“Sounds pretty nuts.”
“So did Hitler, at the beginning. That’s why we investigated the Wannsee Two thing as thoroughly as we’ve ever investigated anything. But we never came up with anything to support it.”
I said, “There was something else in the margin. Crevolin. And a phone number. I called it and got the office of someone named Terry Crevolin, at one of the TV networks.”
“I know Terry!” she said. “He works in development- screening scripts. He worked with us last year on our war-criminal special-The Hidden. We won an Emmy.”
“I remember. Did Ike know him?”
“Not as far as I know, but I’m starting to see there were lots of things I didn’t know about Ike.”
“Could they have met at the Center?”
“No. Terry was just here a couple of times, for meetings. And that was last year, months before Ike showed up. Though I suppose there could have been a chance meeting if Terry dropped in without my knowing it. What exactly did Ike write in that book?”
“Wannsee Two?-the two in roman numerals- followed by the word Possible? Then Crevolin again? Maybe. And Crevolin’s number. It could mean he tried to talk to Crevolin once- about Wannsee Two- hadn’t been able to reach him, and was thinking of trying it again. Any idea why?”
“The only thing that comes to mind is that Terry used to be involved with the New Left- even wrote a book about it. I recall his mentioning that. He seemed kind of embarrassed and proud at the same time. I guess Ike could have seen him as a source, though how Ike would know that, I have no idea.”
“A source on the New Left?”
“Maybe. Certainly not on the Holocaust. Terry wasn’t especially knowledgeable about that until we educated him. You’ve really got my curiosity piqued. If you find out anything useful, please let me know.”
I called the network again and got patched through to Crevolin’s office. He was still out. This time I left my name and said it was about Ike Novato. Then I phoned Milo at the West L.A. station, planning to play Show and Tell. He wasn’t in either. I called his home number, got Rick’s recorded voice on a machine, and recited what I’d learned about Wannsee II. Saying it out loud made me realize it wasn’t much: a dead boy’s exploration of an urban myth.
I searched through the rest of Ike’s books, found no more marginal notes or Wannsee references, and repacked them. It was close to six by the third time I called the network. This time no one answered.
Crevolin again?
Instead of implying Ike had been unsuccessful in reaching the network man, it might mean they’d talked and Crevolin hadn’t given him what he wanted.
But why had Ike believed Crevolin would he helpful?
A New Left veteran. And author.
Perhaps Ike had gotten hold of Crevolin’s book and found something interesting.
I looked at my watch. An hour until I was supposed to pick up Linda.
I called a bookstore in Westwood Village. The clerk checked Books in Print and told me no book by anyone named Crevolin was current and the store had no record of ever having stocked it.
“Any idea where I might get hold of it?”
“What’s it about?”
“The New Left, the sixties.”
“Vagabond Books has a big sixties section.”
I knew Vagabond- Westwood Boulevard just above Olympic. Right on the way to Linda’s. A warm, cluttered place with the dusty, easy-browsing feel of a campus-area bookstore, the kind of place L.A. campuses rarely have. I’d bought a few Chandler and MacDonald and Leonard first editions there, some art and psych and poetry books. I looked up the number, called, waited ten rings and was about to hang up when a man answered:
“Vagabond.”
I told him what I was looking for.
“Yup, we have it.”
“Great. I’ll come by right now and pick it up.”
“Sorry, we’re closed.”
“What time do you open tomorrow?”
“Eleven.”
“Okay. See you at eleven.”
“It’s pretty important to you?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You a writer?”
“Researcher.”
“Tell you what: come around through the back, I’ll give it to you for ten bucks.”
I thanked him, did a quick change, and left, picking up Westwood Boulevard at Wilshire and taking it south. I reached the back entrance to the bookstore by 6:25. The door was bolted. After a couple of hard raps, I heard the bolt slide back. A tall lean man in his thirties, with a boyishly handsome face framed by long wavy hair parted in the middle, stood holding a grimy-looking paperback book in one hand. The book’s cover was gray and unmarked. The man wore sneakers and cords and a Harvard sweat shirt. A tenor sax hung from a string around his neck.
He gave a warm smile and said, “I looked for a cleaner one, but this was all we had.”
I said, “No problem. I appreciate your doing this.”
He handed me the book. “Happy research.”
I held out a ten.
“Make it five,” he said, reaching into his pocket and giving me change. “I recognize you now. You’re a good customer, and it’s a ratty copy. Besides, it’s not exactly one of our fast-movers.”
“Bad writing?”
He laughed and fingered some buttons on the sax. “That doesn’t start to describe it. It’s self-published dreck. Downright turgid would be flattery. Also, the guy sold out.”
I opened the book. The title was Lies, by T. Crevolin. I turned a page, looked at the name of the publisher. “Rev Press?”
“As in o-lution. Pretty clever, huh?”
He raised the sax to his lips, expelled a few blue notes and bent them.
I thanked him again.
He continued to play, blowing harder, raised his eyebrows, and closed the door.
I tossed the book into the trunk of the Seville and drove to Linda’s.
We went to a place in the Los Feliz district that I’d gotten to know during my days at Western Pediatric. Small, Italian, deli case in front, tables in back. Ripe with Romano cheese and garlic sausage, olive loaf and prosciutto, a beautiful brine smell wafting up from open vats of olives.
I ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico that cost more than our dinners combined. Each of us finished a glass before the food came.
I asked how the children were handling Massengil’s murder.
She said, “Pretty well, actually. Most of them didn’t seem to have that clear a picture of who he was. It seems like a pretty remote experience for them. I dealt with the cause and effect thing. Thanks for getting me on the right track.”
She filled my glass, then hers. “Catch the six o’clock news?”
“No.”
“You were right about Massengil- they’re turning him into a saint. And Latch’s best friend.”
“Latch?”
“Oh, yeah, center stage. Delivering a eulogy in Council chambers. Going on about how he and Sam had enjoyed their differences but through it all there’d been a mutual respect, an appreciation for the process of give-and-take, whatever. Then condolences to the widow, a formal proposal to make it a day of official mourning for the beloved leader. The whole thing sounded like a campaign speech.”
“Beloved leader,” I said.
“Everyone loves him now. Even the guy Massengil punched out- DiMarco- had nice things to say.”