Stardust (54 page)

No one had expected a direct jab at the opening, and it might have worked, caused the excitement Minot had clearly been hoping for, if Schaeffer had been defiant or uncooperative or even evasive. Instead, he answered Minot’s questions with a resigned fatalism that seemed to diminish their importance. Yes, he had been a member of the Party. No, he had resigned in August 1939, after the signing of the Non-Aggression Pact. No, he had not attended meetings since. He knew the names of the national Party officers (known to everyone) but not any of those in the local chapter.

“Don’t know or don’t want us to know?” Minot said.

“Names weren’t used.”

“No names. But they had faces? You’d recognize them if you saw them?”

“I suppose. It’s been six or seven years.”

“You didn’t stay friends?”

“It was a discussion group. Not—well, just a discussion group.”

“What did you discuss?”

“Political theory.”

He still believed in the plight of the underprivileged, but no longer felt the CP was an effective tool to help them. His testimony was listless and damp, like the fog outside, waiting to be burned off. Minot had
clearly been expecting something else and finally he saw that Schaeffer’s answers, easily given, made him seem no more threatening than the bank clerk he resembled. The cameramen looked disappointed, not interested in the quieter drama, Schaeffer politely ending his career.

“He’s losing them,” Bunny said.

“Are you seriously suggesting to this committee that for five years— five years—you were part of an organization that owed its loyalty to a foreign power and this was a youthful indiscretion?”

“I have never been loyal to any country except the United States. I am an American. At no time during my association with the Party was there any question of disloyalty. When the Party adopted a position that I felt was not in our interests, I resigned.”

“And up until then they acted in our interests?”

“What I thought should be our interests, yes.”

“Should be. A rude awakening, then, when you found out what the Party’s interests really were. A smart fellow like you ought to have known, don’t you think? Or are you trying to say—it’s some defense— that you didn’t know what you were doing?”

“I thought I did. I thought I knew when I got married, too. Things change.”

People laughed, grateful for a light second. Minot used his gavel.

“Mr. Schaeffer, do you think these proceedings are a laughing matter?”

Schaeffer looked around. “Not yet.”

Just a gentle poke to the side, a tap, but this got a laugh, too.

“I can assure you, you won’t be laughing when we’re finished. This committee doesn’t think subversion is a joke. This country—”

The rest was lost, background noise as Ben stopped listening again. The laughter, small as it was, was taken by Minot as an affront and Ben saw that Bunny was right, he was losing the audience, confusing them, his confidence turning petulant. Even his staging was off. He had kept the other witnesses in the room, but that meant they were now only a few feet away from Schaeffer, avoiding eye contact, their testimony suddenly personal, everyone smaller.

One of the publicity assistants, hurrying in, squatted down next to Bunny, leaning over to whisper in his ear.

“What?” Bunny said out loud.

Minot looked up, then smiled to himself.

Bunny left, huddled with the assistant, half the room watching.

“What did he say?” Ben asked Dick.

Dick shrugged. “Something about Lasner.”

A summons from the studio, Bunny on call even here. But when he came back ten minutes later his face was grim, disturbed. Something more than a studio crisis. Ben looked at him, waiting.

“They’ve called Mr. L,” Bunny said.

Ben took a minute, thinking this through. “He can get it delayed,” he said.

Bunny shook his head. “They’ll tell the papers he asked. Which means he has something to hide.”

“Does he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The only Reds he ever knew were fighting cowboys. Bastard,” Bunny said, looking toward Minot. “To drag him into this.”

Minot, noticing, smiled again.

Bunny left for another call, then two more, a small frenzy of activity, back and forth.

“I have to get to the studio,” he said. “The lawyers want to coach him. Hal, too.”

“Hal?” Ben said.

“He worked on
Convoy
. Bloody picture, we didn’t even make money on it.”

“We didn’t?” Dick said. “I thought—”

“In second release, yes.”

“The trades liked it. They said I—”

“Dick. Nobody could have done it better,” Bunny said, impatient, his tone weary, like rolling his eyes. “I have to get back.”

Before he could leave, however, Minot had called a break and they were trapped by the crowd in the hall.

“Bunny,” Schaeffer said, extending his hand. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s taking pictures.”

Bunny shook it. “I’m sorry, Milton. You know what it’s like.”

He looked around the hall. “I know what this is like anyway. How’s Sol?”

“They’re calling him, Milton.”

“Sol? What for?”

“What for.”

“Because I worked for him?”

“No, he’s doing a picture with Stalin. What for.”

“This wasn’t my idea, Bunny.”

“I have to run, Milton.”

“Bunny. They’re not going to pick up my option. Not after this. I can work quiet. No credit.”

“I can’t, Milton,” Bunny said, meeting his eyes. “I can’t.” He glanced over Schaeffer’s shoulders. “Look sharp. Here comes Judge Hardy.”

Schaeffer moved away without bothering to turn, as if Minot were a scent he’d picked up in the air.

“You said you wouldn’t call Mr. L,” Bunny said, his mouth clenched.

“We both said things.”

“Call it off.”

“The subpoena’s been issued.”

“Dismiss it.”

“You think the studios run this town, don’t you? Nobody elected the studios.”

“He’s not a good enemy to make.”

“Neither am I. Don’t get yourself in a swivet. You tell Lasner to behave. He cooperates, everybody’s fine. He gets to be a patriot and I get to send a message.”

“To whom?”

“You think it’s still twenty years ago, picture people can do anything they want. What did Comrade Schaeffer say? Things change.”

“Don’t do this. I mean it.”

“You mean it.” He made a face. “I appreciate the advice.”

“Want some more? Professional? You’re flopping in there.”

Minot blinked, then looked at him steadily. “Things’ll pick up tomorrow.”

Ben decided to leave before Minot had finished with Schaeffer. The testimony had grown repetitive, used up. Once Schaeffer had admitted to being a Communist, Minot was left with the less exciting story of what he’d actually done, discussion groups and petitions and rallies no one remembered. Still, a Red in the industry—how many more?

He found Hal in the cutting room, finishing the last of the camp footage.

“I thought you were with the lawyers,” Ben said.

“I was. Now I’m supposed to be thinking of anybody who could have been—you know. So I thought I’d get this done. In case things get busy. I hear Dick did a little flag waving.”

“It’s that kind of occasion. What did the lawyers tell you?”

“Be polite. Don’t volunteer. Make him work for it. Whatever that’s going to be.”

Ben leaned toward the Moviola. “Didn’t we already cut this?”

“I was just trying something.”

“What?”

“Seeing how it would work without the Artkino footage,” he said, self-conscious, trying to be casual.

“How does it?” Ben said quietly.

“You don’t want anybody saying—” He looked away. “It’s just in case. You have to pick your fights. You want this made.”

He ran into Lasner in the Admin men’s room, a surprise since his office had its own bathroom.

“Lawyers. It’s the only place I can get some peace,” Lasner said to him in the mirror, his face sagged, slightly withdrawn, the way it had looked during the street fight on Gower, trying to make sense of things. “So you were there? What’s he going to want?”

“Keep himself in the papers for a while.”

“No. From me.”

Ben joined him at the sink. “To go along. Treat him like a big shot.”

“That’s what Bunny says. It’ll blow over. What’ll blow over? I don’t know, a man comes, eats in your house, you make a party for him, and then this. So maybe Bunny doesn’t know what he’s talking about, either.”

“It worked with Dick. It was all right.”

“Did I know I was hiring Commies? Jesus Christ, Milt Schaeffer. If that’s what the Russians got, we don’t have a thing to worry about.”

“He’s not trying to make you look bad.”

“I thought you knew something about pictures.” He raised his hands, framing. “You argue with him, you’re a Commie—sticking up for them, same thing. You don’t argue, yes sir, you’re an idiot for using Milt in the first place. Either way, he’s a smart guy and you’re a putz.”

Ben said nothing.

“So that’s what everybody thinks? Bunny. You. Keep your head down. Be a putz.”

“He can make trouble for the studio.”

Lasner nodded, conceding the point. “When did that happen? I’ve been thinking about that. When did we let that happen, he wins either way?”

Ben looked at him, suddenly back with Ostermann. “A little bit at a time.”

T
HE NEXT
day a steady drizzle came with the morning fog, blurring visibility, everything beyond the next block only half-seen through a gray scrim. Bad weather anywhere else was just part of life. Here it became disturbing, a form of disillusion. Wet palm fronds drooped, pastel stucco walls streaked grime. Without the lighting effects of sunshine, the city was shabby, the realtors’ promises turned into streets of disappointment. Traffic barely moved. The hearings would start late.

Ben turned on the radio to cover the dull squish of the windshield
wipers and found Minot on the news, an interview from the federal building, predicting more revelations.

“Where’s the front line in this war? Not some ditch, some atoll in the Pacific. It’s in everything we see and hear, the values our children are being taught. The Commies don’t fight where we can see them. They’d rather sneak something in with the popcorn.”

Go to Berlin, Ben thought, there’s a front line there—machine guns and checkpoints, right out in the open. Talk to some of the DPs, the ones from the east, watch how they scuttle away from the Soviet soldiers, an animal fear. But Minot never brought up the genuine horrors, the show trials and mass executions. Communism was for him a purely domestic threat. The Russians, the visible menace, weren’t on trial— Milt Schaeffer was, who’d left the Party in ’39. Assuming anyone really left. Danny apparently hadn’t, working for them, according to Henderson, right up to the end. But doing what? Playing both sides against each other, or only deceiving one? Or had the loyalties become so tangled that he no longer knew? Ben grimaced, seeing Danny at the witness table, facing the committee, finally answering for whatever he’d done. Except that he had already answered.

Minot started with Hal Jasper. At first Ben thought, Bunny’s lesson taken, that Minot was building his case, then realized there was a pettier motive—he wanted to make Lasner wait. He had been the big draw earlier in the hall, Fay on his arm, both smiling for reporters. Now, wedged in the Continental row with Bunny and the lawyers, he was just another witness, with Minot calling the shots.

“Mr. Jasper, it’s our understanding that Mr. Schaeffer requested you for
Convoy to Murmansk
. Were you aware of this?”

“No.”

“In writing. There’s a memo to that effect.”

Ben glanced over at Bunny. Something that could only have come from him, in more cooperative times.

“Can you think of any reason why he would do that?”

“No,” Hal said again, not giving him anything.

“You’d never worked together before?”

“No.”

“Had you done any action pictures? Before
Convoy
?”

“One or two.”

“What were their names, do you remember?”

Hal looked puzzled, wondering where this was going. “
Apache Trail
. One or two others.”

“These were Westerns?”

“Yes.”

“Not war movies. And yet Mr. Schaeffer requested you. Someone who had no experience with this kind of picture. Why do you think that was?”

“The process is the same. You’re still cutting action scenes.”

“I see. Posses, convoys, it makes no never mind.”

Hal said nothing, waiting.

“It couldn’t have been for your political sympathies, could it?”

“No.”

Minot smiled pleasantly. “Just your Western expertise. I’d like to show you a photograph. Put it up here on a screen so we can all see it.” Behind him, a slide was projected, Hal fighting in Gower Street. “Now that fellow there, center right, I think we can all agree that’s you?”

Ben saw Lasner shift in his seat, restless.

“Like to tell us where this is?”

“Outside Continental.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“Trying to get to work.”

“That’s quite a commute you have there from the looks of it,” Minot said, getting a laugh. “Now isn’t it a fact, Mr. Jasper, that the police were called in to break up a union riot? Isn’t it a fact, unless there’s something wrong with my eyes, the photograph shows you in that same riot? Fighting with a policeman, in fact. And isn’t it a fact you were later treated for injuries at Continental with Howard Stein—practically brought in together is my understanding? That’s the Howard Stein whose affiliation with the Communist Party has been under investigation for years. That
Howard Stein. And that’s his union outside in the picture and you in it, throwing punches with the rest of them. Now,” he said, pausing for effect, “I don’t doubt that Milton Schaeffer, a self-confessed Communist, confessed right in this room, in fact, admired your skills with Western movies. But isn’t it just possible—I can’t help feeling there’s a chance of this—that he also liked to have people around who agreed with him politically? Requested people like that. Especially when he was about to make a few
changes
to the picture. Changes to make us feel a little better about the Russians. I’d just have to say this was possible. Now I’m not asking you to tell us which union you support or how you voted—that’s your business. I’m just saying things like this,” he said, pointing back to the screen, “might give somebody the impression you lean—” He broke off, covering the mike with his hand as an aide whispered in his ear. “Excuse me,” he said after the aide left. “Now let’s talk about
Convoy
. Yesterday we heard how all those Bundles for Britain ended up going to the Soviets instead. Was that already settled when you came on the picture or did Mr. Schaeffer discuss it with you?”