Chapter 37
Chapter 37
“You could just go get it,” Lena told Michael Runyon. “I’m not sure why I have to be involved now that you know where it is.”
They were back at the Chapel. The place felt close and weirdly sacred, with the low lights reflecting off the stained glass and the darkness outside. The jukebox crooned Frank Sinatra and the customers murmured quietly as if they understood the momentousness of the decision Lena had forced herself to make. Well, forced ... she had no other choice. She didn’t want to think about what the CIA might do to her if she refused to help. Losing her job was the least of it.
Runyon ignored her comment. “We’ve tried to make things easy for you, Miss Taylor. The police are no longer investigating Walter Maynard’s death, and the FBI has been warned off. I’d think this little thing would be easy for you.”
This little thing. “You’re telling me that you told the police to close Walter’s murder case?”
Runyon inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“But ... why would you do that?”
“It was an unnecessary distraction,” was all he said.
She was flummoxed by the notion that they could so easily dismiss a man’s death.
He went on. “Once you’ve arranged the pickup with Julia, you let me know. I’ll be waiting there with a half dozen men.”
“A half dozen? For one woman? That sounds excessive.”
“If you worked for the CIA, Miss Taylor, you’d understand how tricky Soviet spies can be.”
“It seems I have joined the CIA,” she said glumly, eating the olive out of her martini.
“We’ll be hiding. You won’t see us. When the record is in her hands, and you’re coming out of the house, we’ll arrest her. Nothing easier.”
“I won’t have to do any signaling, or any code words or anything like that.”
“It’s not like a movie.”
“There was a lot of that in Rome.”
“Like I said, the Soviets like tricks.”
“Well, they’ve been doing it a lot longer than we have, so ...”
Runyon’s eyes narrowed. “When you say things like that, I start questioning which side you’re on.”
“I wonder myself. It’s hard to trust you, you know, when you do things like make a perfectly good movie bad.”
“Ah, we’re back to that, are we?”
“He had a beautiful vision, and you made it ordinary. No, you made it sordid. All these things you’re trying to promote about America ... it’s just a fantasy, you know. You’re putting Negroes at the tables in the Medusa club but in reality there’s no place where they can mix with whites to listen to jazz, not anymore. Women being saved by good men ... When does that ever happen? Women who are opium addicts are more likely to die alone or be murdered. Does anyone really forgive a woman who goes bad? It’s all a fairy tale. That’s all you do, tell fairy tales.”
“That’s rich, coming from a woman whose whole life is a lie.”
She finished her martini, tired of the depressing reality of the conversation, tired of him. “Well then, on that note, I guess I’ll do my part and get in touch with Julia. She’s been calling. I’m surprised she hasn’t tracked me down in person.”
“You’ll let me know when it’s all arranged?”
“You’ll be my first call,” she assured him.
She met Julia at the Polo Lounge the next evening. Lena was a mass of swimming anxiety that even a martini did nothing to ease, equal parts dread, regret, fear, and sorrow.
Fortunately Julia didn’t seem to see it. “You’re sure? You’re sure it’s at this Larry Lipton’s house?”
“I can’t guarantee Larry still has it, but he has a huge collection. It’s probably there somewhere.”
Julia laughed lightly, disbelievingly. “I can’t believe we’re so close. After all this time.”
Lena said nothing. She willed herself calm as she drank her martini. Calm, not someone who was ready to betray someone she’d cared so deeply for. Julia had saved her life, but more than that, she wouldn’t be who she was if not for Julia—Lena knew that indisputably. She owed Julia so much. It was such an awful way to pay her back.
She’s a Soviet spy.
Julia started to slide from the booth. “Well, let’s go get it.”
This Lena hadn’t expected. “Julia, wait—we can’t just go get it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s late. Because we can’t just drop in on him unannounced. I should call Larry.”
Julia frowned. “It’s not that late. Is he in bed by eight or something?”
Lena struggled for an excuse. “It’s an odd time to show up at someone’s house when you aren’t really friends. He hasn’t seen me in years.”
“Tell him the truth, that you found out that he has something you’ve been searching for and you couldn’t wait to get it.”
“I’d rather call first.”
Julia leaned close. In a low voice, she said, “Lena, do I have to remind you that we’re being watched all the time? There are listeners everywhere. They’ve probably bugged your phone. That ‘attack’ the other night—who was it really? The FBI? The CIA?”
“The FBI,” Lena admitted.
Julia rolled her eyes. “They’ll have someone at the pay phone too. They have ways. You won’t see it, but if you make a phone call, I can promise you they’ll be at Larry Lipton’s waiting for us.”
That was true, if not for the reasons Julia thought. “You sound paranoid.”
Julia laughed shortly. “You’d be paranoid too if you knew what I do.”
Lena rolled her eyes. She had to make the call, not to Larry, but to Runyon. Lena hadn’t thought that Julia would want to leave immediately, but she should have realized that of course Julia would want to go the moment she knew where the damn record was. Lena couldn’t even plead work as an excuse. The news of Higgy’s tantrum had already hit the gossip columns—Lena was sure that, too, was Runyon’s work.
Star Costumer given notice at Lux Pictures! Studio Head warns Head Designer Lena Taylor to Behave only a year after she ousted rival Flavio!
Julia had brought the newspaper with her and set it on the table with a flourish when she’d first arrived. “Fast work,” she’d said with a wry grin. “What’d you do? Sass the producer?”
Something else that was a little too close to the truth. “I took up more newspaper space than Lux’s latest picture,” Lena explained.
Now Julia asked, “What does Paul say about all this?”
Lena went hot. “He’s not happy.”
“Then don’t you think that the best thing to do is end all this quickly? It’s getting late. Let’s go.”
“Wait. What’s so important about this record, anyway?”
“I’ve told you.” Julia slung her purse handle over her arm and slid from the booth.
Lena could think of no way to delay, Julia was on her way out of the bar. Lena couldn’t stop her short of tripping her and causing a scene. Lena followed Julia, then stopped. “I need to use the ladies’ room. Meet me at the car, okay?”
Julia paused, for a moment Lena was sure Julia was going to protest; there was something in her expression, a fleeting something, maybe distrust or maybe it was only impatience. Lena smiled her best smile, though that noxious mix of anxiety and dread churned.
“I’ll only be a minute.”
Julia’s answering smile came slowly, but she turned away and started toward the doors. Lena hurried to the bathroom, then dodged to the pay phone nearby. She fumbled with the clasp of her purse. Michael Runyon’s card was in her wallet. She pulled it loose, then searched for change, feeling the seconds pass, nearly dropping the coins before she got them into the slot. The dial moved too slowly, everything too slow, but then, thank God, the phone was ringing.
“CIA, Michael Runyon’s office.” A weary male voice came on the line.
“This is Lena Taylor. I need to get a message to Mr. Runyon immediately.” She spoke as quietly as she could into the receiver.
“He’s on a movie set.”
“Send a messenger. Tell him I’m on the way to Larry Lipton’s house with Julia Keane right now.”
A pause. Then, “Where are you now?”
“We’re leaving the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Lena?”
The voice came from behind her. Lena hung up and turned to face a frowning Julia.
“I decided I should visit the bathroom too,” Julia said. “Who did you call?”
“Oh, well ... I saw the phone here and thought I’d try to call Larry, but then I realized I’d forgotten his number.”
“Who were you talking to then?”
“The operator.” The lie came easily, thankfully. “But I guess you’re right. We don’t need to call him. I’d hoped it would save time, you know, if he had the record ready to go, but oh well.”
Lena couldn’t tell if Julia believed her, but to her relief, Julia nodded.
“Oh well,” she repeated.
After the ladies’ room, the valet brought Lena’s car. Julia was uncharacteristically silent as they drove off. It was uncomfortable and nerve racking. Lena reached for the radio.
Julia stilled her hand. When Lena looked at her in question, Julia ran her hands under the dashboard. She turned down the visors; she searched beneath the seats. She was obviously checking the car for something. When she’d finished, she twisted in the seat to look behind her.
“What are you looking for?” Lena asked.
“Bugs,” Julia said shortly. “A van following us. They wouldn’t be too far behind. The transmitters don’t have a long reach.”
“Transmitters? Are you talking about the CIA again?”
Julia settled herself in her seat and let out a deep breath. “In the Soviet Union, jazz is officially banned. It’s easier to find Russian cigarettes in LA than a saxophone anywhere in the Soviet Union.”
“Why are you telling me this? How do you know?”
Julia ignored her. “But it sneaks in. People love it. The black market thrives on jazz. The stilyagi especially have their own market for it.”
“What are stily —whatever it was you said.”
“ Stilyagi . They’re like your hipsters. Russian kids with long hair and ugly clothes.”
“How do you know this, Julia?” She had to ask, even though she knew the answer, and Julia didn’t pretend or dance around it.
“You know how I know this, Lena,” Julia said sharply. “Now listen, will you? I’m trying to tell you something important. The stilyagi make bootleg recordings from the radio stations. The Voice of America and the BBC are jammed, but they can still get programs from Radio Iran and some others. Every now and then, someone manages to get the VOA. They record these on used x-ray sheets they get from the hospital trash bins. Have you heard of these? They call them ‘bone music,’ or ‘ribs.’”
It was all Lena could do to keep her eyes on the road. “No. You mean the recordings are on chest x-rays?”
“Chests, knees, pelvises, ribs, whatever.”
“And these actually play on a turntable?”
Julia made a sound of disapproval. “Yes, but the sound isn’t very good. It doesn’t matter. It’s better than nothing.”
“So ... are you saying this record Larry has is one of these recordings? This bone music?”
“The record you gave to Larry is Duke Ellington,” Julia said. “But inserted in a false cover is a bone music recording, yes.”
So that was why her own records had been torn apart. They’d been looking for a false cover. But Lena frowned. “So we’re going to Larry Lipton’s at seven thirty at night to pick up a bootleg recording of ... what? Benny Goodman or something? And this is the reason why the CIA is following us and the men you work for are determined to get it back and we’re both in danger? This is what I picked up for a Soviet spy ring in Rome?” It sounded ridiculous when she said it, and she half expected Julia to laugh it off, to admit that it was ridiculous. Why would the CIA want something like that? Why would they be in danger over it? Why would anyone care?
But Julia did not laugh it off. “Yes, Lena, this is the reason. But it’s not a Benny Goodman recording. It’s comment on Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood gossip show about footage of Hiroshima and Nagasaki shot by a Japanese newsreel team after the bomb was dropped.”
“I’ve never heard anything about this.”
“Of course you haven’t. No one has. The next day Hopper went on and retracted it. She claimed there is no movie footage of those cities after the attack. Except there is, and it’s terrible.”
“I’ve seen pictures—”
“No one’s seen anything like this,” Julia said bluntly. “You can’t imagine. The US government seized the film. They don’t want it seen, because they’re trying to convince Americans that what you really need is more bombs to keep you safe. They’re trying to convince you that you can survive them. Imagine what would happen if Americans saw footage of people without skin, or burnt skeletons, or people dying of radiation, or how the only thing remaining of people was their shadows blasted onto walls.”
They had reached the Venice Speedway, oil derricks looming like shadowy aliens in the near darkness. Beyond, a bank of fog was rolling in.
“The film has disappeared,” Julia went on steadily. “But there was a US crew, too, and they shot in color. There was supposed to be a Warner Brothers film based on it. Training films too. All stopped by the government. But what do you imagine would happen if word got out that such footage existed? Do you think Americans would insist on seeing it? And if they saw it, do you think they might start protesting arms buildup?”
Regardless of the pamphlets about surviving it, the bomb shelter plans, the warning sirens, there was no doubt that people were afraid of the bomb. It colored everything, an existential dread. The fear that the Soviets would use the bomb against them was reason enough for the US to proliferate their own arsenal. Everyone hoped that what the government said was true even if they feared it wasn’t—that it did not mean the end of civilization.
“Hiroshima and Nagasaki were wastelands.” Julia’s words were very soft. “The bombs today are even stronger, Lena. Much stronger.”
“I don’t know what this means. How does this recording help anything? What can it do?”
Julia paused. Lena realized Julia was trying to decide how much to reveal. Finally she said, “We have contacts. Radio stations. Television. If we can get this recording out. If people hear it ...”
“You hope to start a mass protest.”
“Yes. Yes. The CIA doesn’t want that, of course. They’ll do anything to stop it.”
They were stopping it. They were waiting at Larry’s even now, meaning to seize the record, meaning to seize Julia. Lena saw it all before her as if it had already unfolded. Picking up the record at Larry’s, walking out the door, the agents descending upon them. Julia’s confusion the moment she realized that Lena had betrayed her. Trust me , she’d said long ago. Can you trust me? and Lena had. In the end, hadn’t she been right to do so? Julia had tried to prevent the murder of Terence Hall. She had refused to leave Lena to take the fall for the plot gone wrong, she had taken a bullet to give Lena a chance to run.
Yes, Lena would not have been in danger if not for Julia.
But she would not be Lena Taylor either.
This record at Larry Lipton’s ... If Lena betrayed Julia, what would happen? The bone music would fall into the hands of the CIA, and the public would never learn about the movie footage of the devastation of the Japanese cities. They would just go on, knowing nothing, believing everything they were told about the bomb. Just as Runyon and his cronies would continue their propaganda, and studio heads like Higgy Braxton would keep acceding to them, and gossip queens like Hedda Hopper would keep destroying the lives of anyone who didn’t live the lives they thought they should live. What was American freedom, anyway, but just words?
But that wasn’t the reason Lena pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. Her debt was too great, her heart too full of everything Julia had given her. It was the memory of Julia saying, “ Get up, Lena .” It was the memory of the voice in Lena’s head. “Run.”
“What are you doing?” Julia’s voice held a note of fear. “Why are you stopping?”
“I want you to get out,” Lena said steadily. She reached into her purse and pulled out an old receipt. On it, she scrawled Paul’s number. “Go to Ocean Park, and call this number. It’s Paul. Tell him you’re a friend of mine, and I’m asking him for a big favor. I’ll explain it to him later. Ask him to pick you up and take you—I don’t know, wherever you want. Wherever you think you’ll be safe. But get out of LA as quickly as you can. Do you understand me?”
Julia frowned. “The bone music—”
“There are CIA agents waiting at Larry’s to arrest you. If they do, Julia, you know what will happen. You’ll be in prison for life if you’re lucky. If you’re not ...” Lena couldn’t say the words. “I’m saying to you what you said to me in Rome. Run. Hide. The bone music is already lost, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I can’t save it now that the CIA knows where it is. I wish you’d told me sooner, but I understand. I know why you couldn’t. But I don’t want you to die.”
Julia stared at her, and in her gaze Lena saw understanding, and more than that, sorrow and regret. Julia closed her eyes for a moment, and opened them again on a deep breath. “Okay.” She took up her purse. “Is anyone following us?”
“No. They think I’m bringing you to them. I don’t see a blue Ford. Or a yellow car.”
“No,” Julia said. “There wouldn’t be. They’re waiting for me to deliver it.” She scrunched the paper with Paul’s number in her hand. “What will you tell them?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’ll give you as much time as I can.”
Julia opened the car door. She had one foot out before she turned to Lena again. “I didn’t lie to you, you know, Lena. You do shine.”
She stepped out. It was all Lena could do not to put out her hand, to say, Wait , to say I don’t want you to go , except ... then what? It was over, there was nothing left. Rome was so far away. It was another time and there was no getting it back and the truth was that Lena didn’t want it back anyway, but only what it represented, that time before she understood that not everything was possible.
The car door closed. Julia walked down the street toward Ocean Front, and with a lump in her throat that she didn’t try to swallow, Lena watched her until she disappeared.