do to it in those crucial minutes just before air.

  It was all in the cues. Whatever he did, the cues must remain unchanged.

  At eleven o’clock he turned on the light and started the preliminary work on the Bataan script. In two hard hours he had it roughed out, and he thought he might get it down tomorrow, a full day early, and this satisfied him enough that perhaps he could now sleep.

  He did sleep, and was up at five.

  He went through the morning routine. The shower, the breakfast orange, the gathering of the papers, the trek up the beach.

  A harbinger crossed his path as he started through the town. The road north was moonlit and empty, the Harford building rising on his left like a dark fortress. At the north wall piles of sand stood out against the lights. The site looked deserted. But when he came abreast he saw a car parked just off the road, the window rolled down and the shape of a man behind the wheel, smoking.

  “Howdy, son. Headin’ into work?”

  “Morning, Sheriff.”

  “I’ve been thinking you might come by.”

  The sheriff stepped out in the moonlight. “Come on, let’s us take a walk.”

  They went up through the heavy sand to the edge of the building, where a vast pit had been scooped out from the wall. The sheriff stopped and turned, a silhouette against the light.

  “I’ve just been wondering about the old man’s confession. You were the first one to hear it—you and Miss O’Hara, and now she’s gone. Did you believe it?”

  “There wasn’t any reason not to.”

  “Miz Flack doesn’t believe it. I hear she’s been making a real nuisance out of herself all weekend. She thinks she can get the old man to change his story if he’ll only just talk to her.”

  Jordan shrugged, a gesture useless in the dark.

  “She wants me to let you go back and talk to him.”

  “I told her I’m willing to do that. Not that it’ll do much good.”

  “She let it slip that you don’t believe the old man’s confession either.”

  “I did tell her that. But it’s just a hunch. I hardly know the old guy.”

  “I guess it can’t hurt, can it? . . . I mean, we want to be fair, don’t we? If it gives that poor woman a bit of peace, what harm can that do?” The sheriff dropped his smoke and stepped on it. “But I’ve got to tell you, son, this looks like an open-and-shut case.”

  He turned on a flashlight and shined it down into the pit. There at the bottom was a human skull, fused into the concrete foundation. A skeletal face, the remains of an officer’s cap jutting out of the powdery cement. Below it, more bones. Ribs, and fragments of the uniform he had worn that night. A row of ribbons representing Kitchener’s long, illustrious service to the crown. Below that, more fragments . . . pants, and the sharp, half-uncovered point of a shoe.

  The sheriff was staring at him. “What’s wrong, boy? Cat got your tongue? Say hello to Mr. Flack.”

  ( ( ( 10 ) ) )

  THE work went badly that morning. His mind kept drifting to that fossil in the concrete, then on to the usual phantoms . . . Holly, the Boers, Carnahan. By eleven o’clock he had put only two scenes in script and it was mediocre stuff, not worthy of sharing the air with the other four. Then the sheriff called and asked him to come in. A car would pick him up at noon.

  He went as if he had nothing to fear. Pauline was already at the jail, looking small and pale in a chair near the desk. “They’ve found March,” she said when she saw him. “He was right where Tom said.”

  He could see that her faith in the old man’s innocence had been shaken. The old man’s statement—that he had killed March because he couldn’t stand seeing him hurt her anymore—was certainly feasible now, and Jordan knew that if this experiment failed she would give it up.

  The sheriff led them back through the barred hallways. He touched Pauline’s arm and motioned her to be quiet. They stood in the shadows while Jordan went on to the edge of the cell.

  “Mr. Griffin.”

  The eyes flicked open. “What’re you doing here?”

  “They found Mr. Flack.”

  “Of course they did. I told you that.”

  “He was right where you said.”

  “Of course he was. A man don’t get up when he’s got a slug in his heart and two tons of concrete poured over his head.”

  “Is that how it happened?”

  “I told you so, didn’t I? What do you want? Why are you here?”

  Jordan felt a sudden rush of freedom, as if Pauline and the sheriff had gone away. He could say anything, ask any question, and none of it would affect his own plans or how he would do it. “I’m here because Mrs. Flack asked me to come. Because she’s very unhappy, and I like her, and she doesn’t believe you did this.”

  “She’ll get over it. And in time she’ll know why I did what I did.”

  “She knows it now. That you’re trying to protect her.”

  The old man came up from the cot and stood there trembling. “She must not say that! What’s the matter with you, haven’t I told you what happened?”

  Jordan grew bolder. “You claim to be her friend but you’re causing her great pain. If you persist with this story, she will make her own confession.”

  “No! . . . No! . . . You can’t let her do that!”

  “I can’t stop her. And you can’t help her with lies.”

  “What’s wrong with you, are you stupid? You know I did this, I told you where the body was.”

  “They’ll say you did it together. Unless you tell the truth now.”

  The old man quaked with rage. He lunged at Jordan with a roar, his arm flailing wildly through the bars. Then he stopped and stood still and Jordan felt the presence at his right arm as Pauline came up beside him.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Griffin said. “This isn’t right.”

  “Tom, for God’s sake tell the truth. I didn’t kill March! I’ve got nothing to hide! How can I live with myself if you do this?”

  The old man began to cry. Jordan stepped back with the sheriff and left them alone, and in time, after a while, the story came out.

  They had had that terrible quarrel on the day of the Kitchener show, and Pauline had lost her temper and thrown a glass of beer in March’s face. That night Griffin stayed late on the boardwalk, lingering in the pubs, drinking ale, and playing pinball to work off his rage.

  It was late when he started for home. He walked out past the excavation where Harford was building his new office. He didn’t think anything special about it then, but it was a cavernous dig and it must have stuck in his mind.

  He was somewhere in the dunes when he he
ard the shots—two muffled pops, but Griffin had been in the war and he knew gunfire when he heard it. The night was cloudy and windy, with gusts blowing in from the sea and carrying the sound into the marsh. He couldn’t see much, just the tower’s red lights, and he made his way by instinct, having crossed so many times before.

  He pushed on toward the station, and at the edge of the yard he found March Flack, shot once in the heart and once in the head. His only thought, from that moment on, was of Pauline.

  He dragged the body into the dunes. There was no one to see him at that time of night, but he knew he had to do something before dawn. He thought of Harford’s excavation two miles away: a tough go for a sound young man, impossible for an old man with a bum leg. But he began to drag the body with an energy and fire he had not felt in years.

  At some point he remembered seeing the handyman put a wheel-barrow in the utility shed. He went to fetch it and in five minutes he had March, as bulky as Kitchener himself, flopped over the wheel, heading east.

  He didn’t know how long it took: at least two hours of pushing, pulling, and cursing before he reached the hard stuff and dumped March in the hole. He filched a bag of cement from the construction shack and poured it over the body, then added a light coat of sand.

  That was the best he could do. If they found him there, he would confess and spare Pauline the anguish.

  But he was lucky. The sheriff was slow to investigate, didn’t start his search for a full week. By then the foundation had been poured over March Flack’s body.

  That’s why the bloodhound kept going back to that shed. Even then the sheriff might have found blood on that wheelbarrow, but he didn’t believe his own dog when it kept howling at the tower. There the case was lost, and in no time at all it passed into local folklore.

  ( ( ( 11 ) ) )

  AFTER that the day was better. He finished his script by five o’clock, and if it was still a sloppy, mediocre job, at least he had it trapped on paper. Again Becky appeared from the woodwork at the end of the day.

  “Kidd wanted you to see this before you go. We heard about it this morning and sent someone into the city to get it.”

  It was the radio column of today’s Times: half a dozen short squibs under one byline, with the top item getting the bold black headline.

  WHO IS JORDAN TEN EYCK?

  by Gerald Marshall Palmer

  The headline caught the gist of it. A man of mystery, but no mean talent, had arrived at Harford’s radio station down on the Jersey coast, to brew a tantalizing audio stew on Friday nights. Ten Eyck had been hired, apparently with no prior experience, and had spent his time writing continuity until his great natural ability with drama was discovered, only in recent weeks. Now, with one spectacular war bond drama and half a dozen Negro plays under his belt, the unsung boy wonder has reportedly delivered even bigger and better things for the immediate future—a serial in the One Man’s Family tradition, to run weekly in a thirty-minute time slot, and more specials, perhaps as early as next week.

  Jordan skimmed to the end. “This fellow is for real, but at this date he refuses to be interviewed. It is said that he once published a novel, but his name is unfamiliar to the Times book critic, and nothing was found even in the massive collection of the New York Public Library. Stay tuned.”

  “That means he’s going to dig some more,” Becky said with a shrug. “You’re not going to be able to hide from him forever.”

  “No, I can see that now.”

  “I know you’re not thrilled with this, but it couldn’t be better for our opening week. Everyone loves a mystery, and Kidd wants to capitalize on it. He’d like to send Palmer mimeos of the prison camp stuff. He thinks we might get a much bigger story this Sunday.”

  Jordan thought about it as they walked through the halls. Really, what difference did it make? “Let’s let Palmer see the opening script, and the piece about the Nisei. That should give him enough to chew on.”

  “Oh, you’re a dear! Maybe this is the time to push my luck . . . what about giving him an interview, Jordan? If you get him on our side he can really help us.”

  He smiled at her, suddenly the soul of patience. “Sure, I’ll talk to the man. But not till the series is over. Tell Mr. Palmer I’ll be happy to bore him to death a week from Friday.”

  Now came the difficult hours: a solitude so much deeper than the quiet time Becky protected for him at the station. At work he could be out of the way and alone for as long as he liked, but he always knew that life was a short walk away, down the hall where a room full of people would be glad to see him. Now he must go home to a dead house, and find a way to get through the early evening, get at least a few hours’ sleep, and do it all again tomorrow. For seven more days.

  In the parking lot he came upon Stoner and Maitland, talking earnestly at the tailgate of Stoner’s truck. Maitland had the Andersonville mimeo; he had been telling Stoner how grand it was, what sweep it had, what a privilege it would be to direct it. But Jordan felt detached, as if someone else had written it.

  They were hoping to get the group together: another Goodfellows on the beach when the series was over. Stoner thought it would be hard now to find a night when they were all free but Maitland was insistent. They couldn’t let it lapse, it was far too important, he had never seen such raw creative energy, everything they were doing now had had its beginning that night. Stoner suggested a Sunday afternoon, maybe in two weeks. Jordan said that sounded excellent. “Two weeks will be fine, Gus. You say when and I’ll be there.”

  ( ( ( 12 ) ) )

  THE special staff meeting convened Wednesday morning at seven o’clock. Everyone on the creative staff had been called, and half a dozen actors had come down from New York at Becky’s invitation. She distributed the four finished mimeos and for an hour not a word was said as they sat and read. At eight o’clock Kidd came in and took over the meeting.

  “By now you all know what we’re up to. There are thirty-seven characters in these four scripts, there’s another script yet to come, and each part must be auditioned and cast by Friday. Every role is up for grabs with two exceptions. The leads for next Thursday’s Japanese script have been given to Rick Gary and Susan Daniels. Both have extensive experience with the Japanese dialect and they’re very excited about it.”

  Hazel’s angry voice arose from the front. “How is it that they saw the script before we did?”

  “I read it to them,” Becky said. “Last night on the telephone.”

  “How grand for them. It must be wonderful to be so important. I would have liked to audition for that Japanese wife.”

  “And I’m sorry you can’t,” Kidd said. “If we had more time I’d let everyone including the switchboard operator read for it. But I can’t ask an actress like Susan Daniels to come down here on speculation. We’ve already blown her off once. If we do it again we may never be able to get her.”

  “Why don’t you read for the sister in the Boer piece?” Becky said.

  “Why don’t you hush up, darling? I wasn’t speaking to you. I know you’re taking that producer’s hat you’re wearing so very seriously, sweets, but I know what I can do. I don’t need anyone telling me what to read.”

  “I am the producer, Hazel, and I’m telling you we are not auditioning those two parts. If you want to do the Boer piece, I think you’d be wonderful.”

  “No. I don’t want that part.”

  Across the room Eastman sighed loudly. Stallworth cleared his throat. “Am I the only one who’s bothered by this series? That Boer show clearly undermines our war effort, and as for that Jap piece . . . I’m sorry, Jordan, but I think it’s a goddamn disgrace. I’m amazed Gary and Daniels will risk their reputations on something as anti-American as that.”

  Kidd answered from the front of the room. “It’s not anti-American, Mr. Stallworth, it’s militantly pro-American. These particular Japs are still Americans and only a few of us are standing up for their rights. And one of the most vocal critics of this reloca
tion policy has been Susan Daniels. If you remember, she wrote a letter to the Times just last month.”

  “If she wants to commit professional suicide, that’s her business. But I had to say something. I think we’re taking a very bad turn here.”

  “Well, what can I say? Mr. Harford is willing to take that risk. So is Miss Daniels. Anyone who isn’t is free to leave with no hard feelings.”

  But Becky had screened the New York actors well, and Stallworth left alone.

  “I’ve got some more people coming later this morning,” Becky said.

  “Good,” Kidd said. “They can catch up with us when they get here.”

  He addressed the group. “Auditions on the first script will begin at once. Miss Hart will hear you until Mr. Ten Eyck can finish his final show. When would you like to meet with the cast, Jordan?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Those of you who are selected by Miss Hart, please report back here at seven o’clock tonight. Those interested in the Andersonville show, make arrangements with Mr. Maitland. Miss Hart will hear readings on the Boer script after lunch.”

  ( ( ( 13 ) ) )

  HE rewrote the Bataan script twice before noon. Then he sat quietly at his desk, read through his copy of the Boer War script, thought about every line, and began making notes in the margins.

  He had lunch with Livia and Stoner, a short, quick break that took him away for less than an hour. Becky joined them, ate on the run, and left, carrying half a sandwich, for her meeting with the Boer cast. Stoner left a few minutes later. Everyone was in a hurry. Things were rolling now. Livia would be working late on her effects for the Poland show. “I’d like to sit in tonight, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’d be grateful. Your judgment is a national treasure.”