Ben switched off the light and lit a cigarette. Rosemary’s file was more damaging-not a summer camp the studio would want to see written up in Photoplay. Ben wondered if Bunny knew about the report-more interesting, if Rosemary knew about it. Her moment, with everything at stake. There was nothing to indicate that Danny had ever betrayed her. What if she’d thought he had? But Bunny hadn’t made the call for her, he’d made it for Riordan.
He looked up, his eyes caught by the headlights sweeping into the parking lot. Not Minot again, a smaller car. It pulled up to the door, and the driver ran up the steps, tapping on the glass. It was only when Frank turned on another light that the driver became more than a shadow. For a minute Ben still didn’t recognize him-a natural lag, seeing something unexpected, out of place. Frank opened the door and handed over Minot’s envelope, then Kelly started back down the stairs. Ben watched, moving pieces around in his head. Kelly playing messenger. For Minot? But at the Farmers Market he hadn’t known Riordan. The connection must be at the other end.
There wasn’t time to sort it out. Kelly’s lights came on again, the car starting for the street. Almost without thinking, Ben turned the key. Kelly. Getting something for the paper? But at Wilshire he was turning away from downtown, heading toward Beverly Hills. Just keep a few lengths behind. No one ever noticed a tail if he wasn’t looking for it. Kelly was leaning forward to turn the radio knob, just going about his business, whatever it was.
After El Camino, Kelly turned right, passing blocks of stores and then crossing Santa Monica to the horseshoe-curve streets of the flats below Sunset. Ben slowed, dropping farther behind. The streets were empty, dark between the corner lights, half-asleep. Just stop signs now, not enough traffic for lights. Another right turn.
The house was halfway up the block. Ben parked a little way down and across, killing his lights, the car swallowed up in the shade of a big pepper tree. Kelly was walking up the curved pavement. He rang the bell, waited, looking up at the fanlight. A brighter light, then the door opened and Polly Marks stepped out, a drink in one hand. Running an errand for Polly. Not for the first time. A few familiar words, the envelope delivered, and she was turning back to her drink, all in one gliding movement, something they’d done before. In time to get it into the typewriter, a leak from the files. More kindling. He watched Kelly drive away, then sat for a minute looking at the quiet street-shrubs and lawns and even a trellis of flowers. No sound but crickets, peaceful and unaware, not a flame in sight.
He was surprised when Riordan answered the phone.
“You’re there early.”
“Ken likes it. Navy hours or some shit,” Riordan said, his voice husky, only half-awake.
“Studio hours, too,” Ben said, looking at the pile of paper already on his desk. Outside, technicians with coffee cups were heading for the sound stages. “Anyway, I’m glad I caught you.”
“What I hear, Ken caught you. You don’t want to surprise him like that. He gets riled up.”
“I was just checking names.”
“Not anymore,” he said, a thud in his voice. “Files are closed.”
“Great. Open one for me then, will you? See if you have anything on a J. MacDonald. M-a-c. Even a cross-reference.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. His name came up, that’s all.”
“Came up how?”
“Dennis, are you going to do this or not? Just see what you have.”
A hesitation, then an exaggerated sigh. “Give me a sec.”
Ben heard the receiver being laid on the desk, the sharp metallic scrape of a file drawer opening. A meeting five years ago.
“Music department. Universal,” Riordan said, reading.
“CP?”
“Not in here. Fellow traveler, though. Lots of organizations, the usual pink. Went into the Army ’forty-two. That’s the last thing we have. Want me to check some more?”
“Check what?”
“Army records. Friend of mine has access. See if he was discharged. Died, maybe.”
“Who was the source on the file?”
“No source, just a general. Stuff you can pull from the papers. This goes back some, nothing recent. You think your brother knew him?”
“Maybe just a loose end. I mean, if there’s been nothing for years-” But he must have known his name. At least well enough to mention it in Bunny’s file. “You have an old address?”
“Uh uh. Nobody ever wrote him up. He’s just a guy on some lists, so they made a file. Strictly what he joined. Anti-Fascist League, things like that. How’d you say he came up?”
Ben glanced at Bunny’s thin file. How long before anyone missed it?
“On a list. Probably nothing. Let me know about the Army though, okay? So I can scratch him off. Do I need to do anything about Ken? I don’t want him to think-”
“He’ll calm down. You’re the only one he’s got now, with the Krauts.”
“I thought he wasn’t interested in them.”
“They meet people. It all connects.”
Like a web, one strand to another. And who else was present, Mr. Kaltenbach? To the best of your recollection. Heinrich must have met people. If he was sympathetic enough to be approached now, invited to return, why not then? A gathering over coffee. One name, then another, until they found one for the newsreels. And who else was at the meeting, Mr. MacDonald? But Bunny would be protected, a friend to the committee. Until it began to eat its own, too hungry to stop.
Ben walked over to the window, looking out at the sunny lot. Cowboys and showgirls coming out of Makeup. Grips moving scenery. Everyone busy, unconcerned. Did any of them know what Minot was planning, what it would mean? For a second he saw the street in a freeze frame, a stopped moment before it all began. They’d turn on each other, running for cover, right into Minot’s hands.
At the gate, there was a commotion as some grips crossed the picket line. More pickets had come out today, not just the usual handful, and the guards had seemed jittery when Ben drove through earlier. Shouts now, instead of breezy catcalls. One of the grips shouted back, then had to be pulled away. Two of the picketers lunged toward him, then stopped, posturing. More shouts, name-calling. But no sticks or stones. A jurisdictional dispute.
He turned back to the paperwork, then saw her coming out of Makeup. She was in the same kind of white blouse and simple skirt they’d used in the test, but now wore heels, so that her legs stretched up. His eyes followed her toward the actors’ trailers, hair catching the morning light, watching the way she moved, the easy glide Bunny had noticed. But Ben had noticed other things, a leg in a mirror, eyes that darted across your face. He missed the swimming pool, sitting on the chaise still wet in terry robes, then the smell of chlorine on her skin, her thigh half open to its soft side.
She looked up into the mirror of her dressing table when the door opened.
“I saw you pass. Going over lines?”
She nodded to the script in front of her. “Today I meet the sister. She’s jealous.”
He closed the door behind him.
“Don’t. People will notice.”
“I’m family.”
“In my dressing room. What if Connie comes? It’s hers, too.”
“You share? You’re the star.”
She smiled. “Not yet.” She held up both hands to the mirror, wriggling them. “I haven’t put my hands in cement. Why do they do that?”
He shrugged. “Why do they do anything?”
“You think it’s all foolish. Only newsreels.”
He walked over to the chair, standing behind her.
“Next week we do the scenes in Germany,” she said to the mirror. “Did you see what they’re building? I live in a house that was bombed. In a cellar. It’s strange, you know? Where I’d be if I’d never come here.”