by Tapper, Jake
“Right,” White said in an annoyed, almost bored tone. Margaret wondered how often he heard stories like this.
“She was with this disgusting studio exec,” Charlie said.
“Itchy Meyer,” said Margaret. “MGM.”
“We’re just wondering if you could help us track her down,” Charlie said. “We’ve called MGM but Meyer won’t talk to us. The staff of the bar where we saw her, the Daisy, say they’d never seen her before. We need to find her. She’s a kid.”
“I know it’s low priority,” Margaret said. “Young woman lost in Hollywood. But it would mean a lot to us. To me. Please.”
White looked in Margaret’s eyes, nodded noncommittally, then wrote down the relevant details in his notepad.
“I’ll see what I can do,” White said. “But to be honest, you’re not really in a place to be asking anything of us. We need you to get back to work.”
“We will,” Margaret said. “If you agree to help, that will allow me to focus entirely on the task at hand. Charlie is one hundred percent on the Sinatra case, of course.”
“Though, I have to say, we’re also really worried about my dad,” Charlie said, staring into White’s eyes, searching for some human connection. “He’s old and frail—he hasn’t been the same since Mom died. We would really love to see him. Any chance I can before we head back to LA?”
White responded with a shake of his head. “Not a chance.” He looked at his watch. “I gotta go. It’s on me,” he said and waved for the check.
Three days later, they boarded a nine a.m. flight to Los Angeles.
“Excited for my big undercover mission,” Margaret said quietly to her husband. Feeling guilty about leaving the kids again, she reminded herself that she needed to help Winston and, in a different way, Charlie.
“What undercover mission?” Charlie asked.
“Scientology,” she said. “Hubbard.”
“You’re not going on any mission in that weird church, Betsy,” Charlie said. “That’s crazy.”
“Ah, but the Lord will be with me,” she said.
“Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” Charlie said.
They argued—quietly, politely—for most of the flight. Ultimately, they agreed that she could go if she brought along a trusted friend. Street had flown back east, so that left Charlie’s former intern Sheryl Ann Gold.
Margaret kept her eyes on the snowy road. She remembered the first time she’d met Sheryl Ann Gold—well, Sheryl Ann Bernstein back then. It was January of 1954, and Margaret, three months pregnant and queasy, felt vaguely intimidated by the congressional intern’s vitality and youth. Witnessing the girl’s brainy, breathless charm and wholesome beauty, Margaret had worried Sheryl Ann was infatuated with Charlie, a newly minted congressman and a dashing academic with a bestseller under his belt. But she needn’t have been concerned. After the adventures of that winter, Sheryl Ann moved to Los Angeles, got married, and gave birth to a baby boy named Caleb. Her husband, a struggling screenwriter, reluctantly allowed her to do part-time secretarial work at a UCLA-affiliated think tank. Her academic ambitions had fallen by the wayside.
“It’s the worst of both worlds,” Sheryl Ann told Margaret with a resigned shrug. “Whenever I’m with Caleb, I wish I were at work, and whenever I’m at work, I worry that I’m a bad mom.”
“I sure know the lyrics to that song,” said Margaret.
A radio ad caught her attention:
Norman Vincent Peale, bestselling author of The Power of Positive Thinking and president of the American Foundation of Religion and Psychiatry, will be preaching at First Methodist on February eighteenth. His sermon—“The Tough-Minded Optimist”—is a must-listen. Come join us…
“Another flimflam man,” Sheryl Ann said, “just like our Mr. Hubbard.”
“People are seeking happiness,” Margaret said. “So some folks gotta sell it.”
“I guess the question is,” Sheryl Ann said, “were previous generations less happy or were they just more focused on the essentials, like food, shelter, and not getting the plague?”
“Post–atom bomb, there’s more existential dread,” Margaret said. “Hence Peale, Dale Carnegie, Dianetics…”
“You’re going to want to take a right onto Hoover in a few blocks,” Sheryl Ann said. “Hubbard bought the Casa de Rosas about a decade ago. You can’t miss it. It looks exactly like a place that would be called the Casa de Rosas.”
Margaret eased the Impala into a spot between two parked cars on Hoover. The snow had stopped as quickly as it started and was already beginning to melt; the sight of it dusting palm trees and flowering shrubs was incongruous. They climbed out of the car and shivered in the unfamiliar cold.
“Let’s leave our purses in the trunk,” Margaret said.
Sheryl Ann must have wondered why but she obeyed. She nervously touched her hair as they made their way to the white Spanish mansion, climbed the steps of the concrete porch, passed a modest bronze sign on the wall that read HUBBARD DIANETICS AND SCIENTOLOGY RESEARCH FOUNDATION, and entered through its red doors. Inside, a young receptionist sat at an immaculate desk in front of a staircase, talking on the phone. Wide-eyed and no doubt an aspiring actress, she acknowledged their arrival with a slight nod of her head and waved toward two orange armchairs.
There was a bookshelf in the waiting area with dozens of books, all of them by L. Ron Hubbard, some science fiction, others religious or instructional: Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health Handbook for Preclears; Electropsychometric Auditing Operator’s Manual; Self-Analysis in Scientology: A Simple Self-Help Volume of Tests and Exercises. Above the bookshelf was an enormous movie poster for The Secret of Treasure Island from the 1930s.
The receptionist continued to speak softly into the phone, ignoring them. Sheryl Ann raised an eyebrow at Margaret and pushed herself out of the overstuffed armchair to examine the spines of the science fiction paperbacks: Death’s Deputy, The Kingslayer, Final Blackout, To the Stars, Buckskin Brigades. Margaret turned her attention to the movie poster, which featured a pirate clenching a knife in his teeth, a ship on fire, a treasure chest overflowing with gold doubloons, and a shirtless captain with his arm around a busty young damsel who looked about fifteen.
“Mr. Hubbard wrote the screenplay for that film,” said the receptionist, hanging up the phone and suddenly addressing her visitors. “Are you here to sign up for our new twenty-five-hour course? I can offer you a discounted rate if you both join.”
Before Margaret could answer, the front door opened, and two men and three women appeared. They all looked to be in their twenties, eager, fresh-faced, attractive, the kind of young people who flocked like birds to Los Angeles every day. The receptionist greeted them warmly. “You can wait in the living room. Your auditors will be with you momentarily,” she said. The group dutifully followed her instructions, none of them uttering a single word.
“I’m sorry, we’re not here to sign up,” Margaret said. “Our brother was a member here, and he died.”
“We’re trying to retrace his last few months,” added Sheryl Ann.
“Who was your brother?”
“Chris Powell,” Margaret said. “He was an actor.”
The receptionist greeted this news with a blank expression, and just as Margaret was thinking that it was strange if not outright rude not to offer any sort of condolence, a tall man burst through the front door.
“Greetings, all!” he said. His red hair was long on the sides and back, thinning up top, and he wore a safari jacket; apparently, he was trying to look swashbuckling and avuncular simultaneously. He took off his safari jacket and handed it to the wiry, bespectacled young man in a Hawaiian shirt who trailed him, then smiled and approached the receptionist, who gasped when she recognized him. “How can we help these fine ladies?” the man said. He turned to Margaret and Sheryl Ann and greeted them with a flirty wink.
“They’re inquiring about Chris Powell,” she said. “They’re relatives of his.
”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Such a loss. Can you get me his file?”
“Yes, I’ll get it now,” the receptionist said.
“Brilliant!” said the redheaded man with a wide smile. “Ladies, won’t you please follow me?” He motioned toward the conference room to their left. “Oh, goodness me, where are my manners?” the man said. He extended a big beefy hand to Margaret. “Allow me to introduce myself—L. Ron Hubbard.”
Chapter Ten
Rancho Mirage, California
January 1962
At that precise moment, one hundred miles to the east, Charlie was on the patio of Sinatra’s two-and-a-half-acre Rancho Mirage estate, which was located on the seventeenth fairway of the Tamarisk Country Club and most often referred to as the Compound. Charlie, Martin, Davis, and Sinatra were wolfing down pancakes fresh from the griddle courtesy of Sinatra’s valet, a fastidious young Black man named George Jacobs. It was sunny and in the mid-fifties; the cold front hitting Los Angeles remained at a comfortable distance. The day before, they had all been sunbathing by the pool.
“Son of a bitch!” said Sinatra, slamming his Bloody Mary onto the glass breakfast table with enough force to splatter tomato juice across his newspaper.
Dean Martin raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, Il Duce?”
“These goddamn columnists. They’re obsessed with me,” Sinatra fumed. He grabbed the newspaper, rolled it up into a ball, and threw it onto the ground. “Assholes!” he yelled. He took a gulp of his drink and glared across his vast lawn toward the mountains in the distance. Sammy Davis leaned over to put a comforting hand on Sinatra’s shoulder.
“Francis, Francis, they go after you because you’re the sun, the moon, and the stars!” Davis said. “You released a dozen singles last year, and this year you’ll release a dozen more! You’re in the middle of shooting a picture that might win you another Oscar! People are talking about ‘The Devil May Dance’ winning Best Original Song! You’re wooing the loveliest ladies in the world and living the life of Riley. Of course they attack you! Wouldn’t you attack you if you were one of these rat-faced worms?”
Charlie marveled at the blatant sycophancy on display, but Sinatra drank it all in, then resumed his tirade.
“They’re losers!” Sinatra shook his head in disgust. “Pale eunuchs. Never came up with an original thought in their lives. What would they do if I weren’t here for them to write about, for them to lie about?”
“That’s why they do it, Francis,” Davis told him. “They feed off your life force.”
“So what they do makes sense to you, Sammy?” Sinatra said with an edge to his voice.
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Martin, rising from his seat. He went over to Davis and Sinatra, rubbed their backs and squeezed their shoulders. Charlie observed the trio—the king and his court—with bewilderment. All three were rich and powerful and among the most famous men on the planet, but Martin and Davis treated Sinatra as if he were royalty. It didn’t seem entirely born of Sinatra’s greater talent or star power or the favors he had extended to all of them. No, it felt more like what Charlie, an only child, had observed among his enlisted men in France during the war: some men naturally stood point, regardless of rank. But these soldiers, away from combat, required constant attention. These leaders—the Sinatras—needed drama.
Charlie stood and bent over to pick up the newspaper, curious about what had set Sinatra off. It was a piece by UPI’s Hollywood correspondent Vernon Scott about Sinatra’s return to form. It began with a low point, remembering when he’d been a “washed-up crooner” dumped by Ava Gardner. It went on from there more flatteringly, but Sinatra had focused only on that first line, ignoring the rest. Charlie shook his head. It seemed Sinatra felt tortured, somehow, by phantoms within his soul, unable to see these awful threats were the products of his own mind.
L. Ron Hubbard steered Margaret and Sheryl Ann Gold through an oak door and into a cluttered conference room.
“How about that snow!” he exclaimed, looking outside. “It shows the power of our energy, once we go clear.”
The women nodded uncertainly.
“I woke up this morning and I thought it would be nice to have snow in January, even if we’re in Los Angeles,” Hubbard said.
Margaret shot a glance at her friend. “You mean you’re the one responsible for the snow?”
“Yes!”
This strange moment was interrupted by a knock at the door: the wiry fellow in the Hawaiian shirt. Margaret wondered if the man had missed the memo on the weather pattern Hubbard was creating for the day. Hubbard motioned toward Margaret and Sheryl Ann. “These two were asking about Chris Powell.”
“Julius Mercer,” he said as he shook their hands. “I run our Los Angeles office. I’m very sorry for your loss.” He paused. “I’m sorry, ladies, I didn’t catch your names?”
“Beatrice Powell,” said Margaret. “Chris was my little brother. And this is my sister Sophie.” She and Sheryl Ann looked nothing alike, Margaret thought. Cousin would have been better. Damn it. Did she see Julius and Hubbard exchange a look?
“Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” Hubbard motioned toward the conference table. This was followed by an uneasy silence as they all sat down. Hubbard slid into his seat at the head of the table so close to Sheryl Ann, on his left, that their knees were touching, and Margaret began to wonder if they’d made a mistake in coming. Sitting in the diner with Addington White, she’d thought the sleuthing seemed like a harmless task to help Winston. Now she was in the presence of the actual L. Ron Hubbard in a building full of his acolytes, and given the grim history of religious zealotry around the world, the whole assignment seemed foolhardy. Worried that Hubbard might detect her concern, Margaret smiled at him, and he returned it with a flirtatious grin.
“The Secret of Treasure Island isn’t the only picture I worked on, you know,” he told her. “You ever see Dive Bomber or The Plainsman or Stagecoach?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I wrote them too, but the dumb Jew producers denied me the credits.”
Margaret heard Sheryl Ann draw a sharp breath beside her. “So,” Margaret said firmly. “Our brother Chris.”
“Chris came to us last year with a serious gambling problem,” said Julius, handing a green file to Hubbard.
“What do you ladies know about our church?” Hubbard asked, looking through the papers in the file.
“Just that Chris thought it would help him,” Margaret said.
Hubbard looked up. “He was right to come to us.” His tone had shifted from genial host to stern instructor. “Scientology achieves things for people where nothing has worked before. It cures us of illnesses once considered hopeless. It increases our intelligence and competence, improves our behavior, brings us to a better understanding of life.”
Lecture concluded, he flashed them an enormous smile.
“But it didn’t help Chris,” said Sheryl Ann with a tight smile.
“It sounds to me,” snapped Margaret, “like you took advantage of a vulnerable man with a gambling problem.”
“Beatrice,” scolded Sheryl Ann, catching on. She put a warning hand on Margaret’s arm.
“Oh, Sophie!” Margaret said, suddenly near tears. She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She found herself actually weeping for this actor she’d never met. Maybe it was the strangeness of this church or these weird people, or perhaps she’d missed her calling—she should’ve been an actress. She blew her nose. “We need to know what he went through here, what these…doctors…subjected him to.” Margaret glared at Hubbard and Julius. “Because it obviously didn’t help!”
“Beatrice, it wasn’t their fault,” Sheryl Ann said. “Chris struggled so!”
Hubbard put a hand on Sheryl Ann’s knee. “Now, now, this is all a very normal human reaction to grief,” he said. “Chris was indeed a member of our church, and we worked closely with him in hopes he’d become clear, but he was not committed. In fact, though I’m sorry to
bring up something uncomfortable, he still owes us quite a bit of money. Some eight hundred forty-three dollars and change. Let’s call it eight hundred forty.”
“Sadly, that’s true,” said Julius with regret in his voice. “We really tried with him.” He rose from his chair. “Will you excuse me? I’ll just be a minute.”
As the door closed behind him, Margaret turned to Hubbard. “What does becoming clear mean?”
Hubbard looked at her for a few seconds as if he were deciding whether to let her in on a great secret. Then a smile—a wide, gleaming grin—erupted on his face. “I will show you, Beatrice.”
Hubbard stood, ambled to a file cabinet in the corner, and withdrew from its top drawer a device that looked like a small television wired to two soup cans.
“Being clear is what we call the state achieved through auditing, which is done with this meter.” Hubbard took his seat again and began fiddling with the knobs on the device. “It’s difficult to pick up these concepts in just one meeting—we have classes that I highly recommend—but just to help you understand how hard we tried with Chris…” He leaned forward and placed the tin cans in front of Margaret.
“What is this thing?” asked Margaret.
“A Hubbard E-Meter,” he said proudly. “Most people have reactive minds. That’s the source of all of the ill behavior we see—insecurities, irrationality, unreasonable fear. The E-Meter helps us detect those problem spots. Once we get rid of the reactive mind—that’s what we call going ‘clear’—only then can we become our true selves. This E-Meter allows us to audit you, to figure out where you need help. It’s what we used to try to help your brother.” He sighed deeply and arranged his face into an expression of sympathetic sorrow. “But Chris didn’t give himself over.”
Margaret pointed at the metal objects in front of her. “Other than these soup cans, how is this any different from, say, Norman Vincent Peale’s ideas?”