Stardust (17 page)

“Maybe my imagination. Except it never is, is it? Don’t turn around—no, don’t, I mean it. People always do that. Take a look when we get up for the food. There’s a guy over by the raw bar. I notice he’s casing the place, and he looks familiar and then it comes to me—he was hanging around Republic. When I’m there checking the talent. This is before I hear about Continental. Some coincidence, if you believe in
that. So maybe he’s keeping an eye, you know? The guy’s a cop— everything about him—and I’m thinking, what the hell, the cops enforce for the studios, so maybe someone—”

“I didn’t say a word,” Ben said, beginning to turn.

“No, don’t. He’ll pick up on it. Let’s eat. You like seafood? They have a great Crab Louis.”

They got up and walked across the patio to the sales counter. He spotted him immediately—the man in the gray suit reading a paper, almost hidden behind a tree but scanning the patio just as he had the crowd at the funeral, the reception afterward. Ben gave a don’t-worry shake of his head to Kelly, and ordered the crab. A huge plate, enough for two.

“I know him,” he said when they sat down again. “He works for Polly.”

“No, he doesn’t. He may feed her, but he doesn’t work for her. I know all her runners. So what’s he feed her. He’s a cop. Maybe even Bureau. He’s got that look. He could be Bureau.”

“Calm down. You’re—”

“Cop shows twice, something’s up. You learn these things. So what the fuck does he want?”

“He came with Polly. To the funeral. That’s all I can tell you. Your name never came up at the studio. You’re sure he’s a cop?”

“Some kind of cop. Has to be.”

“I’m going to the head. See if he watches.”

He walked to the men’s room past piles of oranges, but the man in the gray suit seemed not to notice, his gaze still fixed toward the other end of the dining patio, an easier sight line than the side angle to Kelly. People in shirts having lunch, big California salads. A few suits. Liesl’s father. Ben stopped. Ostermann saw him at the same time and nodded. Impossible now not to go over. Ben signaled to Kelly that he’d only be a minute, using the turn to check on the man in the gray suit, absorbed again in his paper. Meanwhile, Kaltenbach was waving him to their table.

“So, you know this place?” he said standing, playing host. “A coffee? You’ll join us?”

Ben shook his head. “I’m with somebody. Just a hello.”

“A little bit of Europe,” Ostermann said, gesturing to the patio. “Not a real
Biergarten,
but still, trees. You can pretend.”

Ben looked down at their plates—sausages and deli potato salad, what they might in fact have ordered at Hechinger’s.

“That’s what everyone does here,” Kaltenbach said, waving his hands to take in the city. “Pretend.” He looked over at Ben, excited. “Do you know that I am going to Berlin?”

“Berlin,” Ben said, thinking of smashed bricks, jagged walls.

“Yes, I know, it’s bad now, you hear it from everyone, but still, Berlin. Something survives. I thought I would never see it again. I thought I would die here.” He gestured to the sunny patio, the healthy salad eaters, seeing something else. “And now—”

“How did you arrange it?” Ben said. “I thought nobody could get in, except the Army. A few reporters. You need a permit.”

“Yes, yes, another exit visa. But Hans here will write a letter. Thomas Mann, too. Who would say no to them? Why would they keep me here? On relief. Eighteen dollars and fifty cents a week. A charity case. You don’t think they’ll be happy to see me go? One last visa and it’s over. If Erika were still alive, think how happy.”

“Maybe you should wait,” Ben said, “until things are better. It’s difficult now, just to live.”

“No, they’re giving me a flat.”

“Who?”

“The university. I’m invited to accept a chair at the university.”

“But it’s in the Soviet sector.”

“Yes, of course, that’s who invites me.”

Ben glanced at Ostermann, who met his eye but then looked deliberately away, toying with his fork.

“They are going to print my books again.”

“The Soviets?”

“My friend, one conqueror or another, what’s the difference? Germany lost the war. Do you think the Russians will leave now? How else can I do this? I can be a writer again. I can be in Berlin,” he said in a
kind of rush, emotional now, almost touching it. “Excuse me,” he said, putting a fingertip to his eye. “So foolish. Old age. And now the bladder. I’ll be right back.”

Ben watched him head for the men’s room.

“He’s not a political man,” Ostermann said quietly.

“He will be. The minute he gets off the plane. German writer returns. To the East. Which makes them look legitimate. They don’t care about his books. They just want him for show.”

“I know. They’ve asked some of the others. Even Brecht is reluctant and he—”

“They ask you?”

“No.” He glanced up, a slightly impish smile. “Maybe they don’t like my work. Too bourgeois.”

“You can’t let him do this. Do you know what it’s like there?”

“What do I say to him? He lives in one room. On money we give him. His friends. Each handout a humiliation. His wife committed suicide. For her, it was too much. And now they come to him. A professor. With a flat. His books. What do we offer instead?”

“Not a prison. At least here—”

“Reuben,” he said, using his full name as a kind of weight, “he doesn’t even know he’s here. He’s somewhere else, waiting. So let him go.”

“This isn’t going to make him popular with the State Department. Or you. Writing letters.”

“An act of friendship, not politics. Or isn’t that possible anymore? I thought that time was over. Well, it doesn’t matter for me. I don’t want to go back. The conscience of Germany? I don’t think they want that now. And maybe I don’t want them, either.”

Ben looked toward the other end of the patio. The man in the gray suit, paper down, was now sipping coffee. Just having lunch.

“A thousand apologies,” Kaltenbach said, joining them at the table. “And after so many kindnesses. I’m not myself these days.”

“Herr Kaltenbach,” Ben said, a sudden thought, “how did the offer come, from the university. A letter? It’s official?”

“Yes, yes. Hand delivered by the Soviet consul, all the way from San
Francisco. So I would know it was genuine. You know, you don’t trust the mails for such an offer.”

“Ah, the consul,” Ben said. Someone who would certainly be watched everywhere, each contact another string to follow. “Well, I hope everything works out. Berlin—”

Kaltenbach nodded. “You don’t have to say. I’ve seen the pictures. A wreck. But look at me. So maybe we’ll suit each other.”

There was another minute of bowing farewells, a European leave-taking, before Ben could go back across the patio. Kelly was waiting, smoking over the debris of his Crab Louis, but instead of turning to their table Ben kept going, an impulse, toward the gray suit.

“Excuse me. You were at my brother’s funeral, but we weren’t introduced,” he said, extending his hand. “Ben Collier.”

For a second, the man simply stared, as if the approach had violated some rule, then lifted his hand to shake Ben’s.

“I didn’t know who you were. They told me later. You had different names?” he said, keeping his eyes on Ben, reading him.

“My mother changed it. How did you know Danny?”

“We did some work together.”

“You’re in pictures?” Ben said, surprised.

“Technical advisor. To get the details right.”

“On the series? Police details? My friend over there thought you might be. Maybe FBI.” The man said nothing. “He thought you might be tailing him.”

“Yeah? What’d he do?” he said, playing with it, then looked at Ben and shook his head. “I’m retired.”

“From what?”

The man hesitated, thinking through a chess move, then nodded. “The Bureau.”

“You don’t look old enough to—”

“I took a bullet. That buys you a few years.”

“So what do you do now?”

“Have lunch,” he said, stretching his hand toward his finished plate, implying long afternoons.

“And work for Danny.”

“I gave him advice, that’s all. We helped each other out.”

Ben looked up, an off phrase, but so innocuous there was nowhere to take it.

“Well, thanks for coming to the funeral. Funny running into you again.”

“No, I’m here most days.” He got up to go, taking his hat off the table. “I’m sorry about your brother. That was a hell of a thing.”

“Whatever it was.”

The man stopped, his eyes fixed on Ben. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just a little fuzzy, wouldn’t you say? What happened? You’re the pro.”

He waited. Finally the man looked away, putting on his hat.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m retired.” He paused. “It’s tough to get over something like this. You should take it easy.”

“Everyone says. Would you? Your brother?”

“Something worrying you? You were close? Maybe he said something to you.”

Ben shook his head. “What would he say?” Now a cat and mouse game, but no longer sure who was which.

The man shrugged, then took out his wallet. “Sometimes you start something, you don’t know what you’re getting into. Here.” He took out a card and handed it to Ben. “If you need any technical advice.”

Ben looked at it. Dennis Riordan. No affiliation, just a telephone number.

“Technical advice,” Ben repeated.

“Maybe he left something. Might explain it. Maybe I could help. Figure it out.” He began to move off. “Anyway, tell your friend to keep his nose clean. Stop imagining things.”

“What about German writers?”

Riordan turned. “You’re a suspicious guy.” He looked down at the table. “It was just lunch.”

He crossed the patio to the exit near the vegetable stalls, unhurried, not even a backward glance.

“What the hell was that?” Kelly said at their table.

Ben handed him the business card. “What you thought. The Bureau. But retired.”

“They never retire. They just find another pack of hyenas to sniff around with.”

“Like Polly.”

Kelly shook his head. “But somebody. I’ll find out.”

“You know people at Republic? Find out if he ever got a consultant fee. On Danny’s pictures.”

“What if he wasn’t paid?”

“Then why do it?”

Kelly looked at the card again, memorizing the name, then handed it back.

“Christ, all I wanted was the girlfriend, an
item,
and now I’ve got the Bureau on my back.”

“I don’t think so. If he was tailing you, you’d never see him. Handing out cards. He wants something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But think where we’ve seen him—Republic, the funeral. You weren’t even at the funeral. He’s not tailing you. It’s like he’s tailing Danny.”

L
ASNER LIVED
in a chateau near the top of Summit Drive with enough land for a full set of tennis courts and a formal garden. Danny’s house flowed easily outside and back, the pool another room, but here the effect was moated, drawn up behind the gravel drive, the high view just something framed by picture windows. Teenagers in uniforms had been hired to park the cars so that arriving felt like stepping out of a liveried carriage, something Lubitsch might have shot.

The inside rooms were Du Barry French, high and ornate and formal, with gilded side tables and silk fire screens and ormolu footed chairs. Ben wondered what Lasner made of it all, passing through each morning on his way to coffee. Or did they have breakfast in bed, a
proper
levée
? Still, Fay clearly loved playing chatelaine, greeting people just inside the door with real warmth, so where was the harm? The money, all those nickels, would have been spent somehow. Why not on a French dream? With a hostess once pretty enough to have been a Goldwyn Girl, far more attractive than any of the originals. Even Sol, beaming by her side, was an improvement, at least a bulldog jaw, not a weak Bourbon chin.

“My god, look at the jewels,” Liesl said.

Bunny had said to dress, but Ben had expected country club cocktails in suits. Instead he felt he had walked into an A-picture party scene, everyone turned out by Makeup and Wardrobe, evening dresses and sparkling necklaces, the room like some velvet jewel case.

“Fake,” he said, smiling.

“No, they’re not.” She put her fingers to her throat. “Anyway, the pearls are nothing to be ashamed of. My mother wouldn’t sell them, not even in Paris when we—”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. The rest of you looks good, too.”

“Oh yes, in a roomful of movie stars.”

He glanced around, taking in what she’d already noticed, faces from covers, people you saw in magazine ads recommending soap. He thought of his mother’s parties before the war, gaunt women with hats and fur trim, not beautiful, using their jewels to light up the room. Here the faces themselves were luminous. Paulette Goddard had come, looking even better than she had on the train. Alexis Smith was talking to the Lasners, her chin at a patrician tilt. He recognized Ann Sheridan by the fireplace, the full mouth not drawn in a glamour shot pout, but smiling, as down to earth as the girl next door, if she’d been beautiful. They were all beautiful. It seemed a kind of joke, an ancien régime room finally filled with glorious-looking people instead of pinched-faced heirs.

“There’s Marion Wallace. I’d better say something to her. She sent a nice note.”

“Let me buy you a drink first.” He lifted two champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray. “Who else is here?” he said, clinking her glass. “Do you know anyone?”

She smiled. “A few. There’s Walter Reisch. Daniel used to play tennis with him. Paul Kohner. You know him, the agent? He handles Bruce Hudson. In the series.” She took another sip. “It’s a small town. Nobody ever believes that, but it is. They never see anyone else. If my father walked in, no one would know who he was. Alma used to complain about it. After
Bernadette,
when people asked Franz to parties.” She giggled. “People thought she was a character actress.”

“Ah, you’re here,” Lasner said, not really in a receiving line, but hovering near the door. “A clean shirt even. You know Fay.”

“So glad you could come,” she said. “Sol tells me everything’s great with the picture.”