Eisler got up, walked on rubber legs to his desk and unlocked a lower drawer. He poked through it, pulled out a leather-bound diary, brought it back and laid it on the table. “Ask your few questions and leave.”
Dudley moved a flat palm slowly down: Go easy. Mal said, “We have a second interview this afternoon, and I think you can help us with it.”
Eisler stammered, “Wh-what, wh-who?”
Dudley, in a whisper. “Leonard Hyman Rolff.”
Their interrogee rasped the single word, “No.” Dudley looked at Mal; Mal placed his left hand over his right fist: no hitting. Dudley said, “Yes, and we will brook no argument, no discussion. I want you to think of something shameful and incriminating indigenous to your old friend Lenny, something that other people know, so that we can put the blame of informing on them. You will inform, so I advise you to think of something effective, something that will loosen Mr. Rolff’s tongue and spare you a return visit from myself—without my colleague who serves so well to restrain me.”
Nathan Eisler had gone slab white. He sat stock-still, looking way past tears or shock or indignation. Mal thought that he seemed familiar; a few seconds of staring gave him his connection: the Buchenwald Jews who’d beat the gas chamber only to sink to an early grave via viral anemia. The memory made him get up and prowl the bookshelves; the dead silence kept going. He was scanning a shelf devoted to Marxist economics when Dudley’s whisper came back. “The repercussions, comrade. Refugee camps for your half-breed whelps. Mr. Rolff will receive his chance for friendly witness status, so if he’s an obstreperous sort, you’ll be doing him a favor by supplying us with information to convince him to inform. Think of Michiko forced to keep body and soul together back in Japan, all the tempting offers she’ll receive.”
Mal tried to look back, but couldn’t make himself; he fixed on Das Kapital—A Concordance, Marx’s Theories of Commerce and Repression and The Proletariat Speak out. Quiet sank in behind him; heavy fingers tapped the table. Then Nathan Eisler’s monotone: “Young girls. Prostitutes. Lenny is afraid his wife will find out he frequents them.”
Dudley sighed. “Not good enough. Try harder.”
“He keeps pornographic pictures of the ones—”
“Too bland, comrade.”
“He cheats on his income tax.”
Dudley ha! ha! ha!’d. “So do I, so does my friend Malcolm and so would our grand savior Jesus Christ should he return and settle in America. You know more than you are telling us, so please rectify that situation before I lose my temper and revoke your friendly witness status.”
Mal heard the kids giggling outside, the little girl squealing in Japanese. He said, “Goddamn you, talk.”
Eisler coughed, took an audible breath, coughed again. “Lenny will not inform as easily as I. He has not so much to lose.”
Mal turned, saw a death’s head and turned away; Dudley cracked his knuckles. Eisler said, “I will always try to think I did this for Lenny and I will always know I am lying.” His next deep breath wheezed; he let it out fast, straight into his snitch. “I was traveling with Lenny and his wife Judith in Europe in ’48. Paul Doinelle was making his masked series with Reynolds Loftis and hosted a party to seek financial backing for his next film. He wanted to solicit Lenny and brought a young prostitute for him to enjoy. Judith did not attend the party, and Lenny caught gonorrhea from the prostitute. Judith became ill and returned to America, and Lenny had an affair with her younger sister Sarah in Paris. He gave her the gonorrhea. Sarah told Judith she had the disease, but not that Lenny gave it to her. Lenny would not make love to Judith for many weeks after he returned to America and took a cure, employing various excuses. He has always been afraid Judith would logically connect the two events and realize what had occurred. Lenny confided in me and Reynolds and our friend David Yorkin, who I am sure you know from your wonderful list of front organizations. Since you are so concerned with Reynolds, perhaps you could make him the informant.”
Dudley said, “God bless you, comrade.”
Mal grabbed Eisler’s journal, hoping for enough treason to make two silver bars and his boy worth the price. “Let’s go nail Lenny.”
* * *
They found him alone, typing at a card table in his back yard, clack-clack-clack leading them around the side of the house to a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt and chinos pecking on an ancient Underwood. Mal saw him look up and knew from his eyes that this guy was no pushover.
Dudley badged him. “Mr. Leonard Rolff?”
The man put on glasses and examined the shield. “Yes. You’re policemen?”
Mal said, “We’re with the District Attorney’s Office.”
“But you’re policemen?”
“We’re DA’s Bureau Investigators.”
“Yes, you are policemen as opposed to lawyers. And your names and ranks?”
Mal thought of their newspaper ink—and knew he had no recourse. “I’m Lieutenant Considine, this is Lieutenant Smith.”
Rolff grinned. “Recently portrayed as regretting the demise of the would-be City grand jury, which I now take it is a going concern once again. The answer is no, gentlemen.”
Mal played dumb. “No what, Mr. Rolff?”
Rolff looked at Dudley, like he knew he was the one he had to impress. “No, I will not inform on members of the UAES. No, I will not answer questions pertaining to my political past or the pasts of friends and acquaintances. If subpoenaed, I will be a hostile witness and stand on the Fifth Amendment, and I am prepared to go to prison for contempt of court. You cannot make me name names.”
Dudley smiled at Rolff. “I respect men of principle, however deluded. Gentlemen, would you excuse me a moment? I left something in the car.”
The smile was a chiller. Dudley walked out; Mal ran interference. “You may not believe this, but we’re actually on the side of the legitimate, non-Communist American left.”
Rolff pointed to the sheet of paper in his typewriter. “Should you fail as a policeman you have a second career as a comedian. Just like me. The fascists took away my career as a screenwriter; now I write historical romance novels under the nom de plume Erica St. Jane. And my publisher knows my politics and doesn’t care. So does the employer of my wife, who has full tenure at Cal State. You cannot hurt either of us.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
Mal watched Lenny Rolff resume work on page 399 of Wake of the Lost Doubloons. Typewriter clack filled the air; he looked at the writer’s modest stone house and mused that at least he saved more of his money than Eisler and had the brains not to marry a Jap. More clack-clack-clack; Page 399 became pages 400 and 401—Rolff really churned it out. Then Dudley’s brogue, the most theatrical he had ever heard it. “Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was never, because I am Jewish. I will currently rectify that situation, Monsignors Smith and Considine my confessors.”
Mal turned and saw Dudley holding a stack of photographs; Rolff finished typing a paragraph and looked up. Dudley pushed a snapshot in his face; Rolff said, “No,” calmly. Mal walked around the table and scoped the picture close up.
It was fuzzy black and white, a teenage girl naked with her legs spread. Dudley read from the flip side. “To Lenny. You were the best. Love from Maggie at Minnie Robert’s Casbah, January 19, 1946.”
Mal held his breath; Rolff stood, gave Dudley an eye-to-eye deadpan and a steady voice. “No. My wife and I have forgiven each other our minor indiscretions. Do you think I would leave the pictures in my desk otherwise? No. Thief. Fascist parasite. Irish pig.”
Dudley tossed the photos on the grass; Mal shot him the no hitting sign; Rolff cleared his throat and spat in Dudley’s face. Mal gasped; Dudley smiled, grabbed a manuscript sheet and wiped the spittle off. “Yes, because fair Judith does not know about fair Sarah and the clap you gave her, and I just played a hunch on where you took your cure. Terry Lux keeps meticulous records, and he has promised to cooperate with me should you decide not to.”
; Rolff, still voice steady. “Who told you?”
Dudley, making motions: verbatim transcription. “Reynolds Loftis, under much less duress than you were just subjected to.”
Mal thought through the gamble: if Rolff approached Loftis, all their covert questionings were compromised; the UAES might put the kibosh on new members—terrified of infiltration, blowing Danny Upshaw’s approach. He got out pen and pad, grabbed a chair and sat down; Dudley called his own bluff. “Yes or no, Mr. Rolff. Give me your answer.”
Veins pulsed all over Leonard Rolff’s face. He said, “Yes.”
Dudley said, “Grand”; Mal wrote L. Rolff, 1/8/50 at the top of a clean sheet. Their interrogee squared his glasses. “Open court testimony?”
Mal took the cue. “Most likely deposition. We’ll start with—”
Dudley, his voice raised for the first time. “Let me have this witness, counselor. Would you mind?”
Mal shook his head and turned his chair around, steno pad braced on the top slat. Dudley said, “You know why we’re here, so let’s get to it. Communist influence in the motion picture business. Names, dates, places and seditious words spoken. Since I’m sure he’s much on your mind, we’ll start with Reynolds Loftis. Have you ever heard him advocate the armed overthrow of the United States government?”
“No, but—”
“Feel free to volunteer information, unless I state otherwise. Have you some grand tidbits on Loftis?”
Rolff’s tone seethed. “He tailored his policeman roles to make the police look bad. He said he was doing his part to undermine the American system of jurisprudence.” A pause, then, “If I testify in court, will he get the chance to tell about Sarah and me?”
Mal answered, half truth/half lies. “It’s very unlikely he’ll stand as a witness, and if he tries to volunteer that information the judge won’t let him get two seconds in. You’re covered.”
“But outside of court—”
Dudley said, “Outside of court you’re on your own, and you’ll have to rely on the fact that repeating the story makes Loftis appear loathsome.”
Rolff said, “If Loftis told you that, then he must have been cooperative in general. Why do you need information to use against him?”
Dudley, not missing a trick. “Loftis informed on you months ago, when we thought our investigation was going to be centered outside the UAES. Frankly, what with the recent labor troubles, the UAES presents a much nicer target. And frankly, you and the others were too ineffectual to bother with.”
Mal looked over and saw that Rolff bought it: his squared shoulders had relaxed and his hands had quit clenching. His follow-up question was dead on target: “How do I know you won’t do the same thing with me?”
Mal said, “This grand jury is officially on, and you’ll be given immunity from prosecution, something we never offered Loftis. What Lieutenant Smith said about the labor trouble is true. It’s now or never, and we’re here to make hay now.”
Rolff stared at him. “You acknowledge your opportunism so openly that it gives you an awful credibility.”
Dudley ha’ ha’d. “There is one difference between our factions—we’re right, you’re wrong. Now, concerning Reynolds Loftis. He deliberately portrayed American policemen as misanthropic, correct?”
Mal went back to transcribing; Rolff said, “Yes.”
“Can you recall when he said that?”
“At a party somewhere, I think.”
“Oh? A party for the Party?”
“No. No, I think it was a party back during the war, a summertime party.”
“Were any of these people also present and making seditious comments: Claire De Haven, Chaz Minear, Mort Ziffkin, Sammy Benavides, Juan Duarte and Mondo Lopez?”
“I think Claire and Mort were there, but Sammy and Juan and Mondo were busy with SLDC around that time, so they weren’t.”
Mal said, “So this was summer of ’43, around the time the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee was going strongest?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
Dudley said, “Think, comrade. Minear was Loftis’ bedmate. Was he there and acting vociferous?”
Mal caught up on his note-taking, shorthanding Dudley’s flair down to simple questions; Rolff ended a long pause. “What I remember about that party is that it was my last social contact with the people you mentioned until I became friendly with Reynolds again in Europe a few years ago. I recall that Chaz and Reynolds had been spatting and that Reynolds did not bring him to that party. After the party I saw Reynolds out by his car talking to a young man with a bandaged face. I also recall that my circle of political friends had become involved in the Sleepy Lagoon defense and were angry when I took a job in New York that precluded my joining them.”
Dudley said, “Let’s talk about Sleepy Lagoon.” Mal thought of his memo to Loew: nothing on the case should hit the grand jury—it was political poison that made the Pinkos look good. Rolff said, “I thought you wanted me to talk about Reynolds.”
“Digress a little. Sleepy Lagoon. Quite an event, wasn’t it?”
“The boys your police department arrested were innocent. Concerned apolitical citizens joined the Southern California left and secured their release. That made it quite an event, yes.”
“That’s your interpretation, comrade. Mine differs, but that’s what makes for horse races.”
Rolff sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“Give me your recollections of the time.”
“I was in Europe for the trial and appeals and release of the boys. I remember the actual murder from the previous summer—’42, I think. I remember the police investigation and the arrest of the boys and Claire De Haven becoming outraged and holding fund-raisers. I remember thinking that she was currying favor with her many Latin suitors, that that was one reason she was so carried away with the cause.”
Mal butted in, thinking of culling facts from Dudley’s bum tangent, wondering why the tangent. “At these fund-raisers, were there CP bigshots present?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to be getting some SLDC surveillance pictures. You’ll be required to help identify the people in them.”
“Then there’s more of this?”
Dudley lit a cigarette and motioned Mal to quit writing. “This is a preliminary interview. A City marshal and court reporter will be by in a few days with a long list of specific questions on specific people. Lieutenant Considine and I will prepare the questions, and if we’re satisfied with your answers we’ll mail you an official immunity waiver.”
“Are you finished now, then?”
“Not quite. Let’s return to Sleepy Lagoon for a moment.”
“But I told you I was in New York then. I was gone for most of the protests.”
“But you did know many of the SLDC principals. Duarte, Benavides and Lopez, for instance.”
“Yes. And?”
“And they were the ones who most loudly contended that the poor persecuted Mex boys got the railroad, were they not?”
“Yes. Sleepy Lagoon sparked the zoot suit riots, your police department running amok. A number of Mexicans were practically beaten to death, and Sammy and Juan and Mondo were anxious to express their solidarity through the Committee.”
Mal swiveled his chair around and watched. Dudley was on a big fishing expedition, soaking up a big dose of rhetoric in the process—not the man’s style. Rolff said, “If that sounds doctrinaire to you, I’m sorry. It’s simply the truth.”
Dudley made a little pooh-pooh noise. “It always surprised me that the Commies and your so-called concerned citizens never proferred a suitable killer or killers of their own to take the fall on José Diaz. You people are masters of the scapegoat. Lopez, Duarte and Benavides were gang members who probably knew plenty of white punks to put the onus on. Was that ever discussed?”
“No. What you say is incomprehensible.”
Dudley shot Mal a little wink. “My colleague and I know otherwise. Let’s try this. Did
the three Mexes or any other SLDC members proffer sincerely believed theories as to who killed José Diaz?”
Gritting his teeth, Rolff said, “No.”
“What about the CP itself? Did it advance any potential scapegoats?”
“I told you no, I told you I was in New York for the bulk of the SLDC time.”
Dudley, straightening his necktie knot with one finger pointed to the street: “Malcolm, any last questions for Mr. Rolff?”
Mal said, “No.”
“Oh? Nothing on our fair Claire?”
Rolff stood up and was running a hand inside his collar like he couldn’t wait to ditch his inquisitors and take a bath; Mal knocked his chair over getting to his feet. He dug for cracks to throw and came up empty. “No.”
Dudley stayed seated, smiling. “Mr. Rolff, I need the names of five fellow travelers, people who are well acquainted with the UAES brain trust.”
Rolff said, “No. Unequivocally no.”
Dudley said, “I’ll settle for the names now, whatever intimate personal recollections you can supply us with in a few days, after a colleague of ours conducts background checks. The names, please.”
Rolff dug his feet in the grass, balled fists at his sides. “Tell Judith about Sarah and me. She won’t believe you.”
Dudley took a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “May 11, 1948. ‘My Dearest Lenny. I miss you and want you in me despite what you carried with you. I keep thinking that of course you didn’t know you had it and you met that prostitute before we became involved. The treatments hurt, but they still make me think of you, and if not for the fear of Judith finding out about us, I would be talking about you my every waking moment.’ Armbuster 304’s are the cheapest wall safes in the world, comrade. A man in your position should not be so frugal.”