Hollywood and Levine (21 page)

“You're talking about Henry Perillo?” I asked.

“That's right,” said Wohl. “Henry not only possessed a great deal of theoretical knowledge, but he had great practical know-how in terms of organizing. His union background was invaluable.”

I resumed my seat.

“But you belong to a union, too, right?” I asked.

Wohl smiled.

“There's a great deal of difference between the Writers' Guild and the craft unions. We're still babes in the woods.”

“Not quite,” said Goldmark.

“In any case,” I said, steering the conversation back to where I wanted it, “Perillo came late to Hollywood?”

“Sometime during the war, Hon?” the writer asked his wife. “'43, '44?”

“Late '43,” said Mrs. Wohl.

“Uh-huh,” I said matter of factly. “You have any idea where he was before?”

The Wohls searched each other's faces and came up empty.

“Wasn't it Denver?” asked Goldmark. “I vaguely remember something about Denver.”

Rachel Wohl, teacup at her lip, nodded emphatically.

“You're right. Larry's right, Milt. He had been active in union-organizing in Denver.”

“So he was in Denver until '43?” I asked.

“I don't believe so,” said Wohl. “He'd been traveling. But that goes into areas he'd have to discuss himself.”

“Of course,” I assured him. “But you say he galvanized your group when he got here?”

“Definitely,” said Mrs. Wohl. “He broadened our scope, was heavily involved in the Popular Front move, but always had a clear sense of the ultimate goal we all were shooting for: a world of economic justice.”

“You'd say he was the leader?” I asked.

“We have no leaders, Mr. LeVine,” Wohl said quietly, but with some force. “Henry helped us clarify our thinking.”

“And despite his relatively late arrival, he was accepted wholeheartedly?” I went on. But I had asked one question too many.

Wohl's eyes floated uncertainly. “Do you suspect Henry Perillo of something, Mr. LeVine? If so, I wish you'd come out and say it.”

It was time for me to fold my tent and steal across the darkening sands.

“I don't suspect him more than anyone else.” I casually lit a Lucky. “It's just that since he was the last to come to Hollywood, his background contains the largest number of unknowns.”

Everyone sat pondering the sense, or nonsense, of my words.

“Henry is beyond reproach,” said Mrs. Wohl.

I shook my head. “Ma'am,
I'm
not even beyond reproach.”

There was some light laughter. Nobody falling into the aisle, just some chuckles and smirks of relief. Helen began clearing the dishes and I was pleased to help her. It cued Goldmark and the Wohls to shuffle their feet and get up.

“Helen, we'll be running,” said Wohl.

The redhead turned to her husband's friends.

“What can I say?” she told them. “For looking after me, for taking the time to baby-sit … I'm such awful company, I know.”

Wohl kissed her. “Hush,” he said affectionately. “You're a dear girl and you're doing remarkably.” He looked at me. “What do you think of the courage of this girl, LeVine?”

“She's terrific,” I told him.

“See?” Wohl said, almost gaily. “And he's one of those hard-boiled detectives.”

“He's not so tough,” Helen said with a smile.

Wohl laughed but his wife stared at me with a peculiar mixture of loathing and awe. I held out my hand to her.

“Sorry to have upset you. It certainly wasn't my intention.”

“I know,” she said without much conviction, then turned and gave Helen a dutiful kiss.

“You going to Zack's tonight?” Goldmark asked Helen.

“Probably,” she said.

“Fine. See you there.” The agent kissed her.

There was a final chorus of good-byes and be-wells as Helen walked the trio to the front door.

By the time Helen had closed the door and returned to the kitchen, I had gone through her personal directory and come up with Perillo's home address and phone number, copying the digits onto a matchbook.

Helen curled up on the banquette. I leaned against the sink.

“Who's Zack,” I asked, “and what's tonight?”

“Zack Gross, the producer. He's having a meeting-party kind of thing, ostensibly to discuss the HUAC developments.”

“You going?”

“I'd like to, if you'll come with me.”

“I have an errand to run first. What time does it start?”

“Nine. What's the errand?”

“I have to see a guy.”

“That's very helpful, Jack.” She patted her hand on the banquette. “Sit with me for a minute.”

I did so and received a hug as my reward.

“How did the police treat you?” Helen asked.

“I didn't lose any teeth.”

“I see,” she said evenly. “Are you going to tell me anything?” Helen was getting annoyed and I couldn't really blame her, but while the case was at such a delicate point, it seemed foolish to load her with details. They would only make her jumpy.

“I think I'm on to something, but I've got to work it out. Trust me.”

“It's not a matter of trust, Jack. I just don't enjoy ignorance. It's dangerous.”

“So's knowledge.”

“Oh Jack, come on, let's not play word games.”

“All right. What specifically do you want to know?”

“What do the police think?”

“They don't think. Their hands are tied on this one. The FBI is running the show.”

Her eyes grew big, that wonderful jaw dropped just a trifle.

“Really? The FBI?”

“Really. An FBI man named Clarence White is in charge. Ever hear of him?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“That's what I thought. Now I've really got to blow.”

Helen wrapped her arms about my chest and squeezed.

“One more minute, Jack.”

She slid up on the banquette and kissed me, lightly. Then with a little more force, nibbling on my bottom lip.

“I still have thirty seconds,” she whispered.

She pressed closer to me and my brain began passing all the appropriate signals down the line. The green lights began flashing, the vat began bubbling. But LeVine is a dutiful fellow.

“Time's up,” I said, disengaging myself with a final peck on her broad brow. “I can assure you that I don't want to go, but it's important.”

“Cock-teaser,” she said with a grin. “You'll pick me up at 8:30 or so?”

“I'll try, but if you don't hear from me by, say, 8:15, go with the Wohls and I'll meet you there. What's Gross' address?”

“Number 384 St. Cloud. It's in Bel Air.”

“That's very fancy?”

“You won't believe how fancy. Incredible. Gross married money and made a lot on his own; he's produced a lot of biggies.”

“But he's political.”

“Carefully so. A good liberal type.”

She got up and walked me out to the hall. I took my hat out of the closet.

“As ever, don't let anyone in you don't recognize,” I told her.

Helen leaned by the door; a teen-aged girl saying goodnight to a study date.

“You won't tell me where you're going?”

“Not to worry.”

She looked into my eyes and suddenly all traces of the teen-ager vanished; the widow, seeking revenge, reappeared.

“Do you suspect Henry Perillo, Jack?”

What the hell.

“Yes I do.”

She looked down at the floor, arms folded, and let her system absorb the news. Then she looked up, composed and even.

“He'll be at that party tonight,” she said.

“That's okay. If you feel you can't talk to him without developing a tic, then duck him.”

She compressed that beautiful mouth.

“You really think it's Henry? I just can't believe it.”

“I have suspicions, but nothing substantial. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She opened the door for me.

“Try and be back soon, Jack. I'd like to go to Zack's with you.”

“I'll try. Listen to the radio, relax.”

“You just take care of yourself.”

We kissed and then I left the house. She stood in the doorway and I turned to wave good-bye. We waved for a long moment, reluctant to part.

I think we both knew what we were in for.

12

P
erillo lived at 3410 The Paseo, in L.A.'s Highland Park district, a pleasantly scruffy working-class neighborhood of mongrel dogs, rust-brown children, and amiable Mexicans repairing and scrubbing their 1936 Fords. I arrived at seven and it seemed that everyone had just completed supper: dishes were being scraped and the porches and yards were filling up with racing kids and mutts. A guitar was being strummed melodically and laughter fell like light rain. It was an unlikely turf to stalk someone I thought guilty of murder, an unlikely turf to do anything but have a few beers and welcome the night.

The Paseo was a short residential street that ran a few blocks and ended on a weed-covered hill. I drove past Perillo's house very slowly; the driveway and curb were empty, but the house was positioned too high up for me to see if the lights were on or off. So I continued on past the house, turned back down to Verdugo Road, and stopped in at a tavern called El Sombrero.

The Sombrero was as dark and quiet as if it had closed. Two gentlemen were either sleeping or praying at the bar; the moon-faced Mexican bartender was seated on a stool, reading a scratch sheet and chewing contemplatively on a beef jerky. I ordered a draft and asked if the phone was working.

“Only if you put a nickel in,” he joked in softly accented English.

I walked to the back and called Perillo's home. His phone rang a dozen times before I hung up and sauntered back to the bar. My beer was waiting. I was parched and the brew went down in three swallows.

“This place liven up on weekends?” I asked the bartender.

“
Un cementerio
, a cemetery. One good horse,” he snapped his fingers, “and you watch my ass go out the door. Sit here all day, talk to the flies.” He whirled an index finger about his temple. “Go
completamente loco
.”

“My office is like that sometimes. In New York. Just me and the dust.”

“Then we're both
loco
,” he told me and smiled.

One of the men at the bar woke up and promptly fell off his stool.

“
Madre de Dios
,” said the bartender, getting up to help.

I parked the Chrysler on Thirty-fifth Avenue, an uphill street that dead-ended into The Paseo, and began walking up to Perillo's house. It was past dusk now and the brown and white faces arrayed on the porches regarded me with mild curiosity. A few folks nodded in greeting and I returned the favor. They were no more suspicious of me than I of them, yet a person traveling on foot anywhere in Los Angeles was to be viewed as a pleasant oddity, an amusement of the evening.

By the time I reached Number 3410 I was slightly out of breath—and I was still only half-way to Perillo's house. The smallish cottage was perched on a plot located about fifty yards up a steep hill studded with avocado and palm trees. Cracked stone slabs, sprouting hardy weeds and wildflowers, served as a roundabout staircase to the top, but a pick and rope would have been appropriate. It was the perfect setting for someone who wished to discourage visitors, or wanted a long look at them before they got to the door.

I climbed the stairs. The evening air was damp and my shirt was pretty well soaked when I reached the top. I mopped my brow with a hanky and rang Perillo's bell, twice. When no one answered, I tried the door and was not surprised to find it locked.

So I walked around to the back, where I would be safely out of view, Perillo's neighbors being vacant lots. The back contained a small, unkempt yard, perhaps four hundred square feet of brown and dusty grass. In its center stood a rusted, sagging swing and seesaw apparatus, looking as ancient and splay-footed as the skeleton of an infant dinosaur. I didn't figure Perillo to use the swing with any regularity at all. There were some fruit trees and beneath them sweet, rotten droppings of oranges and avocados. Two metal chairs faced each other beneath the trees, their seats shiny with stagnant water.

A few bright stars had appeared and the crickets and katydids had begun their electric evening music. I walked toward the rear of the house and found another door. Another locked door. I tried a few old hotel keys, but I could have used my pecker for all the good they did. Perspiring like a Sicilian road-builder, I continued my stealthy, counterclockwise encirclement of the house, finally coming upon a locked but flimsy window. It could be raised about an inch and a half above the sill, and that was all I really needed. I hunted down a fallen tree limb and jammed it into the window as a wedge, then pressed down hard upon it. The lock loosened but didn't give. Awash with sweat, I leaned against the tree limb with my full weight. The lock buckled and broke, the window flew upward, and I fell down upon a half-dozen mushy avocados.

I tossed the tree limb back where I had found it and climbed into a small and musty room, a bedroom, then shut the window and returned the lock so that it appeared to be in place.

The bedroom was sparsely furnished, neat, and looked rarely used. There was a single bed, a night stand and lamp, a battered chest of drawers, a canvas chair, and bookshelves constructed of varnished pine boards. The books—complete works of Marx and Engels, volumes by Michael Bakunin, Karl Liebknecht, Rosa Luxemburg, Karl Kautsky, Eduard Bernstein, by Americans like William Z. Foster, Michael Gold, and John Howard Lawson—were arranged alphabetically. Very few of them looked to have been read; the pages were white and unsmudged, the bindings still cracked.

I went through the chest of drawers, quickly and lightly of hand, coming up empty. Perillo favored white socks, white boxer shorts, and white short-sleeved shirts. There was a jar of pennies in one drawer, a cigar box full of tie clips and cuff links—uninscribed, unmarked, and uninteresting—in another. The taste and style were those of a man with twenty years at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles beneath his belt.