Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Across from White was Lt. Walter M. Tothe, the bug-eyed operations officer of DESRON 77 and Landa’s personal punching bag. Tothe, a ninety-day wonder, had made the mistake of saying he knew the drill for crossed swords. Their practice in the parking lot, however, looked more like a Keystone Cops short than a proper crossed-swords ceremony.

  At that point GySgt. Ulysses Gaylord Harper, resplendent in his Marine Corps dress blues, stepped up and bellowed, “Gentlemen! If you’ll allow me?” In less than five minutes Harper had the bemedaled sextet drawing their swords smartly and crossing them with precision at a 45-degree angle. When Harper was satisfied, Myszynski exhaled loudly and said, “Looks like we’ll be okay as long as we don’t stab each other.”

  The sword detail, beautifully turned out in dress whites, slipped out of the wedding mass five minutes early to be ready when the newly joined Captain and Mrs. Jerome Landa burst through the Church of the Good Shepherd’s double doors. The crowd poured out behind and cheered as the Landas passed through the glittering ceremonial arch on their way to a midnight blue 1939 Brunn body Packard cabriolet parked on Santa Monica Boulevard. Their job complete, the detail returned their swords to their scabbards with precision and remained at attention.

  Radioman First Class Leo Pirelli stood at attention at the Packard’s rear door. The cheering crowd pressed in, showering the bride and groom with rice as they eased through the throng.

  “Hut,” snapped Harper.

  Pirelli yanked open the Packard’s door and, with the panache of a vaudeville actor, bowed, whipped off his white hat, and waved them inside. Dark looks caromed among the sword detail. Ingram and Harper slapped hands over their eyes.

  Tubby White said conversationally, “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

  Pirelli slammed the door closed and snapped to attention. The car started and the crowd roared as the Packard pulled away, with Landa clearly visible in the rear window kissing his wife.

  At the behest of Maestro Arturo Toscanini, Roberta Thatcher, the business manager of the NBC Symphony Orchestra, had been placed in charge of the Landa-West wedding arrangements. Among other things she had arranged for the rental of the Packard, along with the driver, five-foot two-inch Augusto de la Torre, scion of an Argentine road-racing family and now a leading stunt man at Twentieth Century–Fox.

  De la Torre pulled the Packard smartly away from the curb as the bride and groom were locked in an embrace in the backseat. The diminutive driver was barely visible above the windscreen of the enormous car, even though he was perched on a thick Los Angeles white pages phone directory. Hunched behind the wheel of the enormous Packard, Augusto was supposed to tell his passengers about the champagne in a bucket on the floor, but the two ignored him as they embraced, the only sound the rustling of her off-white satin gown.

  “Hell with it,” muttered Augusto. He punched the button and raised the privacy window between the driver and the main compartment. Then he goosed the Packard’s throttle, tooted his horn, and waved. Immediately, four Beverly Hills Police motorcycle officers roared into place before the Packard with wailing sirens and flashing red lights. Augusto hit the accelerator and popped the clutch, unleashing all 175 horses of the Packard’s mighty V-12 engine. He roared up right behind the police, leaving behind a heavy cloud of blue smoke that drifted over the crowd and pitching Captain and Mrs. Landa against the backseat. The screeching sirens and red lights parted a path through the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard for the Packard. A ragged wedding entourage followed, honking their horns and ignoring other cars and angry drivers shaking their fists.

  Following the police, the cabriolet swooped right on North Roxbury Drive, its gears whining as Augusto stomped it, heading toward Carmelita Avenue. At forty miles an hour, Augusto downshifted and turned right on Carmelita, throwing his passengers across the seat against the left panel.

  Landa yelled, “Hey!” But the window was up. Landa could barely see Augusto’s head.

  “It’s all right, Jerry,” Laura laughed. “Oh, look,” she squealed, trying to distract him, “look at that house, just what we wanted.”

  Ignoring the two-story Mediterranean-style villa, Landa fumed, “I survived a war for this? Where’s the damned . . .” He fumbled for the microphone. The Packard flew along Carmelita, madly downshifting for stop signs. De la Torre and his escort “rolled” each of the intersections, bottomed through dips, and jerked into second gear before slowing again. Suddenly Augusto shoved in the clutch and jazzed the throttle, the top of his head tilting toward the left.

  “Shiiiiit. Hold on, honey.” Landa grabbed Laura just as Augusto downshifted, braked, and cut left onto North Crescent Drive. Bride and groom ended up in a heap against the right side of the compartment as the cabriolet followed the motorcycles up magnolia-lined North Crescent, their sirens ripping at the sundrenched Southern California afternoon.

  At Sunset Boulevard the entourage jumped the red traffic signal and zipped over the equestrian path, ignoring riders who had been stopped by police five minutes earlier. With great panache, Augusto again downshifted to second gear and ascended the sweeping driveway of the Beverly Hills Hotel. With the skill of a jeweler cutting a twenty-carat diamond, Augusto de la Torre eased the Packard to a graceful halt at the hotel’s entrance.

  Landa tapped on the window.

  It eased down.

  Landa snarled, “Hey, pal.”

  Augusto turned with a bright smile. “Welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel, Admiral. And congratulations to you both.”

  Landa said, “You ever decide to join the Navy I’ll have you cleaning latrines and bilges.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, Admiral. I will drive your speedboats,” he said, white teeth flashing in a smile to rival Landa’s.

  “PT boats,” corrected Landa.

  “Sí. PT boats. They are the same.”

  A uniformed doorman opened the car door and took Laura’s hand. “Captain and Mrs. Landa, welcome to the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She stepped out into an explosion of reporters and popping flashbulbs.

  Landa drummed his fingers for a moment, then caught Augusto’s eye. “I’ll keep it in mind. From time to time, we do need good PT boat drivers.”

  “You make me U.S. citizen?”

  “We can do that too.” Landa got out.

  Captain and Mrs. Landa stood at the head of a reception line before the double-door entrance to the Grand Ballroom. Laura looked beautiful in her off-white wedding dress; Landa countered with his glittering Pepsodent smile.

  Invitations had gone out to four hundred people, and it seemed to Landa that all and perhaps more had shown up, including more than one hundred officers and men from the ships of DESRON 77, now moored in Long Beach. Both sets of parents were dead, so Maestro Toscanini had given away the bride at the wedding. Now Toscanini had stationed himself beside Laura in the receiving line, introducing guests to her. Landa retaliated by posting Rocko Myszynski on Toscanini’s left to introduce the U.S. Navy guests to him. The line began with Todd and Helen on Myszynski’s left. Waiters carrying silver platters flitted along the reception line offering champagne and light hors d’oeuvres. Roberta Thatcher paced behind, checking her watch and keeping things moving with military precision.

  Most of the guests had gone through the line when Helen turned to her husband and asked, “Can you believe all this schmaltz?”

  “It’s not over yet.” Ingram nodded to a tall, distinguished-looking man with a mustache, waiting to take her hand.

  “Hello.” Helen gave a broad smile as the man took her hand and kissed it in grand European fashion. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ingram. And welcome to my hotel.”

  Helen laughed. “Your hotel?” Her tone was “Ah, come on.”

  He clicked his heels and said, “Hernando Courtright at your service, madam.” Again he kissed her hand and looked deep into her eyes. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make this special event better for you.” Then Courtright shook Ingram’s hand. “You are most fortunate,
Captain, to have such a beautiful wife.”

  “And you have a beautiful hotel, Mr. Courtright. Thanks for letting us be here.”

  Courtright bowed again. “It’s the least I can do for our victorious sailors of the Pacific war. Thank you for all that you have done.” Courtright moved on to shake Myszynski’s hand.

  Helen turned pale and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  Landa grinned.

  The next three guests were friends of Toscanini’s, their gathering a rarity. First was Dimitri Tiomkin and his wife, Rose. Tiomkin was a Ukrainian who had found his way to Hollywood in the 1920s. Laura whispered to Helen Ingram that Tiomkin was an up-and-coming musician who had written the scores for Lost Horizon and The Bridge of San Luis Rey.

  After the Tiomkins came thirty-eight-year-old Miklós Rózsa, a Hungarian who had moved to the United States in the 1930s. Laura whispered behind the admiral’s back to Helen that Rózsa had just scored the movies Double Indemnity and Spellbound using on the latter a revolutionary instrument called a theremin.

  “A what?” whispered Helen.

  “A theremin. You know, spooky music that makes your hair stand on end.”

  “Spooky?”

  “Scares the daylights out of you.”

  “Oh.” Helen wasn’t sure she wanted to be scared that badly. But when she glanced again at Rózsa she saw embers in his dark eyes.

  Ferde Grofé and his wife, Ruth, were next. Toscanini and the NBC Symphony Orchestra had just performed Grofé’s Grand Canyon Suite in Carnegie Hall with Grofé in attendance. “I think MGM flew him out here to score a movie,” Laura said to Helen, adding, “You know, the maestro, the Tiomkins, and Rózsa are all refugees from Communist or Nazi countries.”

  To the other guests the three musicians were formal and congenial if rather stiff. But with Toscanini they were jocular and loud with a lot of handshaking and backslapping.

  When everyone had been properly greeted, the reception line moved into the crowded ballroom to join the guests enjoying drinks and light music. The Landas were chatting with Todd and Helen Ingram and Rocko Myszynski and his wife when Roberta Thatcher walked up and took Laura’s elbow. Roberta was a slender woman more than six feet tall with blue-gray eyes and silver-blonde hair pulled back severely into a bun. Her tortoiseshell glasses muted the fact that she had been a knockout in her younger years.

  “What?” demanded Laura.

  “Honey, your face is falling.”

  “That bad?”

  “Just a quick re-do before you go on.”

  “Okay.” Laura smiled at the Myszynskis and followed Roberta to the ladies’ room. Helen trailed behind. At Toscanini’s behest, Roberta had arranged for a makeup professional to attend the bride. Lorraine Simonds of Twentieth Century–Fox waited for them in the ladies’ room. Laura sat before a large mirror while Lorraine fussed and spritzed, a long Pall Mall dangling from her lips.

  Roberta paced back and forth. “We’re ten minutes behind schedule.”

  Laura stood and held up a hand mirror. “Who cares?”

  “I do,” replied Roberta. She stooped before Laura and smoothed her wedding dress. “I must say you look wonderful.”

  “I feel wonderful.”

  “I’m very proud of you.”

  Laura took Roberta by both shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Bertie.”

  Roberta straightened to her full seventy-three inches. “Nobody calls me that.”

  “Oops, sorry. Do I still have a job?”

  “As long as you don’t mess up your program.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Maestro called this morning to say he has two more volunteers. So we now have twenty-five of his best.”

  “Wonderful,” Laura said. “Luckily it’s a simple program. I do ‘Embraceable You.’ Then we do ‘The Meditation.’ After that we do ‘Temptation.’”

  Roberta interrupted. “Then the maestro does ‘The Blue Danube’ and everybody dances.”

  Helen sighed. “Does it have to be a waltz?”

  Laura laughed. “Toots, the boogie-woogie comes later when everybody’s had too much to drink.”

  Helen protested, “That’s not what I meant. I only—”

  Laura smiled, “We’re following protocol. Since the maestro is the one paying—”

  “Actually, NBC is paying,” interrupted Roberta.

  “We follow their standards,” Laura finished.

  “Okay. Makes sense to me,” said Helen.

  Roberta asked, “By the way, who is Eldon White?”

  “What?” Laura and Helen said in unison.

  Roberta said, “You know, that cute naval officer. The chubby one with short blond hair.”

  “That’s Tubby White, who just took over command of Todd’s ship,” said Helen.

  Roberta said, “Well, he and Jack Carson have found each other. Jack is going to put him on stage as a straight man.”

  “Oh, God,” said Laura. “Jerry will kill him.”

  Helen laughed, “Let it go, Laura. They’ll do just fine.”

  “They hate each other,” said Laura.

  “What? I’d better put a stop to this,” Roberta said, heading for the door.

  “No, no,” said Helen. “It’s all an act. Do you think Tubby would have ever made skipper if Jerry objected? It’s an act, believe me.”

  Laura drummed her fingers. “Jack Carson and Tubby White. This ought to be good. Okay.”

  Helen said, “Add Arturo Toscanini, water, and stir, and you have one great party.”

  “You sure about this?” asked Roberta, her hand on the doorknob.

  “It’ll be just fine,” Laura assured her. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah, is Telfe here?”

  “About ten minutes ago,” said Roberta.

  Helen’s eyebrows went up.

  Laura explained, “Telfe Rabinowitz, first violin. She’ll back me up with ‘The Meditation.’ And it’s a good thing. Otherwise it would fall flat.”

  Helen said, “Sounds beautiful.”

  “And that’s it,” said Roberta.

  “No,” said Laura. “I’d like to finish with ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’”

  “That should work all right,” said Roberta.

  Laura took her hand. “Corny, but it will be perfect. Then Jack Carson takes over again and closes out with a toast to the bride and groom.”

  Helen said, “And then we get to do the boogie-woogie?”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. The conga line is next. Then the boogie-woogie.”

  Roberta rolled her eyes. “Decorum, Laura. Decorum.”

  Laura gave a mock curtsy. “Yes, ma’am. Decorum is my middle name.”

  “Very well. I’ll leave you with Lorraine. I need to check on the food.”

  “We haven’t talked for a while,” Laura said to Helen after the door closed. You doing okay, hon?” She glanced at Lorraine.

  Lorraine Simonds whisked a powder puff over Laura’s forehead and said, “Almost done, toots. Go ahead and blab. I can work.”

  Helen said, “I’m doing pretty well, Laura.”

  “How well? You still seeing that shrink?” Laura reached under her dress, produced a flask, filled the cap, and knocked it back. “Ahhhh.”

  “Laura, you’re pregnant!”

  “Can you tell?”

  “You hardly show.”

  “We don’t want people talking.” She looked up. “Right, Lorraine?”

  Lorraine winked, “No speaka da English.”

  Laura said softly, “How about the shrink?”

  Helen replied, “I think there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Remember that horrible thunderstorm a couple of months ago?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Well, I stopped dreaming after that. Dr. Raduga called it a catharsis.”

  “A what?”

  “Catharsis. An emotional cleansing. It’s caused by a sudden, often frightening event—like that thunderstorm. It scared the daylights out of me and I felt rocky for the next cou
ple of days. But guess what? No more going fetal under the bed. I think it’s all behind me. At least I hope so.”

  “Honey, that’s wonderful.”

  “I do feel better and—”

  Landa burst in and interrupted. “Baby, there’s a crowd out there that only you can satisfy. Jack Carson is on stage now taking care of things. But I think you really need to get out there.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, somehow Tubby White elbowed his way onto the stage with Carson. He’s gonna make a damn fool of himself.”

  Laura winked at Helen. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, you should see Sergeant Harper.”

  Laura’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t trust Marines. “What’s he done?”

  Landa chuckled, “He signed up that crazy limo driver for the U.S. Marine Corps. Got his signature on the dotted line.”

  “Well, at least that will get him off the streets.”

  “Yeah. Safer around here.”

  “Is that all?”

  “My sailors are getting drunk.”

  “Ouch. That does it.” Laura stood. “Sorry, Lorraine, duty calls.”

  Lorraine squinted, “One moment, toots.” She worked a little with Laura’s lipstick and then said. “You’re a knockout.”

  “Thanks, Lorraine.” Laura stood and smoothed her dress. Helen asked, “Jerry, what if they get out of hand?”

  Landa said, “Not to worry, babe. I have shore patrolmen in there ready to whack anyone over the head who gets out of line.” He turned to Laura, “Shall we?”

  “I’m all yours.” Arm in arm, she walked out with her husband.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  23 November 1945

  Grand Ballroom, Beverly Hills Hotel, Beverly Hills, California

  The enormous crystal chandelier cast a soft glow over the Grand Ballroom. A pastel floral mural with matching drapes complemented the lush greenery visible through the large windows. Tables surrounded a dance floor complete with a lighted stage. The house lights were down, and a single spot captured Jack Carson on stage. He wasn’t hard to find. The 6-foot 2-inch comedian weighed 220 pounds and could have done well playing fullback for the Chicago Bears. Behind him was a twenty-piece orchestra assembled by Arturo Toscanini, who stood mutely in the darkness, baton at his side.