Back at the pink and yellow Waldie compound at Grove Pictures, it seemed that Morrie Goldstrohm would never stop crying real tears and calling out the name “Emerson” over and over again. The place was packed, even at this late hour, with newsmen who had arrived at the studio for a chance to interview the man who was last to see Emerson Waldie alive.
As for the two FBI agents, they had disappeared hours before, and there was no evidence that they had ever been there. When Waldie’s secretary, Harriet, had asked Morrie if she should mention the visit of these two agents, Morrie had blown his top.
“Of course not,” he’d said loudly. “Isn’t it bad enough that we’ve had this great tragedy today? Do we want to drag in a whole other thing?”
Harriet had felt the sting of Morrie’s words, and realized it wouldn’t be wise mentioning the FBI. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her own termination at Grove. Not when, at last, that tyrant Waldie, that Hitler, was gone. Who could tell but maybe now she’d get a boss who was a human being. And she might get something else she’d been denied through the years: a raise.
“Okay, Mr. Goldstrohm. I get your point,” she said, “I won’t mention a thing.”
“Make sure you don’t,” Morrie said, dismissing her for the evening and considering dismissing her for good. The only rea- son he didn’t fire her was because he knew that she’d probably talk to the press for revenge.
Now, hours later, Morrie was relating to the news-hungry newsmen and women what a great man Emerson Waldie had been. He was telling them how the film industry owed Emerson Waldie an enormous debt of gratitude for so many years of selfless dedication.
“But isn’t it true that Mr. Waldie was a vicious dictator who was generally hated here at Grove Pictures as well in the rest of Hollywood?” one of the newspaper men asked.
“Mr. Waldie had to be firm at times,” Morrie said. “But he was always fair and always loving and it would hurt him when he had to fire or chastise someone. As the head of Grove, he was responsible for so many, many people. So many, many livelihoods. To answer your question regarding Mr. Waldie being a vicious dictator who was greatly hated here at Grove Pictures as well as the rest of Hollywood, the answer is no. He was a magnanimous leader who was highly respected.”
Emotionally unable to finish the sentence, Morrie fell back into a crying jag. “Emerson, oh, Emerson,” he wailed.
“I think that has to be enough of the questions for tonight,” a Grove Pictures spokesman informed the sea of reporters. “As you can see, Mr. Goldstrohm is greatly broken up, as are we all regarding the death of our beloved founder, mentor, and friend, Emerson Waldie.”
After the reporters started filing out of the compound, the spokesman asked Morrie if he would like to be driven home.
“No thanks, Jim,” Morrie answered, the crying having suddenly ceased, “I need some time alone. I’ll drive myself.”
It was after ten in the evening by the time he drove through the studio gates enroute home to Brentwood. But he wasn’t going home to Brentwood.
He was going to visit his brother-in-law, Bernie, in Encino. Bernie would be waiting for him, along with his cousin, Jake. And just to be on the safe side, he checked his rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure that he wasn’t being followed by anyone. He wasn’t.
Exacdy ninety-nine minutes later, he pulled up in front of a shabby 30s Spanish-style bungalow in a working-class neighborhood. Most of the residents of the area were employed in the numerous war plants that had sprung up in and around the Los Angeles area in the months since Pearl Harbor.
This was where Morrie’s sister, Marj, and his brother-in-law, Bernie, had been living for as long as he could remember. But they wouldn’t be living there much longer because as of the following Monday morning, Bernie would be heading up production at Grove Pictures. His tide would be executive vice president and he would have his offices in the execs building.
And then Marj and Bernie would be moving to Beverly Hills where they had the house already picked out. A mock Tudor mansion near Rodeo Drive.
Not bad for a man who was currendy employed as a stevedore on the San Pedro docks.
Morrie got out of his car and walked up the path to the front door and gave a short rap on what was mosdy badly peeling paint.
The man who greeted him before he had a chance to give a second rap was the short, squat FBI agent who had appeared at Waldie’s office that afternoon. Only he was no FBI agent. He was Morrie’s brother-in-law, Bernie.
Upon seeing each other, the two men fell into each other’s arms and started laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back. Standing nearby with a big grin on his face was Morrie’s cousin, Jake, who was drinking a beer in his undershirt. He joined in with the other two men and the three of them laughed loudly and slapped each other on the back for another couple of minutes.
Jake, who had appeared as the second FBI agent that afternoon was, in truth, a dogcatcher from Burbank. A soon-to-be ex-dogcatcher from Burbank.
In a few days, he would be joining Bernie in the exec building as VP/Head of Accounts.
“I can’t believe we pulled it off,” Jake said, laughing so hard that he had to hold onto Morrie’s shoulder for support.
“I can’t believe it, either,” Morrie said, flushed with the mood of celebration which this surely was.
“There I was,” Morrie said, “lying in that hospital bed for two months trying to figure a way to get control of the studio and then it came to me. Out of the blue. Just make up a story about spies at the studio. But for him to believe us and then to drop dead, my God! I thought he’d just agree to my taking over as studio head in order to save himself a ton of embarrassment. His plotzing was a bonus, a gift from heaven.”
“It worked out poifect,” Bernie said, removing his fake FBI identification from his wallet and lighting a match to it. “And it gave me a chance to show off my acting abilities. What did you think of me, Morrie, I was good, eh? Good enough for the lead in a movie?”
“You gave an academy award-winning performance. You both did,” Morrie said. “Every time I think about it I can’t stop laughing. All the time people thought I was crying over that momser tonight, I was laughing so hard tears were sprouting out of my eyes like fountains. It was priceless, unbelievable.”
With that, Morrie started laughing again, along with the two impostors.
“And to think,” he said, hardly able to catch his breath, “to think that anyone would actually believe that there could be such a thing in Hollywood as a spy ring, I mean, I tell you.”