HE DROVE BACK to the studio on Wilshire because he liked the boulevard’s adolescent palm trees and the sense he got, looking at the new stores, that the city was spreading like spilt milk outside the confines of its dense downtown. When he got to the studio, feeling guilty about his frequent absences, he relaxed when saw that little filming seemed to be going on. As he was waved through by Ernie, the usual traffic of grips, cameramen, extras and make-up artists was nowhere to be seen outside Studio One.
In the Ink Well Teitz was alone at his desk in the office he shared with Stuckey. He had taken off his tie and it sat on his desk like a motionless butterfly, blue spotted with white polka dots. With his shirt open at the neck, Teitz looked older. He was pouring Four Roses bourbon from a pint bottle into a coffee mug when Nessheim knocked on the open door. Teitz’s hand jerked and a slurp of whisky hit the desk. ‘Shit,’ he said without emotion, then added a steadier half-inch into his mug.
‘Starting early today?’ asked Nessheim mildly. It was only four o’clock.
Teitz stared at him. ‘What’s it to you?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ said Nessheim.
Teitz softened. ‘Sorry, Jim. Bad day.’
‘Something happen?’
‘The powers that be don’t seem to share my sense of self-worth,’ he said grimly. ‘My contract’s up at Thanksgiving. They’ve renewed me –’ he began, then paused.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘—until Christmas,’ said Teitz. He sang, cheerfully, in a decent imitation of Bing Crosby:
‘Come the New Year
I’ll be out on my ear.’
He stopped and said, ‘Pearl’s got great ambitions – hell, you must know that, Nessheim. He has this FBI movie in mind that’s supposed to carry the place into the big time.’
‘Can’t you work on this big picture?’
Teitz dropped his chin and looked at Nessheim dolefully over the tops of his glasses. ‘I think it’s a little late to recast me as a lead writer, Jim.’
‘Maybe, but they’re bound to need some rewrite men. They always do.’
‘The Count has never been a fan of my work.’
‘It may not be the Count directing. Let me put my ear to the ground and find out.’
‘Would you? That would be swell,’ said Teitz, without sounding hopeful at all.
‘There’s something you can help me with in the meantime. I’m still looking for that kid Osaka.’ Teitz looked at him without interest. ‘I’ve been round the houses, but no luck. I remembered you said he had an eye for the girls.’
‘Yeah?’ Teitz said cautiously.
‘Older women. I distinctly remember you saying that.’ He ignored Teitz’s shrug. ‘You made it sound like he’d had a couple of close calls. With husbands, I mean.’ He laughed, hoping it didn’t sound like a phoney guffaw.
Teitz perked up. ‘He never got caught red-handed, if that’s what you’re asking. If he had he wouldn’t be breathing today.’
‘I don’t know if he is breathing today.’
Teitz looked shocked as this sunk in. After a moment Nessheim said, ‘What I was wondering, if you don’t mind my asking, is how you knew this. I mean, were you friends with the guy?’ Teitz seemed about to protest when Nessheim raised his hand, ‘Don’t tell me. Everybody knew Billy. I understand that. But I didn’t realise you knew him well.’
‘I didn’t. Not well. But we used …’ He waved an arm towards the hall. ‘You know the Ink Well.’
‘What does Billy Osaka have to do with the Ink Well?’
Teitz looked at him. ‘But I’m sure I told you. He worked here.’
‘Here? At AMP?’
‘Yeah,’ said Teitz, a little flustered. ‘It was three or four years back. He was just a runner on the set – he’d fetch water and take messages. Nice guy. Everybody liked him. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’
‘Was he active on the older lady front while he was here?’
Teitz shrugged, but it was an evasive movement of his shoulders. ‘I’m not going further than that, Jim. Could be more than my job is worth.’ He gave a quick, grating laugh. ‘Not that my job’s worth two bits come Christmas.’
‘Your luck will change,’ said Nessheim, realising where he had to go next. ‘Where’s Lolly by the way?’
‘Studio Two as of yesterday, my friend.’ He looked accusingly at Nessheim. ‘I’d have thought you knew that too, pal. She’s got a role in the mice movie.’
He didn’t want to know. No doubt the Count was directing.
He said, ‘I forgot.’
* * *
On his way home he stopped at Latham’s, a grocery store on Hollywood Boulevard. After his trip to Santa Barbara he was short on supplies. He bought a small porterhouse steak from the meat counter, figuring he might try and barbecue at the weekend. A barbecue for one, he supposed, since he didn’t think Lolly was going to want to see his house after all. It didn’t bother him now; instead he kept thinking about Elizaveta, wondering if she would be in touch with him soon. She had been friendly but formal when he said goodbye on Sunday, maybe because her husband had been standing next to her, watching them with what seemed to Nessheim a careful eye.
He also picked out some fresh broccoli and leaf lettuce and a bag of mixed fruit (oranges and grapefruits and peaches), amazed as always by the produce you could buy in California year-round. At home there would be apples, more apples, and pears – if they’d kept that year. The only other fruit would be preserved – he thought of his mother’s tutti-frutti, summer fruits put in big glass jars with brandy, and pickled peaches in sugared vinegar with cloves and cinnamon sticks. For vegetables, there would be cabbages for sauerkraut, and maybe an acorn squash or too. And that was it. Yet something about this Californian cornucopia seemed awry, like Christmas in the southern hemisphere.
When he got home he put his groceries away and opened a bottle of beer. He was about to go out to the garage to find the barbecue when the phone rang.
‘Is that Agent Nessheim?’
‘None other,’ he said as the line crackled, then he tensed as he understood it must be a long-distance call.
‘It’s Marie in Assistant Director Guttman’s office.’
‘We’ve met, Marie.’ As you well know, he thought. ‘How is Harry?’
‘He’s still in a special ward, but they’re talking about moving him any day now. They let me see him today for the first time.’ She seemed to relax a little over the transcontinental line.
‘Is someone looking after Isabel?’
‘Oh yes. Miss Ryerson goes over and calls to let me know. His wife’s fine. Well not fine, if you know what I mean, but not any worse.’
He was glad someone was looking after Isabel, but discomfited that it was Annie, though he didn’t know why.
‘There was something else I needed to speak to you about, Mr Nessheim.’ She sounded nervous again.
‘Call me Jim,’ he said.
‘Okay, Jim. The thing is, when Mr Guttman had his … accident, he’d been typing up some notes. They were for you. He asked me today to make sure you got them.’
‘Why don’t you mail them to me?’
‘That’s the thing – he doesn’t want them to go by any normal route. He gave me strict instructions about that.’
‘Oh,’ he said, baffled.
‘He wants you to go see Agent Devereux next week.’
‘Devereux?’ A friend and fellow agent at the San Francisco Field Office. Nessheim hadn’t seen him since he’d come to LA. A good guy, straight as a die, but with a sense of adventure – and a love for a party that meant he wasn’t going to make SAC while Hoover was in charge. He’d got engaged last time Nessheim had seen him, but Nessheim hadn’t heard if he’d got married yet.
‘Mr G said, “Tell him to make any excuse he has to, but to make sure he goes and sees Devereux.” And Mr G said you were to take your other driver’s licence.’
‘Other driver’s licence?’
‘Yes. Those were his exact words. I hope that makes sense.’
‘It does, Marie,’ he said finally. Not again, he thought, since he knew all too well what this could involve.
In the Ink Well, Lolly’s replacement had left three messages on his desk, all scrawled at a left-hander’s curious angle, all telling him to call a Mrs Mooksigh. He dialled the number with a mix of apprehension and excitement. Down boy, he told himself.
‘Elizaveta, it’s Nessheim.’
‘You got my messages?’
‘Yes.’
He waited awkwardly, not sure what he was supposed to say or do. After the late-night swim in the pond he’d realised she was interested in him, but he couldn’t gauge how much was personal and how much he was meant to be her conduit to the US authorities, who might let her stay if her husband went back. Whatever their difficulties it was hard to see how Nessheim could insert himself as a third party to their domestic arrangements and still try to sort out Elizaveta’s status as … what? Another informant. A defector – that was the term, he thought.
She broke the silence. ‘It would be lovely to see you, Nessheim.’
‘Likewise.’
‘I have a lot to tell you. Have you mentioned our conversation with your superiors?’
‘Yes,’ said Nessheim. It was only a white lie, he told himself. He would have told Guttman if he’d been able to speak with him.
‘And what was their reaction?’
‘They want to know a bit more. You can understand their caution. Your country may soon be an ally in a war, and relations with the US are friendlier than they’ve ever been before. There’s even a rumour Roosevelt is going to extend Lend Lease to your country.’
‘So the last thing they want to hear is bad things about a new friend.’
‘I wasn’t saying that, but they need to know a little more about you.’
‘About me or about the information I’d bring?’
‘Both,’ he acknowledged.
‘I see. Is this what you Americans call B.S.?’
She was miffed, but he had nothing more tangible to offer. Not professionally at least. He said, ‘You know I’m not like that, Elizaveta.’
He could hear her exhale. ‘I know. It’s not why I was calling anyway.’
‘Oh,’ he said, wondering what could be more important to her.
‘I was hoping to see you. Privately, I mean. Not about business. The Willems are still away – but they do like those horses to get exercise.’
‘When?’ he asked, ignoring the mental red flag that was trying to catch his attention. I’m not a fool, he told it.
‘I was thinking next week. How would Thursday be? If you took a day or two of your vacation, we could stay through the weekend.’
‘Elizaveta, I’m sorry but I’m going to be away then.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Could be,’ he said elliptically, not that he knew himself. Damn, he thought. He could not think of anything much nicer than two nights alone with her at that beautiful ranch. Fleetingly he considered postponing his trip, but then dismissed the idea. He could get up north and back in a couple of days max. He was going to tell her this, but something restrained him. He had better see Guttman’s instructions before he promised to be anywhere else. With Guttman you never knew; Nessheim might find himself travelling to Washington or Chicago or even Alaska before he saw LA again.