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  “Hi, cookie,” Valerie says, kissing my cheek and then gazing at me with glistening blue eyes and the smile that launched a thousand close-ups. One of The Great Ladies of the Silver Screen, a box office champ during the 30s and 40s, Valerie has spectacularly managed the segue to her own hit TV series at Harry’s studio.

  “Harry and I are desolate about Teddy’s passing,” she says. I remember she never uses the word “death,” it spooks her.

  The years have been kind to both of them. Valerie’s beauty and sweetness are intact, and big Harry, golf-tanned face, waist a bit thicker, but still immaculately tailored by Savile Row, still exudes boundless energy.

  “So glad you’re here,” I say.

  “Teddy meant so much to me,” Valerie says.

  I’m not sure if she’s talking personally or professionally. Probably both. In the Progressive days before and during World War II, Valerie Nolan was a flaming liberal. Teddy and Leo also wrote the movie that won her the Oscar.

  “Hadda love him.” Harry chimes in. “Not that Teddy would ever listen to good advice. Stubborn as a mule.” Unlike Leo, who saw the light.

  “Water under the bridge,” Valerie reminds him.

  I glance past them to the road, where Jana has left Markie standing angrily at his MG and joins Wendy at Harry’s Rolls-Royce. Markie guns away, the MG burning rubber. Great! Jana didn’t go with the guy she came with.

  “Let’s talk about you,” Harry is saying. “What are David Weaver’s plans?”

  “Well, I’ve been trying to figure that out.”

  “No plans? How about working at my studio!”

  “Sounds great,” I blurt. Too eagerly? Hoping I haven’t shot myself in the foot. Jana works at Harry’s studio. What could be better?

  Harry Rains laughs. That familiar boom of delight. “Let’s do lunch. Meet me at my office tomorrow at twelve thirty. We’ll decide your future then.”

  I like the sound of that. Harry is assuming I have a future here. And he’s just the man who can make that become a reality.

  CHAPTER

  7

  MCKENNA

  I’m trying to distract myself, but it’s not working. I’m in my cubicle at the Bureau office downtown toying with what is described in the user’s manual as a new crime-fighting tool. What I’m really doing is worrying that hot job in D.C. will vanish unless I can glom onto a high-profile case. Prove that I’ve still got it. I feel like the man who’s been notified he won the Irish Sweepstakes but can’t find his raffle ticket.

  So I fiddle while my future burns. The FBI lab in D.C. knows I’m a gadgeteer, so all their latest gismos wind up on my desk, usually way before anyone knows they exist. A two-way wristwatch radio like Dick Tracy uses, a shotgun microphone that will pick up conversations three hundred yards away, a camera small enough to fit in your tie pin. I get to fool around with them because occasionally I place them—with proper credit to the Bureau, of course—in a movie or on our TV series.

  The latest toy they’ve sent me is this ordinary looking pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, but tucked inside there’s a didn’t-know-they-made-them-so-small tape machine, capable of recording up to an hour. I test it out, good tone, while I’m waiting for Willie Pierson, the youngest agent in our shop, to come out of the darkroom down the hall. He’s making prints of the photos he shot for me at the Weaver funeral this morning.

  Pierson’s a good kid, I’ve taken him under my wing. He’s the new generation of agents with masters degrees in political science and criminology from Georgetown. Being a lawyer from anywhere or a meager CPA with an ordinary BA degree was enough once. Now Pierson raps on the doorway of my cubicle. I used to have a spacious office with two large windows facing the street. Back in the HUAC days I had six agents reporting to me. Now I’m a one-man band, with only a small partitioned space and no windows. Wonder how many windows the head of the bank-robbery posse in D.C. rates? I gesture Pierson into my cubicle.

  He’s carrying a handful of photos. “Hot off the drying rack,” he says as he spreads them out on my desk. “Close-up studies of all the toothless tigers.”

  They’re pictures of the mourners. Pierson is still twitting me. It started when the funeral party assembled. As he began snapping away, he snorted skeptically: “This is who the Soviets are relying on to take over the West Coast? They gonna run over us in their wheelchairs?”

  “The home office wants an update on who’s still around,” I told him. “So do a good job. Hoover may be looking at your handiwork.”

  That’s what I’m hoping anyway. The assignment to cover the funeral didn’t originate with the home office. The idea was mine. I didn’t really expect to find anything new. But the funeral was an excuse to send along a batch of pics and a brief report. Remind Hoover that I’m still alive and on the ball. Every bit counts at this point.

  I’ve already taken some static this afternoon from Bernie Farrell, the L.A. Bureau boss, for requisitioning manpower and equipment without prior authorization. I got off the hook by hinting to Farrell that I received a last-minute order directly from Hoover’s office. It used to happen often.

  “I particularly like this shot.” Pierson picks up one of the funeral photos from the stack. It’s of a former MGM story editor who took the Fifth when called to testify. She’s aged very badly. Last I heard she was punching a cash register at a checkout stand in Ralphs market in Westwood. “Move over, Tokyo Rose,” Pierson adds.

  The thing I like about Pierson, sassy attitude and all, is that in a lot of ways he reminds me of myself. When I was a go-for-it young agent and everything seemed so clear. Good guys taking down bad guys. So I ask him what’s bothering him? Inviting him to vent. Off the record.

  “Far as I know, all those years and dollars spent out here by that Committee of yours and the Bureau didn’t add up to diddly-squat. No new legislation ever resulted. No criminal arrests. Just jamming up some jerks who signed the wrong petitions and donated a few bucks to Mickey Mouse causes.”

  Sounds like me talking to David Weaver at the Chateau the other night. But I can’t admit that to the troops. “They gave big bucks to the Party and front organizations,” I correct Pierson, “and lent glamour and prestige to subversive activities. When they weren’t trying to slip Red propaganda into the movies.”

  “That still the official Bureau line?” Pierson sniffs.

  I used to believe that stuff, why doesn’t he?

  * * *

  It was a different world when I first came to L.A. In 1946 the country was on a euphoric post-war high—buying new cars, new houses, the GI Bill turning out hordes of new college graduates—and the Bureau was hard at work combating the new menace: Russia. During World War II we rooted out Fifth-Column Nazis in our midst, now we were tracking Commies. The American people weren’t paying any attention. So in conjunction with HUAC we went after Hollywood to dramatize the threat.

  Media-event hearings were held in L.A. early in 1947. Friendly studio chiefs Jack Warner, Walt Disney, and Louis B. Mayer testified about subversive elements in the industry, hinting that despite their vigilance, Red propaganda was infiltrating movie screens. The public still didn’t care.

  Then the hearings shifted to Washington, D.C. and unfriendly writers and directors were summoned to appear. I served most of the subpoenas myself. The activists on the Left voiced warnings of a witch hunt.

  When the new hearings convened there was chaos in the Capitol dome. Gavel pounding while shouting witnesses were virtually dragged away. I was in the hearing room for every moment and it was a helluva show. The Hollywood witnesses came off as arrogant, contemptuous, and evasive. Perfect for our purposes. Instantly dubbed The Hollywood Ten, they were cited for Contempt of Congress. This time the public paid fleeting attention.

  That’s when the Blacklist was born. The moguls who owned the movie studios, frightened by the bad publicity for their industry, fired all of the Hollywood Ten then under contract and set a policy of not hiring anyone who refused to cooperate wit
h the Committee.

  The issue moved off the front pages and into the judicial system. The appeal of The Hollywood Ten’s convictions slowly worked up to the Supreme Court. That took three years. By then the world had changed again. Winston Churchill, in a famous speech in Fulton, Missouri in 1949, declared that an Iron Curtain had fallen across Europe, dividing east and west. The Russians, with the treasonous connivance of the Rosenbergs, now had the secret of the atom bomb. The federal government invoked prosecutions under the Smith Act outlawing the Communist Party in America. North Korea had invaded South Korea and our soldiers were fighting and dying in the battle against Communism in that distant land. President Truman, in order to ensure political support for the war in Korea, agreed to a loyalty oath for Americans.

  Then the cases of the Hollywood Ten reached the Supreme Court. During the past three years there had been two replacements of so-called liberal justices. The old court might have approved the appeal and reversed the convictions. The new, more conservative court, operating in a wartime era, refused to hear the case. The Hollywood Ten went to prison for six-month sentences. HUAC, with the Bureau acting as its enforcement arm, was back in business.

  New hearings began again in 1950, but with First Amendment political privacy rights no longer a possible defense, the only way to avoid answering HUAC’s questions—such as naming names—was to claim Fifth Amendment protection against self-incrimination. That kept a witness out of jail—but guaranteed a spot on the Blacklist. Those were the days. Our team had the power and the leverage. We were in high gear.

  * * *

  While Pierson watches, I combine the stack of 8 × 10s from the funeral with my one-page report. Ready to slip it all into a Classified Material envelope that will go in the overnight pouch to D.C.

  The switchboard buzzes me and announces, “Mr. Tolson on line two.” I shoo Pierson out and he goes forth to perpetuate the office legend that J. Edgar Hoover and his number two man Clyde Tolson call me every day. But it’s been months since I heard from either of them.

  The last attaboy I got was on what I privately called Operation Hand Job. When our TV series went on the air there was only one negative review. But it came from Hoover. I received an urgent phone call at home on a Sunday night just seconds after the first episode aired. Clyde Tolson told me, “The Director is very upset.” Reason: two of the actors playing FBI agents were seen with their hands in their pockets. Luckily, Chad Halloran wasn’t one of them. Mr. Hoover felt it was a slovenly sight and a poor representation of proper Bureau behavior.

  The next morning I tore into Warner Bros. like a tornado and demanded that the wardrobe department sew up the pockets on every pair of pants and all jackets worn by an actor portraying an agent. They also reedited a couple of scenes already completed but un-aired to banish the offending sight. Tolson called me again to say Hoover was pleased.

  “Brian?” Now Tolson’s voice surges through the phone. “Ready for another Special Assignment?”

  “Yessir.” My ears perking. Sure can use a juicy one!

  “You know Harry Rains?”

  In the HUAC era, when Harry was a prominent Hollywood attorney, he and I worked hand-in-glove. Convincing his client Leo Vardian to become a friendly witness was a feather in my cap. Oscar-winning directors always made news when they recanted and repented. Elia Kazan had gotten HUAC their biggest headlines, but Leo Vardian was the runner-up. I never understood why cooperating was such a hard sell to so many Left Wingers. Self-destructive behavior baffles me. Like refusing to denounce a cause most of them had long since stopped believing in.

  “Yeah, of course I know Harry,” I tell Tolson. “Matter of fact, I was with him this morning.” I pick up a photo of Harry and Valerie at the funeral for his former client.

  “Well, you’re about to get to know him even better.”

  Tolson tells me Harry is up for the chairmanship of one of those do-gooder “are-violent-movies-damaging-our-children?” Blue Ribbon Presidential Panels. Before the White House makes the announcement, they want me to vet Harry Rains. “Keep it quiet. But do a real thorough job.”

  I promise I will, like if he didn’t tell me that I might not? I could give Harry a clean bill of health right now. Prominent Hollywood player, bulwark of the community, blah-blah-blah. But I know better than to say that. Got to go through the motions and take a week or so to show I’m applying due diligence.

  And this is Hoover and Tolson’s idea of a “Special Assignment”? A dogshit detail. Not what will propel me into that big job I’m after.

  CHAPTER

  8

  DAVID

  When I arrive at Harry Rains’s office at Panorama Studio for our lunch date, his pert, young executive secretary settles me into a chair with the trade papers. “He’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She’s all atwitter. “He’s on the phone with the president,” she confides.

  “Of the company?” Harry’s title is Executive Vice President in Charge of Worldwide Production.

  “Of the United States,” she says.

  I’m impressed but not surprised: although he was an ardent FDR and Harry Truman supporter, when the political winds shifted, Harry Rains switched to Dwight Eisenhower, and he raised millions in donations for the “I Like Ike” campaigns in 1952 and 1956.

  Through the door I can hear Harry’s booming, excited voice. Can’t make out what he’s saying, but it sounds like good news. In a moment, the phone light on the secretary’s console goes off. She buzzes Harry, whispers that I’m here, then tells me to go in.

  The palatial corner office has a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows so Harry can look down upon the acres of his domain. He’s slouched in an overstuffed easy chair, feet up on the inlayed Spanish tile coffee table, with a dazed smile of delight on his face. He presses a button under the coffee table that automatically closes the door behind me. “Siddown, Davey,” he says.

  I do—and I wait. Not for long. Harry’s bursting to tell someone and that turns out to be me. “Can you keep a secret, kiddo?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a family specialty.” He’s so hyped he doesn’t even hear the irony in what I said.

  “Ike’s offered me a job.”

  “In Washington?”

  “In London. U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James.” He shakes his head in wonder. “Can you believe it? Little Harry from Boyle Heights becomes Ambassador to Great Britain. It’s like a fairy tale.”

  I agree it’s incredible and offer congratulations. He says Jim Hagerty, Ike’s press secretary, sounded him out a few weeks ago, but Ike just gave Harry the official offer on the phone. “It’s under wraps until the White House and State Department do their vetting processes and make the announcement.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I promise.

  “Then it’s gonna be hard for you to eat lunch. C’mon, let’s go to the commissary. We’ve got a new chef, the food’s pretty good.”

  I really am glad for the honor that’s befallen Harry. Just hope he won’t be taking off before he can lend me a helping hand.

  * * *

  As we walk out of the executive building and stroll toward the commissary, everyone we pass takes note. Some nod or say hello to Harry, who greets a few of them, keeps moving. I feel like I’m sharing his spotlight—they’re all ogling me, wondering who’s that with their sun god.

  There’s a question I’ve been thinking about so I ask him.

  “Harry, did you take that ad on the back of Variety yesterday?”

  He looks at me and shakes his head. “No, I thought you did. Nice picture of Teddy. So how’s it being back?”

  “I’m not sure yet. You know that bit in the Bible about being a stranger in a strange land? That’s me.”

  “I know how that is. Hey, why so surprised? You think I was born in a power booth at the Polo Lounge?”

  “Weren’t you?” I zing him amiably.

  We both laugh. My first real laugh since Teddy died. Eases the bad feelings I have about asking Harry Ra
ins for favors, considering Teddy’s past history with him.

  “Compared to what you’ve gone through, kiddo, I had it easy—but I remember what it’s like to be an outsider in this town. Growing up in Boyle Heights, which is next door to dirt poor, I had to battle my way through some rough neighborhoods just to get to school.”

  “So how’d you get here?” Always thought Harry was a rich kid—like I used to be.

  “Well, after all that rumbling in the streets, I lied about my age and fought Golden Gloves, six KO’s in eight bouts. Parlayed that into a full scholarship at USC. They were beefing up their boxing team. I wound up captain of a championship squad. That propelled me through USC law school.”

  “And the rest is history?”

  “Not so fast. When I graduated I took the California Bar exam. Some guys take it five or six times before they pass. I flunked twice, kept my bills paid by working as a process server, took it a third time—dead sure I’d blown it again. A buddy was stationed in San Diego at the Naval Base. He convinced me to come down for a weekend and he’d help me forget my troubles. So I went and drowned my sorrows. Helluva weekend. Came back to discover, lo and behold, I passed the bar! But nobody wanted to hire me. No couth, no connections. So I hung out my own shingle. In Beverly Hills, though I didn’t know a soul there. Didn’t exactly chase ambulances, but you get the idea. Slim pickings. Until I met Valerie, the love of my life—and that was the real start of my career.”

  * * *

  That part of the story was Hollywood legend. Teddy had regaled me with it in Paris years later. It was a meet-cute worthy of a Weaver & Vardian screenplay. Struggling lawyer Harry has his appendix out, and while he’s in the hospital recovering he meets another post-surgery patient, a little old lady who also grew up in Boyle Heights. Now she lived in Malibu as the housekeeper, cook, and faithful retainer to supernova Valerie Nolan. Valerie came to visit frequently at Cedars, Harry got to know her, one day she mentioned a legal wrangle she was having with the Coastal Commission about expanding her beach house. Harry solved it with a phone call. Soon he had his first important client. But Harry really came into his own when HUAC came back to town in 1950.