In 1958, the year after The Brave One debacle, another blacklisted writer, Ned Young, won the Oscar for The Defiant Ones under a pseudonym. In 1959 Kirk Douglas hired Dalton Trumbo under a pseudonym to write Spartacus for $50,000, and they let the story leak. Soon Otto Preminger hired Trumbo to write Exodus under his own name. And the blacklist was effectively over for Trumbo, Wilson, and the few other best known of the hundreds of writers, directors, actors, craftsmen and women who’d been drummed out of Hollywood. But the lesser known vast majority of them never worked in the motion picture industry again.
In 1973 Trumbo was finally given his Oscar for The Brave One. He was presented an Oscar for his earlier pseudonymous writing of Roman Holiday many years after his death.
The Writers Guild has spent the last twenty-six years trying to correct the credits on films made during the years of the blacklist.
The research and columns of Patrick Goldstein of the L.A. Times and recollections of Christopher Trumbo (the boy on the Schwinn) contributed immeasurably to this history.
Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel by MARK TERRY
WHEN FATE BLOWS open a shamus’s office door, you can never tell who’ll walk through. It could be a hot dame in a cool silk dress or a gun-packing gangster intent on harm.
It could even be Elvis.
I WAS CONTEMPLATING my checkbook when my office door swung open and Alicia Kingston stepped through. I dropped the black hole of my checkbook into the desk drawer where I kept the bottle and smiled pleasantly at the woman. “May I help you?”
“You’re Jakob Hull, the private investigator?”
“Yes ma’am. Have a seat.”
She plopped into one of my two office chairs, tucking a lock of her short, curly blond hair behind one ear. “You… you’re confidential, right?”
“What you tell me will be private,” I said.
She was maybe in her thirties, maybe in her forties. It was kind of hard to tell. She had the kind of voluptuous figure that was no longer fashionable-it disguised her age but didn’t hurt her sex appeal. “I mean… really private,” she said.
“Really private,” I agreed.
“Really, really private?” She had a wispy voice, like a little girl’s voice, and it went with her slightly plump body and vaguely innocent blue eyes.
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “But maybe I’ll know more when you tell me what you’d like me to do.”
“Oh. Well…” She rummaged in her Nebraska-size purse and retrieved a large mailing envelope. “Do you… can you find people?”
“Yes,” I said, once again back on firm ground. “Is there someone you’d like me to find?”
“Yes,” she said.
I waited for her to tell me who she wanted me to find, but she was going to be one of those clients and it was going to be one of those days.
“Who is it you’d like me to find?” I finally asked.
“Elvis,” she said.
I first shifted my gaze to the window, which offered no inspiration, then to my framed private investigator’s license, which offered even less.
With a sigh, I said, “Elvis, uh, who?”
“Elvis Presley,” she said, which was exactly what I was afraid she’d say.
I thought that over, debating responses. The first one that came to mind was: “Have you tried Graceland?”
The second one was along the lines of: “Get out of my office,” with a colorful metaphor or two inserted somewhere in the middle of the sentence for emphasis.
Then I remembered my checking account balance and said, “Elvis Presley,” which wasn’t a question, merely a statement, and a repetitive one at that.
“Why yes,” she said.
“The Elvis Presley,” I said, cautiously narrowing it down.
“Of course,” she said. “The King.”
“That one,” I said.
I thought of the checkbook. I thought of the bottle in the bottom drawer of my desk. They were inherently related, these two thoughts.
Alicia Kingston reached into the envelope and retrieved a snapshot. “This is the man I want you to find.”
I examined it gingerly. It sure looked like Elvis Presley. “Where did you get this?” I asked.
“In Detroit. At Cobo Hall. There was a convention of Elvises.”
Ah-ha! A clue! My God! A clue! “So,” I said. “This person is an Elvis impersonator.”
“Oh no. He’s the real thing. Elvis Presley. I saw his driver’s license.”
One step forward; two steps back.
“When, uh, did you see his driver’s license?”
She faltered, her creamy complexion taking on a rosy tinge. “Well… I…”
Hmmm, I thought. There’s a story here after all.
I made a wild guess, my particular specialty. “Did you sleep with him?”
She slowly nodded.
“Why,” I said, “do you want me to find him?” And I hoped the answer wasn’t: I’m carrying Elvis’s love child.
She once again dipped into the mailing envelope and handed me the contents. There were a number of photographs of Alicia Kingston performing upon Elvis Presley what in some southern counties was referred to as an “unnatural act.” Actually, it looked pretty natural in the photographs, but I’m just a private eye in a small northern Michigan resort town.
In addition to the photographs was a neatly typed letter demanding five thousand dollars or copies would be sent to Alicia’s husband. She would be contacted and instructed on when and how to deliver the money.
I opened my top drawer and found a blank contract. I slid it across to Mrs. Kingston and handed her a pen. “I think I can help you,” I said.
Once she was gone I retrieved the bottle from the bottom drawer. Maalox, it said on the side. I took a swig and toasted my P.I.’s license. “Here’s to gainful employment.”
MAURICE WINSTON HAD a head as smooth and hairless as a solar reflector, a thin humorless mouth, and the domineering arrogance of a first-class concierge. I stepped up to his desk at the Grand Bay Resort and handed him the snapshot. “I’m looking for this man,” I said.
Maurice didn’t smile, smirk, or snicker, but he couldn’t control the gleam in his eyes. “Jakob,” he said, “I believe Mr. Presley is dead.”
“Come on. You’ve got the Elvis, uh-”
“The Amazing Elvis Extravaganza,” he completed.
“Yeah. That’s it. Starts tomorrow, right?”
“Correct. Will this gentleman be attending?”
“I hope so. Are there any reservations for Elvis Presley?”
Unblinking, Maurice said, “Several.”
“Several?”
“There are seven.”
“How do you plan on keeping them straight?” I asked.
I wouldn’t have sworn to it, but I think Maurice smiled. Just a tiny bit. Then I got the room numbers of the seven Elvises. On my way out, Maurice said, “So this is your new career, Jakob?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m a licensed private investigator now.”
“My niece says your class on the American detective novel at the university was the most enjoyable class she took.”
“I’m much happier as a P.I.,” I said.
“Perhaps Prozac would have been easier,” Maurice said.
“WHY?” SHE DEMANDED of me, tears glistening on her cheeks. “Why is Elvis doing this to me?”
I patted her hand and said nothing. Elvis was doing this to her because she was a gullible flake, but I didn’t think that would go over well. Her check hadn’t bounced and we had a contract. Satisfying her delusions was all part of the service. In her mind Elvis was alive and well; he had not grown old and fat and addicted to over-the-counter medications. The reality of Elvis’s ignominious death never registered on her in any way, not as an ode to the dark side of fame, not even as an advisory for the positive effects of a high-fiber diet. To her Elvis was alive and well and bopping her in a Motor City motel room.