Free Hollywood and Levine by Andrew Bergman Page B

conversation to anyone at all, I’ll deny it. And I won’t speak to you again.”
    â€œIt’s that bad.”
    â€œWorse. The people you met last night are all political-minded, progressive people, and the fact of the matter is that their kind of politics is going out of style around Hollywood, like a restaurant with a ptomaine rap, that fast. Apparently—and this is strictly between us and the four walls—apparently, there is going to be some kind of a congressional investigation.”
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œCommunism in Hollywood. And if in fact there is an investigation you can bet it’ll be the publicity circus of all time. The new congressman from this district is a kid named Nixon—Republican, and by a beautiful coincidence he happens to be on the Un-American Activities Committee, which would be running the show.” He smiled a grim and lifeless smile. “Isn’t that perfect? You think a freshman congressman would mind being on the front pages every morning, asking movie stars if they know any Reds?”
    â€œJesus Christ,” I mumbled. It appeared that LeVine had once again managed to step into a puddle and discover that the bottom lay a hundred feet below.
    â€œJesus H. Christ, Esquire,” said the agent. “Looks like Walter was the first victim.”
    â€œDid he ever talk to you about it?”
    â€œIndirectly.” The lit cigarette in his hand described a short arc. “He tell you anything?”
    â€œJust loose talk about a bad time for progressive-minded people. He never got specific.”
    â€œWalter didn’t confide very well. It wasn’t his style.” The agent seemed genuinely saddened. “That’s why I accept his suicide. Walter bottled things up; for him to go before a congressional committee, with newsreel cameras and radio…. He’d die first.”
    â€œHe did die first.” I stood up. “Thanks, Goldmark. See you at the funeral.”
    The agent arose and walked me to the door. “I’d like to help you some more, Jack, but maybe we could meet somewhere else in the future.”
    â€œYou think it’s that risky?”
    â€œI don’t know, maybe.” He looked abashed. “I’m no hero, pal. Maybe that makes me a bum and a creep in your book, but it’s the truth. I have a good business here. I can’t go down with these guys. I gotta keep floating.”
    â€œI understand.” I did, kind of.
    We shook hands. He held on to mine and squeezed my elbow. “Where do you go from here?”
    â€œTo the gallows,” I told him, and left his office to examine the place where Walter had died.
    It was not the best idea I ever had.
    I faked my way back onto the Warners lot with the orange sticker I had been given the night before. The kid at the gate just waved me through. I drove slowly up the center strip, gawking at the daytime activity. Men pushed racks loaded down with costumes, trucks hauled props and scenery, and actors were knocking off work. It was five o’clock and I should have been doing the same. A crew of pirates emerged from a sound stage, taking off their eye patches and lighting up some smokes. They were followed by a covey of midgets in Brooklyn Dodger uniforms, a wonder to behold. I drove to the very edge of the back lot and allowed myself the not inconsiderable thrill of parking the Chrysler in an empty space reserved for John Garfield. I got out and hoofed it over to the Western Street.
    It was as deserted as it had been the night before. I had expected to find actors and technicians drifting away from their day’s labors, but apparently Westerns were going out of style. Everything was as it had been, including the gallows, which I had anticipated the cops might dismantle. But for the absence of the rope, it was untouched.
    I walked over and began studying the area directly beneath the wooden scaffold, finding a few flecks of dried