Blacklist

by Jerry Ludwig

  So why not do it? My finger tightens on the trigger, taking up the slack, testing how it feels. Weaver’s at my mercy, so why do I feel like I’m the one who’s under siege? Being attacked by the assumptions of a lifetime. I’ve never been much for navel-gazing, I avoid cosmic questions like, What’s it all about? Core values? The kind politicians shout about when they’re conning for votes, or preachers threaten you with to get you to increase your donations instead of thinking for yourself? That’s not me. So who am I? Really?

  My teeth are chattering. But despite the chilling wind, my face and hair are soaked in perspiration. I ease off the trigger and reach into the tote bag for a hand towel. I mop up the salty sweat dripping into my eyes and refocus the telescopic sight on Weaver. I’m bathed in a new river of sweat.

  So that’s the question of the night. Who the fuck am I really? Am I defined solely by my job? What else? Well, I’m a good brother, good uncle. Does that make me a good person? Or am I just a walking-talking jumble of personal likes and dislikes? An amalgam of the foods and clothes and cars and women and teams and tunes I happen to prefer? Is that all there is to me? Because tonight it’s Bedrock City. I must decide. Ass on the line.

  I stare down the barrel, framing him in the crosshairs. I wonder what Weaver’s thinking right now. My finger’s on the trigger but—I ease off again. Where’s the harm in waiting a little longer? Just to see what, if anything, happens?

  DAVID

  “I’ll be there, David!” Harry Rains had pledged. But suppose he ignores my call and just doesn’t show up. Assumes the cops will get me sooner or later, so why run the risk? Don’t tip your hand, don’t get involved.

  Maybe that’s it. He should be here already. I glance at my watch, twelve minutes late, he’s not taking the bait. Where does that leave me? Up shit’s creek, no paddle. Then the glare of headlights hits my face even before I hear the motor and the sound of tires crunching across the gravel. I squint into the approaching brights. I can’t identify the vehicle until it parks across from my jalopy.

  Harry Rains steps out of the Nash Rambler. I recognize it as the runabout house car I saw at the Rains mansion when the maid was unloading groceries. Of course, the Rolls is too conspicuous. I wonder how many nights this car has been tailing me these past weeks.

  He has a big, reassuring smile.

  “Howyadoin’, kiddo?”

  Arms outstretched, he strides over and wraps me in a warm abrazo. Despite myself, I hug back, hungering for kindness. Maybe I’m wrong about him. He’s patting my back like I’m a baby in need of burping. No, I’m not wrong. He’s not patting, he’s frisking. I stiffen slightly.

  “I’m not armed,” I lie.

  “Good boy,” he says, “the cops would love the excuse to plug you.” But he takes my word, doesn’t frisk as far as my ankles. Instead he stops with a final tap-tap to my side. I flinch.

  “So Jack Heritage was right—he did ding you up a bit.”

  “I’ll live,” I say.

  “Well, that’s what we’re here to talk about, David.”

  I lean against my front fender. Near the speaker post. Have to keep him close enough for clear recording.

  “Is there a lawyer waiting for us at the police station?” I ask.

  “Yeah, yeah, just like I said. And I brought a bunch of cash with me, in case they allow bail. Right here in the car.” He turns away to the open window of the Rambler, reaches in. Instead of money he brings out a Colt Commander, 9 mm, nine rounds. Harry looks like he knows how to use it.

  “Would you do me a favor, kiddo? Step away from that post you’re hugging.”

  Oh God, I’ve given it away. But I try to bring it off. I glance at the speaker post as if I hadn’t noticed it before. I shrug innocently, sidestep. He waves me back further, then carefully approaches, spots the tape, yanks on the wire. My microphone falls to the ground.

  Harry sees that the wire runs beneath my car. I start to say something but Harry raises an index finger to his lips and whispers sh-h-h. Gestures with the Colt for me to precede him to the rear of my jalopy. He notices the slightly open trunk, flips up the lid. The tape recorder whirring away inside. He presses the Stop button. Red light goes off. The whirring ends. He smiles over at me.

  “This why you invited me out here tonight?”

  “Worth a try.” There goes Plan A. But he doesn’t know about the Commando knife, so I’ve still got the element of surprise working for me.

  “That’s what I admire about you writers,” he says, “your ingenuity. I always wanted to write a real clever script like Teddy or Leo.”

  “I think you did, Harry.” Follow the Ranger play book. Keep him talking. Find an opening.

  “Well, I had a lot of help from you.” He’s mock grateful. “I want to thank you for unwittingly collaborating with me on my scenario. Making it so easy to set you up. Before you arrived on the scene, I had a good plot, but I had no villain. Then there you were. When Shannon mouthed off at you in front of everybody in the commissary, I knew my idea would work.”

  “One thing I don’t understand—why Leo?” I take a small step toward him, as if I’m that anxious to hear his answer. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Leo was an added starter. Not part of the original scheme of things.” See, he wants to tell me. Pride of authorship.

  “Yeah, you already had gotten what you wanted. Joe Shannon. You dragged in all that HUAC garbage as a smokescreen—”

  “And then, as they say in the movies, Leo got too smart for his own good.”

  “He found out something?”

  “By accident. That idiot secretary in Mark Gunderson’s office sent the wrong manuscript to Leo. Joe Shannon’s book.”

  That lady I met. Maybe no accident. She doesn’t like Markie much. “Was it that terrible?”

  “Worse,” he grins. “As a writer you’d howl at the stupid scribbling.”

  “But you paid him a small fortune for it. You must have known that would come out sometime.”

  “After I was gone to the Court of St. James. Whoever took over at the studio would just stick it on the shelf. Chalk it up to his predecessor’s bad artistic judgment. Happens all the time in Hollywood.”

  “That’s what Leo had on you?” Doesn’t sound like enough. I edge another half-step closer. Can’t let this scheming fucker win. He’s still into boasting.

  “Well, that plus—Leo and Joe had a drunken conversation at a party last year. Became a cockwaving contest. Leo boasted that the studio bought him his house—and Joe, never could keep his faggoty trap shut, Joe said the studio did the same for him.”

  “So Leo put one-and-one together and started threatening you—”

  “To protect his precious movie! He was just guessing, of course, only I couldn’t risk even a whisper of scandal at this point. He promised his silence. But Leo always was a pragmatist. He did give names to the Committee, right? So after I went to all the trouble of getting rid of Joe, I wasn’t about to trade one blackmailer for another. Leo had to go. It also gave me the chance to sew you up tight as the Blacklist Killer.”

  Another realization hits me. “You gave Shannon that filthy item for his column about how Leo ratted out Teddy to the Committee. Knowing I’d go ballistic!”

  “And there you were right on cue, trying to crash the studio gates to get at Leo. Picking a fight with him in the studio street.”

  Harry actually takes a half bow. The rage demon rouses within me. But I force the demon back in the box. Stay cool. Wait for the right moment.

  “Shannon was bleeding you for decades, right?”

  “Hey, Joe was like that. Always was. Since we were kids. Never knew when enough was enough.”

  “Where did Valerie fit into all this?”

  He flares. I’ve pressed the wrong button.

  “She doesn’t know a thing! I’d never tell her! She thinks all you Bolsheviks are heroes!” He cocks the Colt. Gotta distract him!

  “Wendy Travers’s murder the night of y
our awards dinner, was that just part of your cover-up? To disguise getting rid of Shannon?”

  Another wrong button. But this one produces tears in his eyes. Gun hand shaking, he stresses, “I didn’t kill her! Being on that corner that night was just her bad luck—”

  I suddenly see it all. “And your good luck. You were having an affair with her.”

  “How do you know that?” he demands.

  “Jana told me Wendy had a mysterious boyfriend. Mr. Wonderful. Was she pressuring you, too?”

  “I loved that girl. But she wanted me to leave Valerie. She threatened to tell her about us. I didn’t know what to do—then some crazy dope fiend solved that problem by murdering and robbing Wendy. I mourned. And waited a while. The cops weren’t getting anywhere catching her killer. Word around town was they probably never would. So I saw a way to get rid of Shannon and blame both crimes on the Blacklist.”

  “Namely me.” He nods and aims the gun. “Wait! How are you gonna explain tonight?”

  “That’s easy. Tonight I step out of the shadows into the limelight. My turn to be a hero. Hollywood Mogul Catches The Blacklist Killer. A mixed-up kid, who I loved like the son I never had. Only, poor guy went psycho. What could I do?”

  Deliberately or unconsciously, he’s toying with me. Moving a step away for every step I sneak in. Tigers circling each other. “Won’t work,” I say. “Too many dangling details.”

  “C’mon, David, give it a chance: Let’s say I came here to talk you into surrendering, but you turned on me, tried to kill me. Fortunately I had a weapon, a gun I bought months ago after reporting a prowler. Good advance planning, huh? You fought me for the gun, it went off—what’s the matter with that? A sad story. I’ll do the eulogy at your funeral.”

  He raises the gun. Where’s Plan B?

  “I know about Axel Atherton.”

  That gives him pause. He squints at me. “What do you know?”

  “That was Shannon’s club over you. He knew you murdered Atherton, he had the dog tag. Your fingerprints were on it, right?”

  “One drunken weekend, with a lot of reefer thrown in. I couldn’t let my life be destroyed for that! I was just blowing off steam after the bar exam, drove down to see Joe, one thing led to another, got kinda wild and—”

  “And Atherton was dead. Did he come on to you? He and Shannon were swishes, he must’ve assumed that you were too, so—”

  “He was a fuckin’ pervert! I was so drunk that—”

  “—I-didn’t-know-what-I-was-doing. That’s what they all say. And afterwards, well, it had to be Atherton’s fault. Because, after all, you were a real man. So you beat him to death to prove it. And Shannon helped you bury him in the desert. But not deep enough.”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  I have to face it. Plan B is not operative. I’m in this all by myself. Adrenaline pumping hard. Have to do something fast. “I’m not the only one who knows.”

  “You told Jana?’ He laughs. “Who’s going to believe her? The lovesick girlfriend who refuses to believe her boyfriend killed her father.” He takes aim. “So long, kiddo, sorry you got caught in the crunch, but it was a big help to me.”

  I make my move. A tuck and roll and I go for a do-or-die dive at him, drawing the Commando knife out of its sheath as I come. But he’s ready and he clubs me across the shoulder with the gun. When I go down he kicks me in the bad side of my ribs. Then steps on the knife and points the Colt at my head—I’m a goner, I’m finished, he wins—but then the voice of God speaks. Through a bullhorn.

  “Rains! Harry Rains!” The metallic voice resonates across the vast emptiness of the drive-in. “Drop the gun!”

  Gun still aimed at me, Harry looks around frantically.

  “This is the FBI, Harry! Drop it or I’ll drop you!”

  Harry turns away from me, wildly searching for the source of the voice. Calling out as if imploring the heavens: “McKenna? That you? I caught him! Got David Weaver for you!”

  “The gun on the ground! Now!”

  Harry tosses the Colt away and steps back from me. I’d get up if I could but I’m hurting too bad. Then we’re not alone. Sirens and flashing lights. Cop cars and even an ambulance. Roaring through the entrance gate of the drive-in. Everything but a brass band. That’s what I register just before I pass out.

  * * *

  When I open my eyes, I’m choking. Gagging. Looking up at a paramedic. He’s wafting an ammonia capsule under my nose. And Jana. Kneeling beside me. She came riding in with the troops. Plan B at work after all. The Cavalry have arrived. She’s holding my hand. Gazing anxiously. Now she’s smiling. So am I.

  “Thought for a second you were going to miss the party,” I say.

  “Not if I had to walk through fire,” she says.

  The paramedic helps me sit up. We’re surrounded. Squad cars. Cops in flak jackets. Alcalay is listening to Harry Rains, who’s shouting persuasively, “The kid murdered ’em, Lieutenant, he confessed to me—I tried to talk him into giving himself up, but he tried to kill me!”

  Then heads turn as McKenna appears. Marching across the emptiness of the drive-in from the snack bar. Carrying a black tote bag, with a small bullhorn sticking out of it. He has an Army walkie-talkie strapped to one shoulder that matches the one Alcalay is holding. Guess that’s how McKenna cued Alcalay when to make his entrance. McKenna is also carrying a weird long-barreled weapon balanced on his other shoulder.

  “Brian!” Harry Rains shouts at the sight of him. “You tell them, I captured the Blacklist Killer for you, right?” Harry standing beside me. Pointing an accusing finger down at me.

  “It’s not me, McKenna, he’s the one!” I yell back. Oh God. He’s a big shot and I’m a nobody. They’re going to believe him.

  McKenna stops. Facing us both. Drops the tote bag. And aims his weird weapon right at me. Hand on the trigger. He pulls the trigger. And suddenly Harry’s voice speaks from the small player on McKenna’s belt:

  “—after I went to all the trouble getting rid of Joe, I wasn’t about to trade one blackmailer for another. So Leo had to go—”

  McKenna releases the trigger. Harry’s voice stops.

  “Whaddaya call that gizmo?” Alcalay asks.

  “The Shotgun Mike,” McKenna says. “Can record what a person says up to three hundred yards away.”

  I’m looking at Harry, who seems to shrink. “Then you heard—?”

  “Everything.” McKenna nods at Alcalay, who cuffs Harry Rains and leads him away.

  McKenna kneels beside me. “You okay?”

  “Cut it kinda close, didn’t you?”

  He shrugs. “I got caught up in the conversation. But I figured you could take care of yourself.” Then, “Can I ask you something, Mr. Weaver?”

  “Slim Jim. The Man Of A Million Questions.”

  “When you sent Jana to see me, to tell me you were going to be here and what you were going to try to do—how did you know you could trust me?”

  He really wants an answer. So I tell him. “Because of the passport. You brought me Teddy’s passport. And you didn’t have to.”

  He has the oddest look on his face. “Glad I was worthy of your confidence,” he finally says.

  CHAPTER

  54

  MCKENNA

  This is Big Sky country. Not like the painted backdrops on the studio back lots. The real thing. Montana. Even though I’ve been here nearly two years, I’m still in awe of the spectacular vistas. After the unreality of Los Angeles, I found sanity here. Snow in the winters, incredible bloomings in the spring and summer, dazzling changing colors in the fall. Not too many people, most of them easy to understand.

  I came here on a whim. Answered an advertisement in a Peace Officer magazine. Sheriff Wanted. The township of Whitefish was seeking someone to fill out the term of an ailing lawman. I sent off a résumé. I was here six weeks later, figuring it was sort of a paid vacation and then I’d move on. But I liked it and ran in the next election and won.

/>   Of course I invited Ashley—pleaded is a better word—to join me. But she cried and repeated what she’d said in L.A. “I can’t start over.” Meaning, I guess, in a tiny town in Montana. Even with me. Living the mansion life can become an unbreakable habit. Maybe I read her wrong from the start.

  Basically, my career with the Bureau ended with the Blacklist Killer case. As I’d known it would.

  The FBI took national bows, of course, because of my central role in the resolution of the case. But from that night when I phoned Clyde Tolson from the drive-in theater and gave him the news, I knew I was finished. Even before that, actually. When I was laying prone on the snack bar rooftop and I didn’t bring down David Weaver. I knew then. Soon drumbeats from D.C. informed me Mr. Hoover had been disappointed. Despite the private thanks he received from the White House for saving them the embarrassment that would have come if Harry Rains’ ambassadorial appointment had already been announced, he nonetheless was wistful about losing the scenario he really preferred: Commie Kid Killing Anti-Reds. Mr. Hoover did not take well to disappointment.

  I was still in L.A. for the trial. The recording I’d made of the confrontation between Harry Rains and David Weaver was the crucial evidence. Kind of completing a circle. The FBI lab guys had been inspired to invent the shotgun mike in emulation of the fishing-pole sound booms used on movie sets. So a Hollywood-originated tool had enabled me to bring down a Hollywood mogul. Harry Rains was convicted on two counts of premeditated murder and sent to the San Quentin death house, where he has reportedly hung up curtains and settled in for years of appeals. I may grow old and die before he does.

  Some things have changed in Hollywood since I left. Dalton Trumbo, Blacklisted for many years, got screen credit as writer of both Exodus and Spartacus. The often-threatened American Legion picket lines never appeared. Both pictures were box office successes. So apparently the Blacklist era was over. Or at least badly dented. On the TV front, ratings slipped and The FBI series went off the air.