William Boyd - The New Confessions

But what surprised me was that I was still under surveillance. My phone made strange clicking noises when I picked it up. My mail was still being intercepted a year after the hearings. Someone was watching me too, I was sure, though I had no evidence. In late 1955 a local paper called the Ventura Bee ran a scurrilous story that had me as a Communist agent poisoning the minds of immigrants with Soviet ideology while purporting to teach them English. I asked Page to sue for libel, but he advised energetically against it. Ramón Dusenberry discovered that the Ventura Bee was owned by ODCAD — the Organization of Decent Citizens of America for Democracy — which in turn was run by the American Business Union, whose address on Sunset Boulevard was the same as that of Red Connections .

It was Toshiro Saimaru who finally helped me out. Toshiro was a portly Japanese businessman who wanted some work done on his English accent. He had been greatly impressed by Laurence Olivier in Henry Vee , as he called it, and chose him as his model. We read a lot of Shakespeare and English poets to each other. His accent never improved, but he seemed to enjoy himself and it was an easy five dollars an hour for me. We were reading Shelley’s “Mont Blanc” one day.

“And what were thou,” I repeated, “and earth, and stars, and sea, if to the human mind’s imagining silence and solitude were vacancy?…”

“Sirence an’ soritude were bacancy.”

“Great, Toshiro. Much better. Let’s try ‘Ode to the West Wind.’ ”

He leafed through his anthology.

“Toshiro, do you ever use a private detective in your business?”

“Oh yes. Very good. Very good man. Mr. Sean O’Hara.” He wrote down his name and number. I phoned and a secretary said Mr. O’Hara would call on me.

The next Saturday morning there was a knock at the door. A small thickset Japanese man was there, wearing a beige suit and a porkpie hat.

“No teaching on Saturday,” I said. He looked blank. “We no teach on Saturday.… No teachee.… Nevah teachee. We close. Close. Shutee.”

“You got the wrong guy, bub.” He handed me a card: SEAN O’HARA, PRIVATE DETECTIVE. I apologized and asked him in. He spoke with a perfect American accent. I felt a headache coming on. Eugen, Orr and now O’Hara.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Your name. I had this image of … Silly of me. Just goes to show.”

“Relax,” he said. “My real moniker is Yatsuhashi Ohara. For a whole year I got no work. Absolutely zilch, nada . Couldn’t figure out why. It’s amazing what one of those apostrophes will do. Call me Sean.” He lit a Kool. “What’s the problem, Mr. Todd?”

I told him my story. “I think someone’s behind the whole thing. I just want to know who.”

“Twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses.”

“Fine.” I would have to borrow some money off Nora Lee. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Who knows? A week — a month? Don’t worry, Mr. Todd, I’ll find out who it is.”

I hadn’t actually set eyes on Eddie for over two years. Shortly after O’Hara’s visit in the summer of ’56, Karl-Heinz spent two weeks in hospital with a ruptured stomach ulcer. He recovered, but all the rejuvenation of his Californian years disappeared. He looked old and gray beneath his tan. I went to see him in hospital after the operation.

“My God, Johnny,” he said, “let’s do this fucking film soon. Else I’m in a wheelchair.”

I was filled with a sudden nervous panic. I went round to Page’s office, unannounced, to set up a meeting with Eddie. His secretary buzzed him.

“A Mr. Todd to see you? He says it’s urgent?”

Page flung himself through his office doors.

“Mr. Smith . What a surprise.”

He marched me out of his office.

“For God’s sweet sake, John!” he wailed once we were outside. We were on first-name terms now. “I don’t know you, remember?” We found a coffeeshop. “Someone called the other day asking if I represented you. I think the office may be bugged. I only use pay phones now.”

“Christ, you’re worse than me.… Look, I want to see Eddie.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Only promise me you won’t come around like that again.”

* * *

Eddie stood at the surf edge in front of his beach house. The spent waves crept up to his feet and crept away again. He wore cerise and mustard bathing shorts and smoked a cigar. His neat round belly hung like a medicine ball beneath his plump girlish breasts. From the sun deck of his beach house, smoke curled from a barbecue.

“Hey, John!” he shouted as he saw me approach. It was as if absolutely nothing had happened. We stood for a while and watched the waves curl in, smash and spread themselves on the sand.

“I’m sorry about that piece in Variety, ” he said. “But I knew you’d understand.” He looked at me and at my clothes. “Is everything all right, John? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine. I just need to make a film.”

“Soon, John, soon. Come on up, have a bite of lunch.”

“Lunch? Good God, you’re sure?”

“Everything’s beginning to change. Ike’s got a second term. People are relaxing. Even Trumbo got the Academy Award.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. For The Brave One. ”

“He wrote that?”

“He’s ‘Robert Rich.’ Didn’t you know?”

“No. Remember I’m rather out of touch these days.”

We climbed the steps up to his deck. A petite dark woman was sunbathing in a two-piece swimsuit, the same color as Eddie’s.

“This is my wife, Bonnie. Bonnie, say hi to my oldest friend, John James Todd. John, why don’t you take some clothes off?”

Later we talked about my plans. I told him about Karl-Heinz’s state of health and that I had a new idea for a film, not Father of Liberty . Something much smaller scale, much cheaper. But we had to do it soon.

“I don’t know, John. It’s a question of timing. I’m sure I can let you do pseudonymous script now. But directing a film … Let’s wait a while.”

I took a deep breath. “Eddie, I’ve done a lot for you, these last years.”

“And I’ve done a lot for you, John.” It was obviously one of those days for using Christian names. But I think he sensed my seriousness.

“Yes,” I said, thinking about Monika. “But look where we are today.”

“Johnny, Johnny …” He put his hand on my shoulder. “My father told me something I’ve never forgotten. You’ve got two forces in life that control everything. Just two. The Profit Motive and Human Values. Sometimes they run together but mostly it’s war. Pick your side early, my father said, and stick with it. And by the way, my father said, remember this: the Profit Motive always wins.” He spread his hands.

I looked out to sea. “It’s not as simple as that.”

Sean O’Hara came by.

“Well, I got him,” he said. “This guy turns out to be a vice-president of AMPOPAWL. He’s a special investigator for ODCAD and HUAC. He’s been an FBI informant since 1934. He owns fifty percent of Red Connections , which has a monthly circulation of twenty-four thousand copies at five bucks a copy. Know how much money that is? A hundred twenty thousand dollars a month . This bozo hates Commies and it’s making him a stack of mazoola. He’s a professional blacklister who advises radio and TV stations and sponsors about the OK-ness of the people they hire. Quite a guy. What I can’t figure out is what he’s got against you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Monroe Smee. Mean anything?”

I sat beside O’Hara in the front of his Buick Roadmaster. He had a paper cup of Pepsi-Cola on the dashboard shelf, a shrimp and pastrami sandwich in one hand and a Kool in the other. He stubbed out his cigarette and took a bite of his sandwich. It was half past eight in the morning.