Mrs. St. John smiled. She was so thoroughly the suburban Betty Crocker housewife—kids splashing in mud puddles and a tuna casserole browning in the oven—that she put Jacob on his guard as if she were J. Edgar Hoover.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak to this committee, Mr. Heppleman.”
He mumbled something polite in response; in thirty seconds the harsh lights of television burst pods of perspiration from all his pores. Ter Horst pressed his shoulder against his—a tiny nudge, invisible on camera.
“You served in Europe during the Second World War?”
“Yes, ma—Congresswoman.”
“‘Ma’am’ is fine. A veteran needn’t stand on ceremony.”
Already she’d sorted him out from Phil Scarpetti: ex-con, painter of naked women, and a pervert to boot.
To hell with that.
“Yes, Congresswoman. I served with the twenty-third infantry.”
“With distinction, I understand.”
“Congresswoman, everyone over there served with distinction.”
“Well put. What was your occupation before the war?”
“I spent six months loading steel coils onto trucks bound for factories in Detroit, Cleveland, and Gary, Indiana. When I left that job, I wrote for magazines.”
“Commonly called the pulps, is that correct? Publications produced on rough-cut paper and offered to the public at the price of ten cents apiece?”
“That is correct.”
“Did you write a story called ‘Chinese Checkers’?”
He felt a sudden impish impulse to take a page from Scarpetti’s book. “No, Congresswoman; I did not.”
Some confusion while the members of the committee buzzed among themselves, flapping open folders and sorting through closely typed pages.
Margery St. John peered through her glasses at a document before her. “We have a photocopy of the story as it appeared in a publication titled Double-Barreled Detective, with your byline.”
“It wasn’t a story. It was a novel, serialized in five issues of the magazine.”
“I fail to see the difference.”
“A story appears in one issue only, and in general pays a penny a word. A serialized novel involves a legal contract, and the author receives a flat rate. I don’t expect someone outside the industry to appreciate the difference, but I assure you it’s profound.”
Counselor Castor palmed St. John’s microphone and moved his lips almost against her ear.
“We’re not here to explore the inner workings of publishing, Mr. Heppleman. The purpose of these hearings is to determine the effect of stories of sordid crime upon impressionable youth, and whether they cross the line between license and licentiousness. You’re the author of a book titled The Fence, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Your main character, one Mike Moynihan, deals in illegal merchandise?”
“That’s what a fence does.”
“Is he based on a real person?”
He slid his eyes Ter Horst’s way. The attorney, concentrating on the panel, gave him nothing back.
He leaned into the microphone. “Partially.”
There might have been a murmur in the room; he wasn’t sure.
“What do you mean by ‘partially’?”
“Characters are usually an amalgamation of several real people and an invention of the writer’s.”
“Can you identify one of these real people?”
“A pawnbroker by the name of Linus Pickering.”
“How did you meet?”
“I tried to bargain with him over the price of a used typewriter. I asked if he’d consider my military service as an incentive. He said all we servicemen were spoiled and didn’t deserve any consideration just because we didn’t go to jail for dodging the draft.”
This time there was definitely a murmur, and a rustling as sitting positions changed.
“And what was your reaction?”
“I’m ashamed to say I took out my service pistol.”
Absolute silence.
“You threatened him?”
“I did not. I laid it on the counter and offered him ten dollars for the typewriter.”
“Mr. Heppleman, what you are describing is attempted armed robbery. The ten dollars is immaterial.”
Ter Horst covered Jacob’s microphone. “Don’t argue.”
“I never intended to take the machine at gunpoint. I said something like, ‘Just for that, ten, you son of a bitch.’ I was angry, not just for myself but for all the men who fought in the war, and I wanted him to know it.”
“What happened then?”
“He pulled a revolver on me and I left.”
St. John started to say something. Congressman Wellborn interrupted her. “Good God, Heppleman. You’re beginning to sound like one of your novels.”
“I’m sorry, Congressman. Is that a question?”
“No.” He sat back, crossing his arms.
St. John said, “Was that the end of the affair?”
There was a pitcher of water and a glass in front of Jacob. He poured the glass half full and drank. Then he set it down and leaned forward until his lips almost touched the microphone.
“No. Hours later, after I’d had too much to drink in a bar, I came back to the shop, smashed the window with a brick, grabbed the typewriter, and ran away.”
The room got noisy. A flashbulb popped; he felt the warmth on his cheek from several yards away. St. John worked her gavel until things quieted. She glared at Jacob with the stern expression of a disappointed parent.
Or maybe it was just disappointment.
“You were angry. You were drunk. Do you think that justifies your behavior?”
He said it did not, and that he regretted his actions for months. Then he told of his later meeting with Pickering and the agreement they made.
Her eyes flicked over the tops of her glasses, toward the door communicating to the waiting room. He knew now the pawnbroker would not be interviewed.
For the better part of a minute, Margery St. John paged through the sheets in a folder spread open before her. She drummed them together, removed her reading glasses, and looked at the witness.
“Mr. Heppleman, are you familiar with a man named Rodney Tharp?”
The name meant nothing at first. Seeing his blank expression, she looked down at the top sheet. “He taught an adult creative writing course in Public School 187 in New York City. You took the course in the fall of 1946.”
“I remember. I don’t think I knew his first name was Rodney.”
For some reason someone tittered.
“Do you remember the circumstances of your last meeting?”
He felt the blood slide from his face.
Ter Horst covered the microphone. “What?”
He shook his head. It was too late. The lawyer sat back, expressionless.
“He accused me of plagiarism and I slugged him.”
St. John gaveled down the spectators.
“Were you guilty of plagiarism?”
“No. The only theft I’ve ever been guilty of is that damn typewriter.”
Orville Stahl, the representative from Delaware, spoke for the first time. His salt-and-pepper beard encircled his face like an Amish farmer’s. “That’s your second profanity. I caution you to watch your language, sir. Children are watching at home.”
Jacob made no response. His eyes remained on St. John.
“You’ve established a history of violent behavior,” she said at last.
“Two incidents don’t make a pattern, Congresswoman. I’d just come back from a war. Adjusting to peacetime—”
“I’ve read some of your work, don’t forget.” She emphasized the last two words. “My aides have read all of it, and chronicled each violent act that takes place. In The Fence alone there are—”
“Excuse me for interrupting; I don’t mean to be rude. But isn’t your committee’s area of interest pornography?”
“In entertainment, yes.”
“I don’t see what violence has to do with sex.”
A chuckling issued from the gallery.
St. John glared. “Are you ridiculing the purpose of this hearing?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to find out what it is.”
“I could go deeper into the report before me and enumerate the acts of a prurient nature that occur in your work; but that would take time, and we have many other people to talk to. Instead, I’ll remind you that our interest is also in juvenile delinquency. You are a father, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Would you allow your daughter to read your books?”
“Not until she’s of age.”
“And what age would that be?”
“Thirty.”
She banged down the roar of laughter hard. “One more attempt at levity and this committee will find you in contempt.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny. I think it’s a parent’s responsibility to shield his children from material meant for adults. I wouldn’t let Millie read William Faulkner at her age. I’m answering your questions, Congresswoman.”
“How well do you know Philip Scarpetti?”
He looked at Ter Horst, who again gave him nothing.
“I’ve known him for approximately five years. He used to paint covers for Blue Devil Books.”
“I’m aware of that. He’s sat where you’re sitting, and is serving a sentence for contempt. Do you see each other socially?”
“Not lately.”
“And what did you do when you met?”
“We talked.”
“Is that all you do?”
“Sometimes we drank alcohol.”
Ter Horst covered the microphone. “She’s about to ask if you smoke marijuana. Plead the Fifth.”
But she did not.
“Mr. Heppleman, have you and Philip Scarpetti ever engaged in unnatural sexual relations?”