“A General Marshall,” came a voice that might have been touched as much with Petri wine as enthusiasm.
“Not a Marshall,” said Lyle, shaking his head sadly but glad to have some response “I’m afraid he is one of them. We must choose carefully, find the powerful and the incorruptible to lead us. We must make our platform clear, begin with the dedicated few, and become the powerful many. At this point, are there any questions?”
The sandwich man now sitting directly in front of Lyle shot up a hand, and since there were no other questions, Lyle had to acknowledge him. The man got up brushing crumbs from his coat and said, “Where are the celebrities?”
The man solemnly sat down and Lyle said, “I’m glad you asked that. Our ranks right now are, admittedly, small, but among our numbers are the famous and the influential. Some of our strongest supporters are names you would recognize instantly but, because of the pressure of the great them who have opposed and suppressed us, unfortunately many of these famous people in entertainment, sports, and even politics and the military service must remain unknown till they need no longer fear for their lives.”
“You said there would be celebrities,” came a woman’s cracking voice.
“We have celebrities,” Lyle said, with a deep sigh; he didn’t give in to despair. “I’ll ask them to stand up and, perhaps, say a few words. Mr. Don Solval, famous radio personality.”
A man, white-haired, lots of pretend teeth, stood up, turned around, and waved at the crowd. The wino in the back applauded alone.
“Who is that?” Jeremy asked me.
“Never heard of him,” I whispered.
“Martin Lyle is a man of honor and integrity,” Solval said in a deep bass voice that reeked of radio. I didn’t recognize the voice. “In the years I have worked for him and his family in Maine, I have come to not only accept his political beliefs but to become a strong advocate of them.”
He showed his teeth, waved again, and sat down. This time only Lyle applauded.
“Thank you, Don.”
“That was no goddamn celebrity,” said the sandwich man in the front row. Bass took two steps toward the man, leaned over, whispered something, and the man went white and silent. Bass returned to his position below Lyle and looked around the audience for more trouble, his eyes stopping significantly at Jeremy and me.
“We have other celebrities,” Lyle said, placating the now resdess little crowd with his upturned hands. “Mr. Robert Benchley.”
“I heard of him,” said the wino in back, clapping. There was a round of polite clapping as Lyle smiled and everyone looked around to find Benchley. Eventually a man who had been slouched over a few rows in front of Academy Dolmitz stood up and turned to the audience with a small, embarrassed grin. His face was round and his little mustache gave a twitch.
“Um,” Benchley began, rubbing his hands together. “Urn,” he repeated and then let out a small laugh as if he had been caught eating the last cookie in the jar. “There seems to be some slight mistake here. I wasn’t aware that this was a political rally.” He laughed again. “I was told by my agent, or maybe I should say former agent or soon-to-be former agent, that this was a war-bond promotion. I’m not even a registered voter in this state. Thank you.”
Benchley gathered up his coat and ambled down the aisle past us with a small, constipated grin as Lyle applauded furiously and a few others joined him.
“Thank you, Robert Benchley,” Lyle said, applauding.
“Wait a minute,” came the wino’s voice. “He ain’t even on your side.”
“We promised celebrities,” Lyle said patiently. “We never said they would support us. We begin by having them present and then the truth of our cause convinces them and you. Now that we have heard from our celebrities-”
“Hold it,” called the wino standing. “You mean that’s it? No more celebrities? No free coffee, nothing?”
“Just truth,” said Lyle, almost giving in to exasperation.
Bass was moving up the aisle now in search of the troublesome wino. While his back was turned, four women, probably a bridge club, escaped out of a side emergency exit. Bass found the wino and carried him at arm’s length out of the theater.
“I want a refund,” screamed the wino.
“You paid nothing and got much,” shouted Lyle. “You got the truth and the truth will work on your conscience.” The crowd was mumbling and considering following the valiant bridge club. One woman actually stood, but she had waited too long to make up her mind, and Bass, now returning, fixed his eyes on her coldly, and she sat.
“We have one more speaker,” Lyle said clearly, sensing that he could hold the group no longer without a real celebrity or refreshments or, possibly, a good idea or two. “With the assassination of Dr. Olson I have had to go through the difficult task of assessing the qualities of the many qualified members of our party to select a successor as party organizer. I’ve agonized over this decision, consulted our leadership in Washington, New York, and Dallas, and come up with the name of a member of your own community, Mr. Morris Dolmitz.”
Five rows ahead of us, Academy Dolmitz sank deeper in his seat and failed to hold back a gurgled “Shit.”
Lyle applauded, and the crowd paused with minimal curiosity, looking for the one in their midst who had been selected by Lyle to make a fool of himself.
“Mr. Dolmitz is a prominent businessman in Los Angeles,” Lyle said. “A man of great political knowledge who has much to say. Mr. Dolmitz. a few words please.”
Bass applauded and grinned like a kid and Lyle beamed, waving for Academy to get up and speak.
“Go on. Academy, I called. “Your new career awaits.”
“Blow it out the wrong way,” Academy spat out through his clenched teeth loud enough for everyone to hear, but he was trapped. He shuffled into the aisle cursing that he was ever born, brushed his mane of white hair back, and went to the steps leading up to the low, small stage. Bass, clearly protective, hovered behind him to help in case his former boss and inspiration fell. Clearly uncomfortable, Dolmitz stood next to Lyle, who held out his hand. Dolmitz shook the offered hand and looked over at Jeremy and me apologetically as if to say, “See the things you have to go through to turn a dishonest buck?”
Academy stepped in front of the music stand, glared out at the uneasy audience, and said, “I’ve got nothing to say.”
He turned and Lyle whispered to him urgently while someone in the audience started coughing and a voice, female, said, “Dorothy, are you all right? You want a glass of water or something?” But Dorothy stopped and Academy bit his lower lip, trying to think of something to say.
“I didn’t expect this … honor,” he finally said. “Did you know Robert Benchley won an Oscar in 1935, best short subject?”
“How to Sleep,” I said. “MGM”
Academy nodded his head, one-upped by me again.
“I’ve met Oscar winners before,” Academy went on, warming to his favorite subject outside of making money. “Lyle Wheeler, the art director who won the award for Gone With the Wind,” Academy said quickly so I wouldn’t get a chance to identify Wheeler from the audience, though I wouldn’t have been able to do it “Wheeler came into my bookshop one day and bought a couple of books by French writers, Flaubert, Zola, Balzac, that crowd. Wheeler was a nice guy. I tried to get him to put down a few bucks on a sure thing I had going out of Santa Anita, a two-year-old named Sidewalk, but Wheeler didn’t go for it. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
Bass applauded furiously again as Academy climbed down from the stage and Lyle stepped forward as his political world seemed to be crumbling around him, but he had been through it before.
“Mr. Dolmitz has assured me that he fully supports the aims of the Whig Party,” Lyle said as feet shuffled and Dorothy attempted to control her returning cough.
“No more states in the Union…. God meant us to have forty-eight adjacent states that we can protect and can protect each other. Peace with our enemies in Europe, peace with honor or we crush them. No quarter for the Japanese. The elimination of sales taxes. Establishment of a new cabinet position. Secretary of Women’s Affairs.”