She nodded. “With his looks, Larry thought he had a chance for big time, so he got a bigger name agent. Max didn’t want to deal with him-he knew Larry would burn out. Directors always ended up hating Larry. Sol turned out to be his really important client, I suppose, who stayed with Max out of loyalty. Sol was small-time before The Goldbergs. Sol piddled around with bits on radio, played some old vaudeville dates, lots of grade B movies out here. Gertrude Berg had seen him at the Yiddish theater on Second Avenue, loved him, and talked to him-and Cousin Irving was born. A success story.”
I needed to move around…to grapple with the questions that buzzed in my head. I stepped toward the workroom, stopped in the entrance. “May I go in?”
“Of course.” She looked uncertain, though.
Inside I glanced at Max’s stack of clippings on the blacklist, a chronicle of his fall from grace, on cronies like John Howard Lawson and Doc Trumbo. A pile of old scripts, one for Trumbo’s Kitty Foyle, inscribed to Max with affection. An open loose-leaf notebook, with Max’s scribbled notations, lines drawn, marginal flourishes. It seemed madness, this room. Yet, standing there, my fingers rifling through the mess, I felt that here, perhaps, might be some clue to Max’s murder. I ached to tackle the stacks of papers, to delve into them.
There had to be something here. But what? What madman-a Commie hater, a disgruntled lounge singer, a failed music man, a two-bit actress-wreaked vengeance on the quiet man? Who harbored a hatred so keen it led to murder? Suddenly it seemed impossible-the stakes were too small, too petty, too parochial. The bit player who possessed a huge and terrible anger. Most likely not. How could we possibly ever know? But I had to know. The ghost of Max tapped me on the shoulder.
Who knocked on Max’s front door that night as Lorena, Alice, and I sat in the Paradise Bar amp; Grill? Max said…come in…follow me to the workroom…Who?
Suddenly, jarring us, there was a quick rapping on the front door, and Alice jumped up. “Thank God. Finally. He’s here.”
“Sol?” I stepped back into the living room and closed the workroom door behind me.
But she was followed back into the living room not by Sol Remnick but by a sheepish Larry Calhoun, who seemed annoyed that I was there, staring back at him, an admittedly unfriendly expression on my face. Feathered fedora in hand, he was dressed in iron-pressed white linen slacks over tasseled oxblood loafers, a pale yellow cotton shirt under a white linen summer sports jacket, and, with that bronzed face, with the shock of iron-gray matinee idol hair, he looked very much the famous star he never, unfortunately, became. “I’m sorry…to come here,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry,” he began again, looking from Alice to me.
“No, no. Sit down, Larry.”
He sat on the sofa. “I didn’t know where to go.” A strained voice, hollow, wispy. “Sol called me out of the blue and told me about The Goldbergs. You heard?”
We nodded. “Yes. Variety.”
He glanced at the magazine on the coffee table. “I couldn’t make out what he was saying at first, so crazy he was. I wondered why he was calling me because we stopped being friends a while ago. He doesn’t like me. He thought I was the one who…” A deep ragged breath. “But he started to accuse me, Alice. On the phone. Horrible things. He blamed me for everything. I didn’t do this to anybody. I’m not a…an informer, a stoolie. I mean, people ask me something, and I tell them. But I would never turn against Max or Sol or…”
He went on and on, a steady stream of seedy defense that ultimately rang false and callow.
“He thought you sold out his friends for cash,” I said, bluntly. “Named names.” I spoke evenly, each dramatic syllable steely, cold.
He looked at me, eyes wide. He wouldn’t answer.
“Well?” Alice probed.
“If someone treats you to a few drinks or…”
“Why are you here, Larry?” Alice sounded fierce now.
Larry smiled weakly, a simpering look on his face. I shuddered.
“I want to reach Sol. I’m worried. He mentioned Max…and you. And I thought he’d be here. He talked of coming here. I don’t want him telling people I’m a snitch for money. God knows, I don’t want my name in the press. You know, linked with the HUAC and the Hollywood Ten. Lord, that’s trouble enough. My job. I would never betray Max.”
“You’ve been trying to raise money,” I began.
He glanced at me but spoke over my shoulder. “Foolish gambling debts. A weakness I got, I admit. For a long time now. I got involved, some years back, with that creep Lenny Pannis and recently others and…well, never mind about it now. You can’t get out of their hold. All I know is I was trying to do it the right way, selling my shares, my property, to Sol and others. I need quick cash. I’m in trouble. I knew Max would refuse me, but Sol might listen to me.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Alice said sharply.
“What was I going to do?” Helpless, palms out.
I smiled. “Obviously not sleep well at night.”
He crushed his fedora between his fingers and reached for his pack of cigarettes. “Alice, I didn’t come to the memorial service because I felt I didn’t belong there. I wanted to. Max was my friend, but you know the way things have been lately. And I heard what Sol said at the service-how he was probably talking about me, that Yiddish stuff, eating a man’s flesh…I was told that. That’s why I want to see Sol now. On the phone he blamed me outright. He was sobbing and sobbing, talking about Max dying, about Cousin Irving and…” He breathed in. “I have no secrets, Alice.”
“Everyone in Hollywood has secrets.” For a second she closed her eyes.
A strange line, I thought.
“I’m a member of America First, good people, and Sol always condemned us. Blamed us. He attacked Desmond Peake for being a member.”
“So you are close friends with Desmond?” I asked.
“We talk at meetings. He knew I was Max’s friend, so he kept warning me. Stay away. He told me about walking Max out of Metro.”
Silence, no one ready to say anything, Larry fumbling with the squashed fedora.
“Why are you here, Larry?” Alice asked again, her voice icy.
“I told you.” He sucked in his breath. “Sol said he’d be here. I think he did. Alice, when I talked to you on the phone, you hung up on me. I need to ask you something. Sol said something about evidence that I betrayed people. Some papers. I don’t know. With Max being murdered and all…well, I thought that I…” His voice was suddenly loud. “Do you know anything about that, Alice?”
She shook her head.
“Why would Max have it?” I asked.
“Sol said Max had written another letter, this time with my name in it. Naming me as a pinko.” He drove his fist into the fedora. “Years back, I signed all kinds of petitions. Me, Sol, and Max. Local politics. Innocent stuff then. But now, through the distorted lens of Washington and even the gossip queens, well, it could look bad for me.”
Alice scoffed. “Sounds to me like Sol was trying to get under your skin, Larry. Max didn’t write another letter. I’d know.” She frowned. “Just the one that seemed to work its evil magic.”
“Are you sure?”
I was angry now. “Mr. Calhoun, don’t you think that this visit is in poor taste? Self-serving, granted, survival of the unfit. Your failed acting career probably resulted from your lack of timing, which everyone tells me is a necessary skill for an actor. Your being here is proof that you didn’t have a chance in hell that…”
He stood, plopped that crumpled hat on his head. It slipped to the side, giving him a vaguely raffish look, the handsome man gone off on a lark. “Yes, it was a mistake coming here.” He viewed me with appropriate venom, which oddly pleased me. It was the reaction I wanted. Alice seemed inordinately delighted with my harangue.