Suddenly, a pair of split toe sandals stopped before him. Looking up, he saw that they belonged to Commander Hajime Shimada. He also wore his dress tunic and a Samurai sword was attached to his belt.
“What”?”
Masako and Lieutenant (JG) Ishibashi grabbed him from behind and began tying his hands with leather thongs. “What the hell are you doing?”
The bindings were soon done and the two stepped away. Suddenly, Ingram felt like the victim jumping from a burning building, spectators below backing away lest they be splattered with the mess. “What going on?”
With a flourish, Shimada unsheathed his sword and ran a hand along the blade.
Ingram’s heart beat faster. Desperately, he spotted wide-eyed Martin Taubman half hidden behind a cluster of enginemen. “Martin, can you tell me what this is all about?”
Taubman slipped behind an engineman, his face completely hidden.
“MARTIN!”
Shimada growled and shoved Ingram’s head down.
“Bow, you pig,” yelled Ishibashi.
“Why?”
Ishibashi spat. “You tried to kill us. Now you’re going to die.”
“I did not. I-- Martin. Tell them what I did!” Frantically, Ingram looked for Taubman, finally finding the top of his head behind a large engineman. Instinctively, the men backed away, leaving Taubman exposed.
“Martin, come on. Tell them what happened.”
Everyone sensed Taubman would have something to say. Even Shimada looked at him and barked a question in Japanese.
Taubman shook his head slowly and mumbled something back.
They all looked back to Ingram, hate in their eyes.
Ingram nearly shrieked. “No! You can’t. Martin. Tell them.”
Ishibashi kicked the back of Ingram’s head. “Bow, you stupid bastard!
Shimada raised his sword.
“No!” Shimazaki lurched into the compartment, the right side of his face bandaged. With a hand to his head he grunted some Japanese and pointed at Taubman.
Taubman yelled at him.
Shimazaki yelled back and pointed. “Baka!”
Ingram closed his eyes. Helen. Oh, God my dear, sweet Helen. Something is going on here I don’t understand. Not only are these people extremely brutal, there’s another element making things go around that’s beyond my grasp. I’m not going to make it. I love you honey. You and our child, yet to be born. It was the best he could do. He opened his eyes and raised his head.
Taubman and Shimazaki glared at each other. Then Shimada sheathed his sword with a loud ‘clank.’. The captain of the I-57 turned once again to Ingram, his face flush with contempt. With a final glance toward Taubman, he walked out of the compartment.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
28 June, 1944
NBC Radio Studios
Hollywood, California
The conductor’s hand swooped boldly, making Laura’s heart thump. The radiant tones of Respighi’s Pines of Rome burst from the NBC Symphony Orchestra, filling the room with the grandeur of the ancient metropolis. Only fifty-five instrumentalists from the main NBC studios in New York’s Radio City had shown up. The other twenty-five were pick-ups, mostly movie people, including Laura on the piano. This was their first full rehearsal. Even at that, their blend was at the top of the profession, captivating, and Laura felt as if she were dancing on air.
They fearlessly rolled through the first movement, the Pines of the Villa Borghese. It was the finest Laura had heard from such a large orchestra and she was proud to be part of it as she bore down on her music, biting her lower lip in concentration. Laura was nervous since she would solo today in the third movement: the Pines of the Janiculum. But never mind. With each note the orchestra played, the more confident she became, the more at ease. This is music at its best.
It was all due to spellbinding leadership of the man who stood no more than twenty-five feet away. By memory, he knew every note, every bar, every grace note, and every rest. Some of the time he conducted with his eyes closed, elsewhere, he would open them, skewering a violin player, or nodding enthusiastically at the harpist. But that was for a different reason. Laura had heard that Evelyn McCormick, the harpist and stunning blonde with the New York contingent, was the maestro’s latest in a long line of mistresses. So what? The man was a genius. He had a broad face, square jaw, moustache, and white wavy hair. But what set him apart were the darkest eyebrows mounted atop the most intense eyes she’d ever seen.
He was Arturo Toscanini, reputed to be in his mid-seventies, yet judging from his vitality and focus, the man, wearing black turtleneck and dark slacks, would have easily passed for a fifty year old.
“Stop!” Toscanini yelled, rapping his baton loudly on the rostrum.
Obediently, the NBC Orchestra quit playing, as if a giant had lifted a needle off an enormous phonograph player.
Sliding off his stool, Toscanini, pinched his fingers against the bridge of his nose. At length, his eyes fell on one of the French horn players. “Mr. Shackleton, are we boring you?”
Shackleton, one of the California pick-up players, looked from side to side.
“Yes, you, Mr. Shackleton.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Damn you!” Toscanini roared, kicking over his rostrum and scattering his sheet music. He pointed to Shackleton. “I ask, where are you?”
Shackleton’s eyes went wide as Toscanini’s sheet music fluttered in the air and fell to the ground. Helplessly, he looked around and said, “Uh, Hollywood, I suppose, sir.”
Toscanini stomped a foot and screeched. “No, no, no. A thousand times no. Not Hollywood. You are supposed to be in the Villa Borghese.”
“Where?”
Half the orchestra groaned while Toscanini threw his hands up in frustration. At length, he smiled and said softly, “Mr. Shackleton, perhaps it’s better if you go back to playing barroom music or whatever it is that you do.” He waved a hand to the door.
“No!” Shackleton said.
Toscanini’s eyebrows lifted on his forehead and he stood to his full height . Drawing a breath, he said, “You’d better--”
“--I mean, I’m sorry,” the man said meekly. “I know, I know. This Borghese business. It’s the first movement. It’s beautiful, but--”
“Mr. Shackleton. You come highly recommended, but your head is not in this.” Toscanini pitched a hand toward the door, more forcefully. “Please go.”
“I need the job, sir. My wife is pregnant. And my son has the measles.”
“Then you should be doing something where you can properly support them. What do you expect me to do?”
“Please, Sir, I’ll try.”
Toscanini sat back on his stool, again pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Without looking up, he said, “All right. I’ll make you a deal. An American deal.”
“Anything, sir.”
Laura exchanged glances with Roberta Thatcher, West Coast Orchestra manager.
Finally the Maestro spoke. “You do have public libraries in this town, don’t you?” His eyes opened and he found Shackleton.
“Er, yes sir.”
“I want you to go to a public library, check out a book on the Villa Borghese, and write a full report on it for me: its history, description of the grounds, size, flora, birds, everything. Do you understand?”
“But I--”
“And I want it in forty-eight hours. Is that clear?”
Shackleton’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.”
“Go then.”
“What?”
“Go check out your book. Time is wasting.” Again Toscanini pointed to the door.
“Yes, Sir.” Shackleton packed his French horn and walked for the exit.
When Shackleton was close to the rostrum, Toscanini roared at the top of his voice, “You all sound like you’re playing from the Hollywood Zoo. The Villa Borghese, the Catacombs, the Janiculum, the Pines of the Appian Way must be in your hearts. You must know these places as
if you’ve lived there all your lives.” Toscanini doubled a fist before his face. “Feel them. See the magnificent buildings; smell the odor of death in the catacombs; hear the nightingales at midnight on scented air; hear the slaves triumphantly driven into Rome before conquering masters aboard magnificent, gilded chariots. How can you play Rome if you’ve never been there? How can you play Rome if you have no passion for it?”
After a scathing glance, he bent to pick up his rostrum. The first and second violinists scrambled to help with the music. Suddenly, he turned to Laura and said, “Miss West?”
If there ever was a paragon for sitting at attention, Laura was it, her heart pounding in her chest. All eyes were on her, she knew, as she squeaked, “Yes, sir?”
“Play a little louder, please, I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir.” Laura silently expelled her breath.
Toscanini’s eyes lingered on her for a moment. Then he checked his watch and tossed aside the baton, saying, “This is as good a time as any to take an hour for lunch.” Chairs scraped and musicians yawned loudly, while Toscanini was lost among a number of sycophants and assistants, Roberta Thatcher among them.
Laura spent a few moments checking her music and making notes. Then she looked for the exit and caught Evelyn McCormick’s eye. The NBC Symphony’s top harpist didn’t look happy. In fact, her glare was downright murderous as she stood near the exit, her arms crossed. Laura decided to head for another exit when she felt a tug at her elbow.
It was Roberta Thatcher.
“Hi.”
“I have a message for you.”
Laura had no idea what she meant.
Roberta didn’t look happy with what she was about to say. “The maestro would be most happy to have lunch with you.”
“Oh.” Laura’s stomach tightened a bit. “Oh, so that’s it.” She looked over to Evelyn McCormick, obviously spurned by the Maestro, at least for now. “Roberta,” Laura nodded to McCormick, “What do I do about her?”
“I’ll take care of her. Will you do it? The Maestro would like an answer.”
Laura turned to see Toscanini had left the room “I don’t know. Does he know I’m engaged? What do you think I should do?”
“Dammit, Laura,” Roberta hissed. “Don’t ask me. I don’t like being his pimp. Just go to lunch with him and make sure you flash your ring every chance you get.”
“Okay.”
Roberta, always stately, swooped away. “Back entrance. Now. His car is waiting.”
She emerged from the rear entrance, finding a black Cadillac limousine waiting, it’s engine running. Toscanini himself held the left rear door for her. “It’s so good of you to join me. I hate eating alone.”
“Thank you. This is very nice.”
He followed her in, settled beside her left side, and picked up a microphone, saying something to a uniformed chauffeur sequestered behind a sliding glass window. Silently, the Cadillac eased through the alley and made its way to Vine Street and turned south under dark, overcast skies. Toscanini waved a hand outside. “Is California always like this?”
“They call it ‘June gloom.’”
“I anxiously await our Mediterranean climate.” He reached over to pick up her left hand, covering her engagement ring with his massive right. “Listen to me, dear. Your playing is good. You’re all good technicians. I have no complaints in that department. Except here, everyone seems to be making movies, not music. You should know all about what you’re playing. For if you don’t, our selection has no passion, no vitality.” He pat her hand, let go, and smiled. “Spirit. That’s what Respighi was trying to show us. The spirit of a fine old Rome. Don’t you see?”
“I’d love to see it sometime.”
“And I’d be glad to take you there.” He frankly surveyed Laura up and down.
“And soon, too, now that they have a new landlord.” The allies had liberated Rome from the Germans on June 25th.
“Did you grow up in Rome?”
“Oh, goodness no. I’m from Parma. Up north, near Milan. Have you ever had Parmesan cheese?”
“I love it.”
Toscanini shook his head slowly. “Sadly, Parma is still under the Nazi boot.” He tilted his head and waved. “Those fools will soon get what’s coming to them. Do you know that I once spurned Hitler?”
“No.” She turned to him, mouth open.
Toscanini moved close and grabbed her hand again. “It was when he was elected Chancellor in 1933. That was it for me. I hate those Nazis so much that--” he clenched his fist, “it’s like compromising with the devil. So, I canceled my engagement to play in the Bayreuth Festival.”
“Was he angry?”
“Very. It was a major embarrassment for Herr Schicklegruber. It hit all the newspapers, as I’d hoped.”
“What did you do?”
“He wrote a beautiful letter to me on Reich stationery. I refused to answer it. Before long I could see the handwriting on the wall. Mussolini grew angry with me. Stupid fascist, called me into his office and sat at his desk screeching at me for forty-five minutes. Half the time, he sat back, his slick boots on the desk, while I was not invited to sit. Finally, I was excused without having said a word. Then, that idiot Hitler...started sending dark emissaries around. That’s when I made up my mind. I moved here, to the land of the free.” His hand flopped on her knee.
Casually, she brushed it away. “And will you go back?”
He gave a wisp of a smile. “Of course. The day is almost here when we will march triumphant and drive those brainless fools into the ground.” Then he continued, “I hope you don’t mind, we’re going to the Brown Derby and will be lunching with David Sarnoff.”
“What?” David Sarnoff was the president of RCA. Absently, she sat straight and pat her hair.
“He’ll be introducing our concert Saturday night.”
“My God.”
“This could be good for your career.” He slid close and his hand went on her shoulder.
She slid away, letting his hand drop. “My God, David Sarnoff.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
28 June, 1944
Olsen’s Restaurant
San Pedro, California
The sun was poised to set over Palos Verdes, leaving San Pedro bathed in a golden patina. Los Angeles Harbor was crammed with warships of all sizes, their gray hulking masses swinging at anchor in a light breeze. An occasional whistle tooted or a clanging of steel-on-steel could be heard from shipyards, grinding out vessels of war. Powerful steam locomotives rumbled and clanked onto the piers, delivering the tools of battle to cargo ships, their gaping hatches yawning to the evening sky.
The blue Plymouth coupe pulled in front of Olsen’s, an upscale restaurant near the corner of Ninth and Grand. Wearing dress khakis, Captain Jerry Landa got out and walked around to open the passenger door. Helen Ingram, feeling every bit of her full-term pregnancy, pulled herself up, using the door to steady herself.
“Easy,” said Landa. “Ummm, perfume tonight.” He inhaled deeply, taking in her Chanel No. 5. In spite of the change in her center of gravity, he marveled at how she’d blossomed with the masque of pregnancy, her face absolutely dazzling. Ingram, you lucky bastard.
“I don’t get to wear it very often.”
“I’m glad you did.” He took her hand. “You look like you’re going to pop.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“No, I mean--“
“--I know what you mean, and actually, I feel like I am going to pop. Say,” she pointed to a 1941 light green Cadillac convertible two stalls away, “She beat us to it.”
“Well then, we’re all here.”
Helen stiffened when they stepped inside. Laura West sat in the corner booth, her left hand casually flipping through the menu, In her right, was a glass of dark amber liquid. She took a long swig -- and then spotted them. With a Cheshire cat grin, she scooted out and said, “Hi everybody.” She pat Helen’s belly. “Looks like four for dinner.”
She pecked Helen on the cheek.
“Thanks,” said Helen
“Hi honey.” Landa lightly kissed his fiancé and took his place in the middle, Laura on his left, Helen on his right.
Laura looked into his eyes. “Good day at the office?”
He was temporally assigned to an intelligence staff in Long Beach. They knew he was killing time and they treated him like dirt. He hated every moment and she knew he didn’t like to talk about it. Worse, he knew she was needling him. But what caught him was Laura’s inflection. She slurred a bit, and the cold reality of what she’d been doing before they had arrived hit Landa like cold ocean breezes whirling through San Pedro in the middle of winter. Disgust, then anger surged through him, and he fought the impulse to walk out. “Not bad. How was your day? Weren’t you to play for his nibs?”
“Toscanini,” Helen corrected, kicking Landa under the table.
“I did, and guess what happened?” Laura said.
The waiter stepped up. Helen ordered a Shirley Temple, Landa a beer, Laura ordered ‘the same’ which, Landa guessed, was a double scotch. When the waiter left, Laura continued, “He took me to lunch at the Brown Derby.”
Helen broke into a broad smile and clapped her hands. “Laura.”
“Did you see anybody?” Landa asked.
“You bet I did.”
“Who?” Perching her chin on interlaced fingers, Helen leaned close to Landa, her perfume tickling his nostrils.
“Jascha Heifitz and Miklos Rosa sat in the booth next to us. The Maestro introduced us.”
“Who?” said Landa.
“Heifitz is a violinist; Rosa composes music for films.”
“Oh,” he said.
“And I saw Joe E. Brown. He’s as funny as he looks. And a nice man, I’ll bet.”
Landa crossed his arms. “Did you meet him, too?”
“No, but that’s not all. We sat with David Sarnoff.”
“Really,” said Helen.
Even Landa was impressed. “The RCA guy? What’s he like?”
Laura’s next sip was immediately followed by a hiccup. “Sorry. David--Mr. Sarnoff is a very nice man. Very conservative. Very, very direct about things. You know where you stand right away. And he knows everybody, even FDR.”
THE NEPTUNE STRATEGY: A Todd Ingram Novel (The Todd Ingram Series Book 4) Page 16