Fala Factor (18 page)

Around noon, just when I was going to suggest that I pick up some sandwiches, Lyle came out of the front door of the building followed by Bass. I could feel Jeremy sitting up next to me. Lyle wore a thin coat, which he pulled around his neck. He looked up at the sky and saw a wave of clouds coming that I hadn't paid attention to. Rain was on the way.

Lyle and Bass went down the street and I started the engine. They didn't go far. They got in a big Chrysler parked near the corner. Lyle got in back. Bass drove. The New Whigs didn't fool around with any of this equality stuff.

Following them was no problem. I was good at it and they didn't know enough to even suspect that I might be there.

It was a long ride. We followed the Chrysler west to Sepulveda and then stayed safely behind as we took Sepulveda up through the hills into the valley past Tarzana. A turn on Reseda and in two more blocks, Bass and Lyle pulled into the small parking lot next to the Midlothian Theater, a small neighborhood cigar box.

I kept driving, made a turn in a driveway where a man in a baseball cap was watering his lawn, an effort that struck me as particularly dumb since Helen Keller could have told him that the rain would be coming down dark and heavy and not in minutes or hours. But the man didn't seem to care. He nodded at us as I pulled out of his driveway, somewhat relieved, I think, that we weren't coming to visit him, and went on with his watering.

We parked across from the Midlothian in front of a candy shop and watched Lyle and Bass as they were let into the theater. We already knew why we were there. The marquee read WHIG PARTY RALLY TODAY AT ONE. Then, below this sign in those little black letters was
CELEBRITIES-CELEBRITIES-CELEBRITIES
. The
t
s in the last two celebrities were red instead of black. Jeremy thought that was an interesting, eye-catching design concept that he might suggest to Alice for their book. I thought the kid who had put up the announcement had just run out of small black
t
s.

From where we sat we could see both the front entrance to the theater and Lyle's car. For the next hour we talked about design graphics, oriental healing (which Jeremy was learning), and the people who straggled into the theater. We didn't keep count but Jeremy, who was accustomed to gauging wrestling crowds, put the final total at forty-seven, mostly women. We also guessed that most of the crowd had been drawn by the promise of celebrities, none of whom I could identify going in. The most interesting attendee, as far as I was concerned, was Academy Dolmitz, who drove up a few minutes before one, parked in the gravel lot, and got into the theater as fast as he could, apparently hoping that no one would see him. Academy's pride in his political party was touching. Then Jeremy thought he recognized Hugh Herbert. I said the guy didn't look much like Herbert to me but maybe he was right.

At a minute or two after one, Lyle stuck his head out the door and looked both ways, either for the celebrities who hadn't arrived or in the hope of grabbing unwary housewives from the street to fill a few seats. His scanning of the street brought him quickly to me. With Jeremy at my side there wasn't any room to hide, so I threw a cool smile on my lips and looked straight back at the gleaming lenses of Lyle's glassses. Lyle's face went through a mess of emotions that would have been the envy of a starlet on her first screen test: surprise, curiosity, anger, mock confidence, smirk, shaken, superiority, and controlled but quivering anger. Then he pulled his head back in. It was replaced about a minute later by the bulk of Bass, who found us and began to cross the street, ignoring an Olds driven by a guy in overalls who almost ran him down.

“Out, quickly,” said Jeremy, touching my arm.

I opened the door and got out, almost falling into the path of another car. Had my passenger door been working, which it was not thanks to Bass, Jeremy could have gotten out with dignity untested, but he did a fairly good job of it in any case and managed to be at my side just as Bass reached out a hand in the general direction of my throat.

I didn't back away. I couldn't back away without hitting my car or stepping into traffic, but backing away wasn't necessary. Jeremy's hand shot out and pushed Bass's down.

Bass looked at Jeremy, whom he seemed to be seeing for the first time, and said, “Butler. You're through. You quit.”

“We both did,” Jeremy said evenly, understanding what made little sense to me.

A woman of about fifty, dead black mink around her neck and a hat with a long black feather, had stopped on the sidewalk as she came out of the candy store. The sight of two giants in the street was enough to get her attention. I looked at her and shrugged as if I had been recruited as a reluctant referee.

“What are you looking at?” Bass said to the woman.

I gave her credit. She managed to keep from dropping her purse and candy as her heels clacked down the street.

“Go back across the street, Bass,” Jeremy said calmly.

“I've got to do him,” Bass said, nodding at me as if I were a package he had been assigned to gift-wrap.

“No,” said Jeremy gently, as a guy in a black Buick stopped his car to complain about our standing in the street and then changed his mind and sped away.

“I'll do him and I'll do you again,” Bass said, his eyes wide and his lips dry.

“You didn't beat me,” Jeremy said.

“Two out of three,” Bass hissed.

“I won the two,” Jeremy said, his huge hands slightly away from his body, ready.

“Bass, I think you better go back and ask Lyle about this,” I said. “He didn't count on Jeremy being here and I don't think he wants the two of you messing up Reseda. It wouldn't do the party any good.”

“He's right,” said Jeremy. “We're already attracting attention.”

We gave Bass time to react to the argument. He didn't seem capable of fixing his attention on more than one major problem at a time, but the blast of a horn from a skidding car and the blue speck of a policeman about a block away got through to him. He clenched his fists, looked at me and Jeremy, and then pounded a dent into the top of a passing car. The driver just kept on driving and pretended he hadn't been attacked by the Minotaur of Crete.

We followed Bass across the street, let him go through the door ahead of us, and entered the Midlothian Theater. The small lobby behind the ticket booth smelled like stale popcorn. Posters hung on the wall inside framed glass scratched by the nails of maybe a million Saturday matinee kids. One poster promised a future with Olivia de Havilland, who wore an off-the-shoulder gown and looked toward the candy stand as if she was waiting for a seltzer delivery that was very late. Behind her, Dennis Morgan smelled her hair for remnants of eau de Milk Duds.

My foot caught in a strand of frayed, once-red lobby carpet, but I pulled it out before I fell, and followed Jeremy into the theater. There were about fifty people in a place that could have easily held three hundred or more, and they were scattered all over, only a few in front. Lyle was on the stage and the house lights were up. He had no microphone, but he did have a portable metal podium, the kind violinists use for solos. If he had leaned on the damned thing, his political career would have ended.

Jeremy and I found seats on the right about ten rows from the back. I moved inside. Jeremy took the aisle, which allowed him to put his feet out. Across from us a gray-faced man was eating a sandwich he had taken out of a brown paper bag. Something yellow dribbled out of the sandwich. I turned my attention to Lyle, who was getting the whispered message from Bass that I still existed. Lyle looked around, found me, eyed Jeremy, and nodded to Bass.

“Get started,” shouted the sandwich man across the aisle.

“We will begin,” Lyle said softly and cleared his throat. Behind him, pinned to the curtain, were big posters of McArthur, Patton, and Eisenhower, all in full uniform. The right top corner of the Ike poster had come loose but Lyle had his back to it and never noticed.

“We will begin,” Lyle said louder this time.

I found Academy Dolmitz about fifteen rows in front of us, hunched down. My eyes must have burned through his collar because he let out a big sigh, turned, looked at me and gave a massive “What am I gonna do?” shrug.

“Will you all move up,” Lyle said. “It will be easier to talk and will leave space for those who come in late.”

No one except the man with the sandwich across the aisle from us moved. He struck his brown bag under his arm and, still holding his sandwich—from which an unidentified vegetable now dropped—tromped forward to answer Lyle's call.

“See the celebrities better,” the sandwich-eater explained to those in his vicinity as he moved down to sit in front of Lyle, who did not have the talent to hide his distaste. Two well-dressed women seemed to have had enough even before the festivities started. They were in the far aisle from us and headed for the door. Bass hurried to head them off. They saw him coming and scurried back to their seats.

“The enemies of the Whig Party,” Lyle began, looking down at his notes on the unsteady music stand, “have for more than a hundred years done their best to silence our voice of reason. They murdered us when we earned the highest office in the land.”

“Murdered?” came a woman's voice from the back.

Bass, who now stood, arms folded, in front of the stage, shot a glare of cold fury toward the voice.

“Yes,” said Lyle looking up. “Murdered. They murdered Harrison They murdered Taylor and they would have murdered Winfield Scott if he had been elected. And, most recently, just a day ago right in this city, they murdered the Dr. Roy Olson who, with me, had devoted his life to the revitilization of the Whig Party. And knowing them”—and with this he looked at Jeremy and me—“I am not at all surprised that they have sent the very murderers to our meeting today. Well, I tell them and I tell you they will not silence us.”

He clearly wanted to thunder his fist down for emphasis but there was nothing to thunder on but the wire music stand, or Bass's head. Lyle settled for shaking his fist and waiting for applause. There was none Someone did cough up front.

“Who's this ‘they' he's going on about?” said another woman, not aware that her voice would carry in the little, nearly empty theater.

“I'm glad you asked that, madam”, Lyle said, aiming his words in the general direction of the comment “
They
are the government, the Roosevelts, the Democrats, the Republicans. They are the ones who want to take away your right to be you, to be Americans, to take what you can take within the rightful limits of the law, to expand your horizons, to use the full power of God you were born with. They want to make you all alike, all weak, all dependent, all little wind-up dolls operated by them. They pretend to be against each other, but they hold each others' hands. And the others, the Socialists, the Communists, they're just waiting till the Megalops kill each other off so they can put you and your children and me in their prisons and make peace with the Nazis and the Japanese. We don't need crippled socialists standing in front of us as if we were children. We need strong leaders who stand up to enemies but maintain our borders. Don't tread on me. Leave me alone and I'll leave you alone. Responsible for my debts only. We need a Patton, a MacArthur, an Eisenhower.”

“A General Marshall,” came a voice that might have been touched as much with Petri wine as enthusiasm.

“Not a Marshall,” said Lyle, shaking his head sadly but glad to have some response “I'm afraid he is one of them. We must choose carefully, find the powerful and the incorruptible to lead us. We must make our platform clear, begin with the dedicated few, and become the powerful many. At this point, are there any questions?”

The sandwich man now sitting directly in front of Lyle shot up a hand, and since there were no other questions, Lyle had to acknowledge him. The man got up brushing crumbs from his coat and said, “Where are the celebrities?”

The man solemnly sat down and Lyle said, “I'm glad you asked that. Our ranks right now are, admittedly, small, but among our numbers are the famous and the influential. Some of our strongest supporters are names you would recognize instantly but, because of the pressure of the great
them
who have opposed and suppressed us, unfortunately many of these famous people in entertainment, sports, and even politics and the military service must remain unknown till they need no longer fear for their lives.”

“You said there would be celebrities,” came a woman's cracking voice.

“We have celebrities,” Lyle said, with a deep sigh; he didn't give in to despair. “I'll ask them to stand up and, perhaps, say a few words. Mr. Don Solval, famous radio personality.”

A man, white-haired, lots of pretend teeth, stood up, turned around, and waved at the crowd. The wino in the back applauded alone.

“Who is that?” Jeremy asked me.

“Never heard of him,” I whispered.

“Martin Lyle is a man of honor and integrity,” Solval said in a deep bass voice that reeked of radio. I didn't recognize the voice. “In the years I have worked for him and his family in Maine, I have come to not only accept his political beliefs but to become a strong advocate of them.”

He showed his teeth, waved again, and sat down. This time only Lyle applauded.

“Thank you, Don.”

“That was no goddamn celebrity,” said the sandwich man in the front row. Bass took two steps toward the man, leaned over, whispered something, and the man went white and silent. Bass returned to his position below Lyle and looked around the audience for more trouble, his eyes stopping significantly at Jeremy and me.

“We have other celebrities,” Lyle said, placating the now resdess little crowd with his upturned hands. “Mr. Robert Benchley.”

“I heard of him,” said the wino in back, clapping. There was a round of polite clapping as Lyle smiled and everyone looked around to find Benchley. Eventually a man who had been slouched over a few rows in front of Academy Dolmitz stood up and turned to the audience with a small, embarrassed grin. His face was round and his little mustache gave a twitch.