by Joseph Kanon
“While what’s still fresh? Kaltenbach? The Russian consul come, too?” he said dryly.
“It was just the Krauts,” Riordan said, as if they’d already been over this.
“We went to the observatory. See the stars.” Something easily confirmed.
“And? What happened? That couldn’t wait?”
Ben glanced up, aware of Minot’s eyes, expectant, waiting to be fed.
“Nothing much,” Ben said, flailing inside, looking for something. “But I thought what would interest you is that he’s got a new Czech passport.”
“What?” Minot put his hat on a table and walked over, galvanized.
“He had one before,” Ben said easily. “You probably know. Passport of convenience. But the new government’s agreed to reissue, so I thought you’d-”
“Do you know what this means?” Minot said. “He can travel.”
“Not yet. He’s still trying to peddle an old script at RKO.”
“Don’t be an ass. You can’t leave without papers and believe me, he wasn’t getting any from us. We had him. Now he can go whenever he likes.”
“With what? Congressman, he’s living on handouts.”
“He has friends to help now.”
Ben held out his hands in a whoa gesture. “Nobody was talking about going anywhere.”
“Then why does he need a passport?” Minot said, almost snapping, then catching himself. “Look, you’re new at this. I appreciate-but we can’t afford to take chances. Dennis, we need to get a subpoena. I don’t care what passport he’s got, he’s not going anywhere if he’s under subpoena. How long will it take?”
“Ken, it’s Sunday.”
“I didn’t want to move yet,” Minot said to himself. “You want to orchestrate this. But we can do a closed session. First. No noise, but we keep him here for later. How long?”
“Tomorrow, probably Tuesday.”
“Congressman,” Ben said, alarmed now. “I think we’re overreacting. I was with him. It’s the last thing on his mind.”
“Not on theirs. You don’t know how these people think. The East Germans want him. Why do you think the Czechs got so generous all of the sudden? You think they’re sitting there worrying about Kaltenbach? Nobody cares about Kaltenbach.”
“Then why do you?”
Minot looked up at him sharply.
“I mean-” Ben said, placating.
“He’s my witness,” Minot said calmly. “That’s why. He’s useful.”
“But he’s not a Communist. He’s not anything.”
“Read the file,” Minot said, nodding to the cabinet. “Socialist Party there. Documented. Speeches, the whole thing. Probably what the books are about.”
“That’s years ago. Anyway, Socialist, that’s not the same thing.”
Minot looked at him. “You know that. Thousands don’t. They’ll just see what he’s not.”
“What’s that?”
“American. You establish a pattern,” he said, a willed patience. “Quote the speeches-how far left do you want to go? Gets a visit from the Russian consulate-we have this, witnesses if we need them, actual contact with the Russians. Same man works for Warner Brothers.”
“A lifesaver contract. They gave them to Jews to get them out.”
“I wonder if Jack will mention that,” he said evenly, so that Ben looked up at him, chilled now, someone who realizes, his hand still in the cage, what’s inside. “Of course, he’ll also have Mission to Moscow to explain. A lot of activity over at Warners over the years. And here are your old employees drinking tea with the Russians. Thousands won’t understand that, either. But they see the pattern.”
“But what evidence-?”
“This isn’t a murder case,” Minot said. “It’s not about evidence. It’s about what people are. You think he’s harmless? Just an old man? I’m sorry, I disagree. I’ve read the speeches. You put Lenin’s name on them and then tell me the difference. And once the pattern is there, you’ve got a very useful witness. Ask him if he saw-well, who? Let’s say you. Did you ever attend meetings with Mr. Collier? And he says no, but now your name’s out there, isn’t it, whether he says no or not. All we have to do is put it there. Now why would we ask if there wasn’t something we knew? Ask a few others, people from the studio.”
“You want to use him to squeeze Warner,” Ben said quietly, but his voice so neutral that Minot took his dismay for appreciation.
“We need the studio heads,” he said simply. “We don’t want a fight with the industry. We want to help them clean house. Their own good. I’ve met Jack-you were there, I remember. I think he’s the kind of man who’s going to be friendly to the committee. A good businessman looks after his interests. And he thinks he’s a patriot. Made Yankee Doodle Dandy. That’s the story he wants to tell, how he made that, not how the studio took in left-wing Jews. Not that it’s about Jews. I know how some people feel, but you don’t want to go down that road. I’m looking at the real threat. If you see the pattern. I think Jack’ll see it too. So Kaltenbach, he’s useful. We’d like to keep him close to home. Come to think of it, if he’s got the passport, does that make him a Czech citizen?”
“Technically? I don’t know. A passport of convenience,” Ben said lamely.
“Good question to ask, though. Foreign national. And a Hollywood address all through the war. Some people, there’s no way to help this, are going to think swimming pools. You’d think someone like that would be grateful, not have little parties with the Russians. Well.” He went over to his desk and opened a locked drawer. “Some of us do have to get to church. Dennis, you get on that first thing tomorrow, right? You boys almost done here? You want to put that in the file?” He nodded to the papers in front of Ben.
Ben took the copy and handed it to Dennis, who moved to the cabinet before Minot could ask for it.
“You have the date he received it, the passport?” Minot asked Ben.
“Exact? No. But just. Last few days.”
“See if you can find out. It helps, having things exact. Makes people think everything you’ve got is. Ready?”
They all went out together, Ben scooping up the original letter for his pocket when Minot turned to the door.
“Good work,” Minot said to him in the hall. “You keep your ears open. It’s just like the Commies, isn’t it? Pick on the weak one. Kaltenbach-anything’d look good to him. Jackals.” He signaled to his car. “Keep an eye on him. Until we get the subpoena served. Take him to dinner. I’ll bet he could use a meal.”
When the car pulled away, Ben gave the envelope to Riordan. “Where’d you file the copy?”
“Kaltenbach.”
Ben watched Minot’s car leaving the driveway. “How much of it do you think he believes?”
“All of it.”
“How much do you?”
Riordan looked at him, then started down the stairs. “You know, you retire early, you only get half pension.”
“Then why did you?”
“I took a bullet. My leg. You probably didn’t notice, but I favor my right leg now. My own fault. I should have been paying attention.”
Grazing idly, another straggler. Pick on the weak one.
“Let me know what the Bureau says.”
It was only after they’d both gone and he was alone in the parking lot that it hit him, a lurch in his stomach that felt like nausea. Is this how Danny had felt after one of his deliveries? He saw Kaltenbach sweating at the hearing table in his shabby suit, asking someone at his side to translate, his eyes frightened, his nightmare finally coming true, what he had managed to escape. No, Germany would have been worse-he would have been killed, or left to rot in a camp. Here they would just hollow him out, use him to snatch someone else. But what was the alternative? Ben had been in Berlin. He had no illusions about Russians, the first wave of rapists and thugs now replaced by a grim occupation, the next thousand-year Reich. Nobody could want that, not by choice. And yet there would be pockets of privilege. A prize
d pawn trapped on the board, but not thrown away. He thought of Kaltenbach at the cemetery, spontaneous tears on his cheeks, mourning the man who had saved him, got him out. But the war, the heroic stories were over. What would Danny do now?
Kaltenbach lived a few blocks off Fairfax, walking distance from Canter’s, where his landlady used to work before she’d brought her sick mother over from Boyle Heights to nurse full time. Kaltenbach had the room now, with a ground floor window that looked out on a magnolia tree and a patch of lawn that needed cutting. Ben drove by, struck again by the Sunday stillness of Los Angeles, as quiet as one of those ancient cities where everyone had vanished, leaving their pottery. He had come to see Heinrich, driving fast, but now that he was here, what could he say? Call your lawyer?
The blinds were drawn, perhaps for a nap after the early drive down the mountain. Or maybe he’d been restless, gone over to Fairfax for a whitefish salad and coffee with other Heinrichs. Then there would be the rest of the day to get through. Ben stopped the car, then suddenly didn’t have the heart to go in. How could he explain? I know this because I’ve been informing on you? And then Minot would know. Who else could have warned him? Is this what it had been like for Danny, a balancing act, hiding from both sides? Anyway, in a day or so it wouldn’t matter. He’d be stuck. Ben looked again at the quiet house. They couldn’t serve the subpoena if he wasn’t there. The only thing to do now was buy time. Liesl could take him home-an insistent invitation, no need to explain anything, until they figured out what to do.
He drove back to the Cherokee, stopping for lights without noticing, and parked behind. Nothing in the mailbox behind the little holes. But why would there be? Sunday. And maybe he’d already taken the last piece that would ever come. The new Joel looked at him, indifferent, and nodded when he got in the elevator.
He opened the door with his key, eyes already fixed on the phone table. He heard it first, a soft whoosh, then the back of his head exploded with a lightning pain, jagged, so fast there was no time to know what was happening. A pulsing afterimage, like staring into a flashbulb, darkening, then another pain, a crack as his knees hit the floor and he realized he was falling. He put his hands out to break the fall but couldn’t find them, off somewhere to his side as his face met the floor, a louder thump, then nothing at all.
Everything was still dark when he felt the animal pawing at him, brushing his clothes aside to get at his chest. Not paws, hands, pulling at his jacket, digging into the pockets, still too dark to see, now at his collar, dragging him. Back to some den. He felt his head scrape on the ground, then a welling, slick, and he knew the blood would excite the animal but couldn’t stop it, everything beyond his control.
A change in the air, like a window being opened, a banging as a door hit the wall and even in the dark he knew it was the French window, the black now just a dimness, being pulled again, out toward the air, the balcony, and he tried to open his eyes, panicking, because he knew, not a dream, that he had become Danny. Dragged out to the balcony, heaved over like a laundry sack. His head was throbbing, a toothache pain. They were in the open air now, the animal wearing a hat, not an animal, still dragging him, another yank at his jacket, panting, almost at the rail. And then they were there, the man grunting as he heaved, turning Ben over, grabbing under his arms, about to lift. And Ben already knew what the next second would be, pitched over the Juliet balcony, no scream, jumpers don’t scream, and then the crash of garbage cans, Danny, him, a loop.
His eyes still wouldn’t open, just slits taking in gray outlines, the man bending forward to secure his grip. In the movies, Ben would leap up now in a violent struggle, but instead he’d become an animal, prey being dragged to the feeding place. He still couldn’t find his hands. No time left. Then the man’s grip slipped, Ben’s head falling again, and as the man reached to grab him, a better angle, Ben turned his head, a move of pure instinct, the effort dizzying, and opened his mouth, teeth connecting with flesh, biting hard on the man’s ankle. The howl must have been more surprise than pain, something dead come back to life, but it startled Ben’s eyes open, the world fuzzy but there, and as the man jerked his foot away, Ben’s hands came up, back now, too, and he held the leg and bit again, the man staggering as he tried to pull it away, no longer pitched forward toward Ben’s shoulders, his hands springing back, grabbing onto the French window, then using the other foot to kick, crunching Ben’s chest, lunging for him again. There was a shout from somewhere, enough to make the man hesitate for a second before he hammered his fist into Ben’s back, a squashing slam that forced Ben’s face tighter against his leg, making the man twist free, away from the window now, the fulcrum of his weight flung backward so that Ben felt the pull of the leg moving and let it go, feeling it hit his face then flying free, following the body, turning as the man reached for the rail, then kept going, into the loud scream that filled the alley, the noise Danny hadn’t made, and then was swallowed up by the crash, lids clanging, cans rolling away from the impact of the body. Ben grabbed the balcony edge and pulled himself up, just enough to look over, to see the police photos again, the pool of blood spreading from the man’s head, but in color this time, dark red, the body splayed out at odd angles, the chalk mark outline where Ben was supposed to have been. He stared at it for a second, nobody he recognized, then heard a window open, a gasp, more windows, the faint sound of a radio, the desk clerk rushing out and looking up at Ben holding on to his balcony, the loop Ben already knew. Soon the ambulance, the crime scene photographers, maybe even Riordan losing himself in the crowd. He lowered his head from the railing, putting his hands in front of him to get up, but couldn’t move, falling instead down an elevator shaft until it was dark again.
The bandage woke him, an unfamiliar weight on his head. The room was all white, which made him smile, a white telephone set, then he remembered the alley. Liesl was standing looking out the window, her back to him, and the loop started running again, Danny’s hospital room, this time Ben in the bed. But not dying, everything in focus, the fuzziness gone.
“Is this Presbyterian?” he said, surprised at the croak in his voice.
She whirled around and stared at him, then shook her head, her eyes filling with relief, caught in the same loop.
“Where?”
“Community. On Vine.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Most of the day. It’s almost four.”
“You’ve been here?” He touched the bandage at the back of his head, then the adhesive tape across the bridge of his nose. A dull throb in his chest. “What else?”
“It’s enough. Head trauma-” She looked away.
“It’s not the same. Not five stories.”
“You still might have died,” she said, still not facing him, then turned and came over, brushing her hand against his forehead.
“How about-whoever it was. Is he dead?”
She nodded.
“Any idea who?”
“Some Schlager. Kelly knows.”
“Kelly?”
“He’s here. Outside. He won’t go until he sees you. First.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to. You’ve been out. You should see the doctor first.”
“No, I want to know.” He grabbed her wrist. “I’m fine. It’s the kind of thing you know about yourself, if something’s wrong.”
Kelly came in tentatively, the usual jauntiness left outside. “Can you talk?”
“You doing a story? ‘I didn’t know what hit me.’ Pretty lame, except I didn’t. Make something up, I don’t care. The police out there with you?”
Kelly shook his head. “They want a statement, when you’re ready. Dot the i’s. They already took the witness’s.”
“Who?”
“Guy next door saw him punch you, try to throw you off. Day clerk thought he was in the building. Guy comes in, goes to the mailboxes, so the clerk figures he lives there. Of course, if he’d known it was Ray-”
“Who’s Ray?�
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“The guy. Hired hand. If you need something done. People do, so he and the cops go way back. That’s why, when they saw it was him, you didn’t have to draw a map. He used to run with the pachucos, his mother’s a Mex. Then I guess he decided to put it to work, go freelance. He’s already been in once for armed robbery.”
“That’s what they think this is?”
“I have to tell you, don’t take this wrong, when I got the call the first thing I thought-I mean, same place.”
“Monkey see. Maybe a better story.”
“Don’t be like that. It’s what anybody would-”
“If I’d been the one who went over? I know. That’s what he wanted you to think.”
“Who? What are you saying?”
“Whoever paid-what was it, Ray?” He looked at Kelly. “Want something better than robbery? First of all, there’s nothing to steal,” he said, feeling Ray’s hands in his pocket again, not something for Kelly. “The door wasn’t forced. I had to open it with a key. But he was already in.”
“Door’s not a problem for guys like that.”
“Especially if they have a key.”
Kelly looked at him, waiting.
“You know, I never saw his face. He hit me from behind. All he had to do was walk away. If he wanted to kill me, a few more head taps would have done it. So why go through all the trouble? Lugging me out there. Maybe so you’d say, ‘the first thing I thought.’ Anybody would. They’d think I’d been planning to do it.”
“But how would he know?”
“Well, Kelly, how would he?”
“You think he did your brother?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Find out who paid him. But that’s how Danny was killed. I know it. For a few minutes there, I was him. Don’t worry,” he said, touching the head bandage, “I’m not going spooky on you. I just saw how it had to be. Find out who paid him. Work it from that side. Is he the kind who brags? Maybe there’s a girl. He get the money yet?”
“You’re so sure about this.”
“Fine, do it as a robbery. Maybe you get a column. The double jump would have been better, but I screwed that up for you. But a murder? Two? That the police never saw? Exclusive? That’s a ticket up.” He looked directly at him. “No more moonlighting.”