Mal hooked a thumb back at Loftis’ picture. “With your fiancé?”
“Yes. You see, you probably saw the movie at a revival house. Reynolds was a very successful character actor in the ‘30s, but the California State Un-American Activities Committee hurt him when he refused to testify back in ‘40. Many studios wouldn’t touch him because of his politics, and the only work he could get was on Poverty Row–toadying to an awful man named Herman Gerstein.”
Mal played dumb. “It could have been worse. People were blacklisted outright by HUAC in ‘47. Your fiancé could have been.”
Claire shouted, “He was blacklisted, and I bet you know it!”
Mal jerked back in his chair; he thought he’d had her convinced he wasn’t wise to Loftis. Claire lowered her voice. “Maybe you knew it. Reynolds Loftis, Mr. Considine. Surely you know that he’s in the UAES.”
Mal shrugged, smokescreening a lie. “When you said Reynolds, I guessed that it was Loftis. I knew he was an actor, but I’ve never seen his photograph. Look, I’ll tell you why I was surprised. An old lefty told my partner and me that Loftis was a homosexual. Now you tell me he’s your fiancé.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed; for a half second she looked like a shrew in waiting. “Who told you that?”
Mal shrugged again. “Some guy who used to hang out and chase girls at the Sleepy Lagoon Committee picnics. I forget his name.”
Shrew in waiting to nervous wreck; Claire’s hands shaking, her legs twitching, grazing the table. Mal homed in on her eyes and thought he saw them pinning, like she was mixing pharmacy stuff with her vodka. Seconds dragged; Claire became calm again. “I’m sorry. Hearing Reynolds described as that upset me.”
Mal thought: no it didn’t–it was Sleepy Lagoon. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because he’s a lucky man.”
The Red Queen smiled. “And not just because of me. Will you let me finish that point I wanted to make?”
“Sure.”
Claire said, “In ‘47 someone informed on Reynolds to the House Committee–hearsay and innuendo–and he was blacklisted outright. He went to Europe and found work acting in experimental art films directed by a Belgian man he’d met in LA during the war. The actors all wore masks, the films created quite a stir, and Reynolds eked out a living acting in them. He even won the French version of the Oscar in ‘48, and got mainstream work in Europe. Now the real Hollywood studios are offering him real work for real money, which will end if Reynolds is hauled before another committee or grand jury or kangaroo court or whatever you people call them.”
Mal stood up and looked at the door. Claire said, “Reynolds will never name names, I’ll never name names. Don’t ruin the good life he’s starting to have again. Don’t ruin me.”
She even begged with elegance. Mal made a gesture that took in leather upholstery, brocade curtains and a small fortune in embroidered silk. “How can you preach the Commie line and justify all this?”
The Red Queen smiled, beggar to muse. “The good work I do allows me a dispensation for nice things.”
o o o
A stellar exit line.
Mal walked back to his car and found a note stuck under the wiper blades: “Captain–greetings! Herman Gerstein called Ellis with a complaint: a Sheriff’s dick is making waves at Variety International (pansy homicide). Ellis spoke to his CO (Capt. Al Dietrich) about it–and we’re supposed to tell the lad to desist. West Hollywood Substation when you finish with C.D.H., please–D.S.”
Mal drove to the station, pissed at a stupid errand when he should be orchestrating the team’s next move: radio and newspaper spots to convince UAES the grand jury was kaput. He saw Dudley Smith’s Ford in the lot, left his car next to it and walked in the front door. Dudley was standing by the dispatching alcove, talking to a Sheriff’s captain in uniform. A girl behind the switchboard was flagrantly eavesdropping, toying with the headset on her neck.
Dudley saw him and hooked a finger; Mal went over and offered the brass his hand. “Mal Considine, Captain.”