A Few Minutes Past Midnight Page 4

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “Offers open till tomorrow,” Violet said, sharpening a pencil.

  I left. The sixth-floor landing was empty. The sounds from the offices had hit a lull. The elevator was all the way on one. I could walk down before it inched its way up to six. I listened to my footsteps as I went down the stairs.

  I had my list of stops to make after I picked up the Crosley from No-Neck Arnie. When I got to the garage, Arnie was standing over the open hood of a Nash, tapping a big wrench in his hand and pondering the fate of the vehicle. If I owned that Nash, I wouldn’t have been happy with Arnie’s look.

  “Am I ready?” I asked.

  “Depends,” said Arnie, pulled from his reverie. “You talkin’ about the bill? That’s ready. You talking about will it run? It’s ready. You talkin’ about the future? That depends.”

  “On what?” I asked.

  “How long I can keep the Crosley going with wire, oil, trial and error, and luck.”

  “I’m reassured,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” he said looking back at the yawning Nash as he moved toward me. “Sixteen dollars and four cents. Parts and labor.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “The water wasn’t freezing into ice cubes,” he said deadpan.

  “That’s a Crosley joke,” I confirmed.

  He nodded and smiled. There were lots of Crosley jokes.

  “Valves,” he said. “I was right.”

  I pulled a pair of tens from my wallet and handed them to Arnie, who pocketed his wrench and made change from bills and coins in another pocket.

  “How’s your son? Hear from him?” I asked, heading for my car where it was parked in a dark corner.

  “Got a letter. Says he’s fine. Motor pool. Don’t know where. Fifth Army.”

  “I remember.”

  “It’ll be over soon,” Arnie said. “Then he’s coming back here to work with me again. Jeeps are the future, Peters. Mark my word here. Danny knows Jeeps. Army’s gonna sell thousands of ’em when the war’s over. We’ll put up a big sign, ‘We specialize in Jeeps.’”

  “I know a guy who can make the sign,” I said. “His name’s Fahid Sullivan.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” he said. “I’ve got artistic talent.”

  “Valves,” I said, heading for the Crosley.

  “Valves,” Arnie said. “Oh yeah, I figured out what was wrong with your passenger door. Got a hinge from a Studebaker. It fit. No charge.”

  “Thanks, Arnie,” I said.

  “Now, I got a sick Nash,” he said, and turned back to his patient.

  CHAPTER

  3

  THE OFFICE OF the Eugene O’Neill Society of Southern California was on Spring Street, a short ride from No-Neck Arnie’s. I could have saved rubber and gasoline by calling, but sometimes the best way to get information is to catch someone off guard. Catching Iona Struberki off guard proved unnecessary.

  The office was in a one-story strip of six offices, all with doors facing a cracking concrete parking lot. There were five other cars in the lot which provided space for visitors to Hollywood Title and Loan; William Kaar, Attorney at Law; Loyal Friends of Armenia; Arthur Lewis, pet doctor specializing in exotic birds; Jean & Webster Mullicov, profession unlisted; and United Associations of the Arts.

  I stepped through the door of United Associations of the Arts and found myself in a small, cluttered office with a small, cluttered desk facing a white-haired woman with a cup of something steaming in one hand and a large cookie in the other.

  She smiled up at me as I entered, her right cheek packed chipmunk style. She had clear skin, dark eyes, and a thin nose.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, putting down her tea or coffee.

  “I hope so,” I said. “Miss …”

  “Iona Struberki,” she answered. “Would you like a chocolate-chip cookie?”

  She held out a plate. The cookies were large. I took one, looking for someplace to sit. The chair on my side of the desk was piled high with magazines. I stood.

  “This is the office of the Eugene O’Neill Society of Southern California?” I asked, taking a bite of the cookie. It was damn good, so I added, “These are great cookies.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “My sister and I made them.”

  She pointed at the wall to her right. I looked at a line of photographs.

  “Third from the right on top,” she said. “The one with glasses. That’s Mr. O’Neill.”

  O’Neill, his hair gray, his lips straight, his eyes unfocused looked out at nothing in particular.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And next to and surrounding him are Lloyd C. Douglas, Louis Bromfield, John Steinbeck, Pearl Buck, John Dos Passos, and … but you are interested in our O’Neill Society, Mr….”

  “Peters,” I said, finishing my cookie. She held out the plate. I took another one. “You have societies for all these people?”

  “And many more,” Iona Struberki said proudly.

  I could smell the coffee now as she took a sip.

  “You wish to join? Our Eugene O’Neill Society has a five-dollar-per-year membership fee for which you get two newsletters and the right to attend our monthly meetings of readings from Mr. O’Neill’s works. Which is your favorite O’Neill play? Mine is Desire Under the Elms. Yours is …?”

  “Strange Interlude,” I said, remembering a scene in a Marx Brothers movie that made fun of the play. I had slept through the Clark Gable movie version of the O’Neill play.

  “Esoteric,” she said with delight.

  “Whenever possible,” I said. “How many members are there?”

  “In O’Neill? Eighty-six,” she said. “I must tell you we are not affiliated with any other of Mr. O’Neill’s appreciation groups though we are in contact with many. Not, however, with the so-called Eugene O’Neill Club of the West in San Francisco. You understand?”

  “Perfectly. You have a member named Fiona Sullivan?” I asked.

  She pursed her lips, put down her cup, and considered the question before raising a finger.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She opened a desk drawer, pulled out a ledger book of which the green cloth cover was badly faded, and began thumbing through for her page of O’Neill members.

  “No,” she said. “Three Sullivans. No Fiona, however. May I ask why you are looking for a Fiona Sullivan and why you expected to find her among our members?”

  “Mutual friend, loves O’Neill. Friend and I were talking about Charlie Chaplin and O’Neill’s daughter. He mentioned that a Fiona Sullivan was particularly bothered by the marriage.”

  “Not the only one,” Iona said with a sigh. “We were supposed to talk about Desire Under the Elms last Tuesday, but we couldn’t get past Oona. Very disappointing.”

  “Sorry I missed that,” I said. “Anyone particularly upset, angry with Chaplin?”

  This was the time for her to ask who I was and what I wanted, but Iona was caught up in the subject.

  “Upset? Almost ended the Society,” she said sadly. “I shouldn’t be telling a perspective member, but of the fourteen members in attendance, seven staunchly supported the union, seven were appalled.”

  “Anyone in particular upset?”

  “Mr. Kermody,” she said, squinting in thought.

  “Lean man around forty?” I asked.

  “Fat man around seventy,” she said. “But full of spunk.”

  “No lean man around forty?” I pursued.

  “You mean upset about the marriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Six women including me sided with Mr. Kermody. Most of our members are older appreciaters of the arts. Most of our members are women. Would you like to join?”

  “I want to think about it, talk it over with my friend,” I said.

  “We’ll include free membership in the Friends of Thomas Mann Society,” she said. “This month we’re discussing the Joseph novels
. Wednesday next. There is a good chance Archibald MacLeish will be in town and will attend.”

  “Tempting,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Meanwhile,” she said, holding the plate of cookies out yet again, “might you consider a small donation to our humble efforts for the arts?”

  I fished a five from my pocket and handed it to her. She smiled.

  “Who’s your favorite?” I asked.

  She looked at the photographs on the wall, took some magazines and a book from a pile on her desk, and held up a copy of Random Harvest.

  “James Hilton is my passion. Good-bye, Mr. Chips is my favorite and next to my bed at home is The Story of Dr. Wassell, which I’ve just begun. In some ways, I’m a shameless romantic Philistine.”

  “So am I,” I said.

  “The war has done that,” she said seriously.

  I wasn’t sure how, but I nodded and left.

  The office of the Supporters of the House Un-American Activities Committee was in an office building on First Street not far from Times-Mirror Square. I found a space on the street, almost bumped into a pair of uniformed young Marines looking at a city map, and entered the building. It was neat, clean, and bright with a list of offices behind a sheet of well-polished glass.

  The office I was looking for was right on the first floor. Inside the door were four small desks with people, three women and one man, on the phones in front of them. The man was looking at the same nothing as Eugene O’Neill in the photograph, only this man had nothing to see. His eyes were clouded. He was blind. I tried to walk past him to one of the women, but he put down his phone and turned his head in my direction.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  I stopped.

  “I’m looking … trying to find someone,” I said.

  “‘Looking’ is fine,” he said with a small smile. He was young, dressed in a suit and tie. There was a thick white scar from his hairline to his right eyebrow. “I’m not sensitive.”

  “Looking for information on Charlie Chaplin,” I said, knowing the eyes of the three women on the phones were on me.

  “We have some flyers, a short brochure,” he said, reaching into a drawer. “I think these are the ones.”

  He handed them to me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “He’s a Communist,” the blind man said firmly. “He hides behind evasive words, but he is a Red who doesn’t hesitate to advocate that American soldiers die for the Russians while he plays golf and grows rich.”

  “Tennis,” I said. “He plays tennis.”

  The blind man nodded and held out his hand.

  “Lucas Rolle,” he said.

  “Albert Douglas,” I lied as we shook.

  “As you’ve no doubt noticed, I’m blind,” he said.

  “I see.”

  “I don’t,” he answered bitterly. “Early in the war, forty-one. Navy. Hawaii. I was on a ship, gunners mate. Last thing I saw was the Pacific Ocean going on forever.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “I can’t see Chaplin movies,” he said. “And Chaplin doesn’t want to see me.”

  “You hate him,” I said.

  “I’m an American,” he replied. “And you?”

  “I’m an American,” I said.

  “You want to join our movement?” he asked.

  One of the women, short, heavy with large round glasses, had risen from behind her desk and approached us. She could see what Lucas Rolle couldn’t hear, that a man was standing in front of him who looked as if he had survived a long series of muggings.

  “Need some help here, Luke?” she asked.

  “Mr. Douglas is interested in joining us,” he said.

  She looked at me with suspicion.

  “Good,” she said.

  “He’s particularly interested in the Charlie Chaplin situation,” the blind man said.

  The woman’s look of suspicion had turned to distrust.

  “You don’t like Chaplin?” she asked, staying a safe three feet from me.

  “His movies,” I said. “His views.” Here I shrugged noncommittally. “I want to know more.”

  “We want him deported,” Lucas said.

  “We want him tried in court,” the woman said.

  “And some people probably want him dead,” I added.

  “If that is your view, I suggest this is not the organization for you, Mr …?” she said.

  “Douglas,” I supplied.

  “We’re not in the business of creating martyrs,” said Lucas Rolle. “We just want him to go away, to be quiet and go away.”

  “But there are some …” I persisted.

  “If you are looking for a violent path,” said the woman, “you’ve taken the wrong first step in coming here.”

  “Fiona Sullivan sent me,” I said.

  “Who is Fiona Sullivan?” the woman said.

  “She said she was one of your supporters,” I said.

  “No,” said Lucas Rolle. “I don’t think so.”

  “We don’t disclose the names or the number of our members but it exceeds two thousand,” the woman said. “Luke knows every name. If he says she is not one of us, she isn’t.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said trying to sound puzzled. “She and this man, thin, about forty, were talking to me at a bar and they sounded ready to lynch Chaplin.”

  “Then they should be found and stopped,” Lucas said. “And if you share their feelings …”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I share their indignation but that’s it. Is there some group where I might find them?”

  Lucas Rolle shook his head sadly. The woman looked at him.

  “There are a few but they are hard to find and quite small,” the woman said. “And frankly, Mr. Douglas, we would not help you find them even if we could. We are opposed to violence. I lost my husband at Pearl Harbor. I don’t want other women to lose their husbands helping Russian Communists. You should also know that I also intend to report this visit to the authorities.”

  A door opened behind Lucas Rolle and a burly man with a mop of white hair stepped out of an office and stood facing me. He had a folder in his hand. I recognized his face, but couldn’t remember his name. He was a U.S. congressman who stood out in a crowd in photographs, a member of the House Un-American Activities Committee. Our eyes met. I turned to leave.

  “Peters,” he called.

  I stopped and turned around. He strode toward me, his hand extended.

  “Congressman,” I said with a smile, putting my hand into his pulpy grip, trying to remember his name.

  “He said his name is Douglas,” the woman said.

  “Working on something?” the congressman said softly as the chatter went on around him.

  “I’m not at liberty to talk about it,” I said even more softly.

  The congressman put a hand on my arm and nodded knowingly.

  “The Rutledge business,” he said.

  “Maybe,” I said, not knowing what he was talking about.

  “Our Supreme Court Justice Wiley Rutledge bears watching,” he said. “What was it he said a few months ago? ‘Democracy is a perpetual compromise.’ Peters, we can’t compromise where our very existence, the existence of democracy, is at stake. I have an idea. We need more investigators for the Committee. Someone with your knowledge of the film industry could be very valuable.”

  “Let me get back to you on that,” I said.

  He nodded and escorted me toward the door. When I was gone, Lucas and the dumpy lady would tell him about my interest in Chaplin. A visit from the F.B.I. might be next.

  “You don’t remember, do you?” he asked, opening the outer door for me. “Jeremy Butler’s, two years ago. A poetry reading in his apartment. I was there with … well, never mind.”

  “You have quite a memory, Congressman,” I said.

  “And you have a face that’s easy to remember,” he said with a smile. “I have to run. If I can help …�
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  “I’ve got it under control,” I said.

  “You don’t happen to recall the poem I read that night at Mr. Butler’s,” the congressman said, looking back at Lucas Rolle who was on the telephone again.

  “No,” I said.

  “No reason you should,” he said. “It was Song of the Silent by James Boyd. It ended, ‘The crippled boys come back to mule and star. If they shall miss the brotherhood they wanted, our leaders may learn who they are.’ Our boys will be heard and our enemies exposed.”

  He patted my arm and went back through the door, closing it behind him. I was alone in the hall.

  I’d made two stops. I had gotten nowhere. I hadn’t really expected to make any discovery that would help. My job was to touch all the bases I could find and hope one was right.

  I stopped at Mack’s on Melrose. Anita was there waiting on a man drinking coffee, looking at a magazine, and worrying the edges of what looked like a toasted cheese sandwich with little nibbles. The man was skinny. A cabby’s cap was tilted back on his head.

  “Tobias,” Anita said, with a grin that didn’t hide the fact that she was nearing the end of a seven-hour shift.

  I sat at the counter on a red-leather—covered swivel stool and faced her. Anita cleaned up and made up really good, but at work she kept herself clear-faced, efficient, and pleasantly out-of-reach for some of her male regulars.

  “Anita,” I said. “What do you think of Charlie Chaplin?”

  “Funny, sad, says and does dumb things. I really don’t think about him much. I’m more the Bob Hope type.”

  The cabby with the toasted cheese sandwich turned to us and said, “Chaplin’s a jerk.”

  I looked at him. His eyes were on his magazine. He wasn’t looking for conversation. He was imparting his version of simple truth.

  “I guess that settles it,” I said to Anita.

  She reached under the counter and came up with a brown paper sack bulging with potatoes. I placed it on the stool next to me.