The Last Heroes Read online

  When he returned to Los Angeles, he knew, he might have some explaining to do. He might even have some problems with some other people’s overly tender—but no less important—feelings. He would have to tell his wife, for instance, that he had managed to invade WASP heaven. And through his wife, news would reach his employer’s wife and in due course the ears of Max Lieberman.

  ‘‘Max,’’ his aunt Sophie would say to Max Lieberman, founder and chairman of the board of Continental Studios, Inc., ‘‘you wouldn’t believe what Shirley told me. When Stanley was in Washington, Mr. Chesley not only had him in his own house, but—would you believe it!—he took him to the Mayflower Club!’’

  Not long ago (until the federal government broke its system up) Continental Studios had owned substantially all of its motion-picture theaters. And Whittaker Construction had designed and built virtually all of them.

  In New York and in other large cities, these theaters were usually housed within office buildings. And these buildings were usually owned by corporations in which Continental Studios, Whittaker Properties, and other interested parties held a controlling interest. The government’s successful antitrust suit against the studios had affected the ownership of the theaters, but not the control of the real estate they were part of. Colonel William B. Donovan’s law firm had worked out an agreement with the Justice Department, which had softened somewhat the governmental edict that flatly forbade motion-picture studios to own or control motion-picture theaters. Thus, so long as real estate owned by Continental was managed by a third party (in this case, Whittaker Properties) which had no interests in motion-picture production, the studio would not have to sell its stock in corporations (in a Depression-lowered real estate market) which happened to own buildings which happened to house movie theaters.

  It was an unlikely alliance, but Continental Studios and Whittaker Properties—and therefore Max Lieberman and Chesley Haywood Whittaker—were in business together.

  Max Lieberman had met Chesley Whittaker a dozen times in Washington, D.C., but he had neither been in the house on Q Street nor a guest at the Mayflower Club. Money wouldn’t get you in the door. A German-Jewish accent would certainly keep you out.

  Would Uncle Max be hurt that Stanley had made it where he himself could not go? Or would he conclude with his customary immodesty that it was one more proof that he’d been right to spend whatever it had cost to get Stanley into Harvard Law?

  One of Uncle Max’s dozens of profound philosophical observations—‘‘It’s really a small world, isn’t it?’’— seemed to be proved again tonight. Stanley S. Fine was in Washington to deal with a problem involving Eric Fulmar.

  As vice president, legal, of Continental Studios, Inc., Stanley Fine’s duties were rather simple. He actually practiced very little law himself. It was another tenet of Max Lieberman’s philosophy that ‘‘it was cheaper in the long run to go first class.’’ As applied to matters legal, this meant the retention of the best law firms available to deal with specific problems.

  Donovan’s firm, for example, was retained by Continental to deal primarily with the federal government. Other firms handled labor relations, finance, artists’ contracts, libel and slander, copyright, and the myriad other specialized fields of law with which the production of motion pictures was involved.

  Stanley Fine had two functions, and for these he was paid very generously: to have at his fingertips the status of whatever of Continental’s legal affairs Uncle Max had that moment wondered about; and, more important, to have a fast answer when Uncle Max looked over a document and demanded, ‘‘Stanley, what the hell does this mean?’’

  It wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Max Lieberman was by no means the fool he often seemed to be. The questions he asked were often penetrating, and almost always demonstrated his uncanny ability to ‘‘look for the dry rot under the varnish.’’

  The question Uncle Max had asked that had brought Stanley to Washington, at the moment, had no answer: ‘‘What about Monica Carlisle’s kid? He’s in Morocco for some goddamned half-assed reason. Find out. Also find out what he’s a citizen of,’’ Uncle Max had said. ‘‘We’d look like shit if he joined the Nazis.’’

  Uncle Max had thought that over a minute and then added, ‘‘Do it yourself, Stanley, and do it next.’’

  Stanley had taken the first plane he could get, a Transcontinental and Western Airlines Douglas Skyliner to Chicago, and when his connecting flight to New York had been delayed, the train. The man to ask about this was obviously Colonel William B. Donovan, a man who was not only a good friend of Max Lieberman and Continental Studios but who also was the man Franklin Roosevelt most depended on for foreign intelligence.

  Donovan was glad to hear he was in New York, he said. He had a few things to bring up involving the Whitworth Building—one of the buildings Continental owned a piece of—and if Fine was free, why didn’t they have lunch downtown? Chesty Whittaker belonged to a luncheon club at 33 Wall Street, twenty-first floor, and he should be there, too.

  After they had finished the Whitworth Building business, Fine brought up the question of Monica Carlisle’s son. He asked Donovan if he happened to know anyone at the Department of State with whom he could discuss a confidential matter. Donovan not surprisingly did. Chesley Haywood Whittaker then insisted—not invited, insisted—that Fine come to Washington with him on the Congressional Limited and spend the night with him at his house on Q Street.

  ‘‘I hate that damned train, alone, and there’s no sense in you going to a hotel. I won’t be able to have dinner with you tonight, but I’ll see that you’re entertained, and meet you afterward.’’

  ‘‘Why don’t I just go to the Hotel Washington? It’s right around the corner from the State Department, and the studio keeps a suite there. . . .’’

  ‘‘Don’t be silly,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘What I have to do is have dinner with Roosevelt. My nephew, Jim, is being sent to the Philippines, and Roosevelt wants to see him before he goes. He was close to Jimmy’s father. I don’t see how I can get out of it. But it’ll be just that, dinner. It starts at eight-fifteen, and it’ll be over by ten or ten-fifteen. What I’ve done, and I hope this is all right with you, is arrange for a very pretty woman, a lawyer by the way and the daughter of an old friend, to take you to dinner at the Mayflower, and we’ll meet you there afterward.’’

  ‘‘Aren’t I putting you out?’’

  ‘‘Not at all. I’m just sorry about the damned dinner.’’

  There were few people in the United States, Fine thought, who could be sincerely annoyed by the necessity of taking dinner with the President of the United States.

  The young woman had turned out not only to be as promised, young, attractive, and a lawyer, but also the daughter of the late Thomas Chenowith, another pillar of the New York legal establishment. And he was dining with the son of Chandler Bitter and nephew of Brandon Chambers.

  The odd thing, Stanley S. Fine decided, was that he liked these people and was comfortable in their presence. He felt a little jealous of Canidy and Bitter—younger men about to embark on a great adventure. It was certainly illogical that he should be jealous of young men going off to war, but he had learned at Cornell something that had stuck in his mind: War was as much a part of the human condition as love and birth.

  And there was a secret side to Stanley S. Fine that not even his wife understood. If he had had his way, he would have been an aviator, not a lawyer. His heroes were Lindbergh, Doolittle, and Howard Hughes, not the august members of the Supreme Court. And while of course it could be the wine that let him think this, he sort of had the feeling that after he told Canidy and Bitter that he’d earned his commercial ticket and that he was trying to come up with the money to buy a Beechcraft, they seemed to hold him in a different light, maybe even consider him sort of an associate member of their fraternity. So far as Stanley S. Fine was concerned, being a fighter pilot was the realization of the ultimate dream.

  About 10:30, Chest
y and Jim Whittaker came into the dining room, followed by the headwaiter and a busboy carrying two chairs.

  Jim Whittaker quickly ducked his head and gave an unsuspecting, and immediately annoyed, Cynthia Chenowith a quick, wet kiss.

  ‘‘Jim!’’ she cried out, blushing. ‘‘Would you stop acting like a child and behave yourself?’’

  ‘‘I have been behaving myself,’’ he said. ‘‘Isn’t that right, Chesty?’’

  ‘‘With one or two minor little lapses, he was on his very best behavior,’’ Chesty said, and turned to order brandy from the headwaiter.

  ‘‘And did you tell Uncle Franklin how miffed you were that he’s kept you in uniform?’’ Canidy asked.

  ‘‘Oh yes,’’ Chesty Whittaker replied, laughing. ‘‘He told him.’’

  ‘‘And what did he say?’’ Canidy asked.

  ‘‘He told me how proud the nation is of all of us who stand at the gates, defending freedom,’’ Jim said dryly. He turned to Cynthia. ‘‘Has Canidy been making passes at you, my love?’’

  ‘‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jimmy!’’

  ‘‘Bitter has,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘Bitter’s been feeling my knee and simultaneously making eyes at her. He’s not very good in the dark. I would have said something, but he looked so happy.’’

  Chesty Whittaker’s smile was strained.

  I did that, Canidy realized, to see what his reaction would be. And he did just what I expected.

  ‘‘Why don’t we change the subject?’’ Cynthia said. ‘‘And not back to airplanes, if you don’t mind.’’

  ‘‘Well, I for one would like to hear,’’ Chesty said, ‘‘about the Great Cedar Rapids Fire Dick Canidy had, as it were, his hand in.’’

  Fine told the story. He was a good storyteller, and his descriptions of the man whose Studebaker had blown up and the juvenile counselor’s disappointment at losing the chance to rehabilitate Fulmar and Canidy had the others laughing boisterously.

  ‘‘And proving beyond doubt my uncle Max’s belief that it’s a small world, Eric Fulmar’s the reason I’m in Washington, ’’ Fine said. ‘‘Eric’s in Morocco, and that is worrying the studio.’’

  ‘‘Why should that worry the studio?’’ Canidy asked. ‘‘Oh, because of his mother?’’

  Fine nodded. ‘‘It would be embarrassing if it became public knowledge that he exists at all, and it would probably kill her at the box office if it came out that he’s part German.’’

  ‘‘He’s not a German, he’s an American,’’ Whittaker snorted.

  ‘‘He may think of himself as an American, but I have to establish that once and for all, and when I do, that opens the next question.’’

  ‘‘Which is?’’ Canidy asked.

  ‘‘What is the legal position, vis-à-vis the draft, of people with dual citizenship?’’ Fine said. ‘‘And of people like Eric, who are out of the country? Does the law require an expatriate to register for the draft? If so, when? When the law goes into effect? Or when the expatriate returns to the United States?’’

  ‘‘Interesting question,’’ Chesty Whittaker said.

  ‘‘And then,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘there is the question of the draft dodger himself.’’

  Cynthia and Fine both gave him a dirty look.

  ‘‘Catching him, I mean,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘After you ambulance chasers have come to all your solemn legal decisions, there is the question of applying them.’’

  ‘‘I can see it now,’’ Jim Whittaker said. ‘‘A platoon of Cynthia’s Foggy Bottom cronies, in top hats and morning coats, struggling through the sandy wastes . . .’’

  ‘‘With a draft notice in their hands,’’ Canidy ordered.

  ‘‘And there, on top of the dunes, our hero . . .’’ Whittaker came in.

  ‘‘On a white stallion, dressed up like Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik, saluting . . .’’

  Whittaker demonstrated the salute, using the third finger on his left hand in an upward position.

  Canidy laughed heartily and went on. ‘‘And, with a cry of ‘Fuck you! I am the little boy who never existed, you can’t draft me! Fight your own damned war,’ galloping off into the sunset.’’

  ‘‘My God, you’re disgusting,’’ Cynthia said.

  ‘‘I think,’’ Jim Whittaker said, ‘‘that you’re in trouble, Richard.’’

  ‘‘I think you two owe everyone an apology for your vulgarity, ’’ Chesty Whittaker said furiously.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Canidy said.

  ‘‘Well, hell, I’m not,’’ Jim Whittaker said. ‘‘And I’m not going to be a hypocrite about it. No harm was intended.’’

  ‘‘You don’t feel you owe Cynthia an apology, is that what you’re saying?’’ Chesty Whittaker asked, softly and coldly.

  ‘‘For what?’’

  ‘‘For your language and that obscene gesture.’’

  ‘‘This, you mean?’’ Jim Whittaker asked, making the gesture again. ‘‘Cynthia doesn’t even know what it means. And Canidy said ‘fuck,’ not me.’’

  Chesty Whittaker’s face whitened.

  ‘‘Stanley, Cynthia, I apologize to you for my nephew and his friend. I can only say that they have obviously had too much to drink.’’

  ‘‘I have not yet begun to drink,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘as one sailor or another is supposed to have said.’’

  ‘‘Ed,’’ Chesty Whittaker said to Bitter, ‘‘can I rely on you to get them home safely?’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Bitter said. ‘‘And I’m sorry.’’

  ‘‘The two of you together are too explosive for your own good,’’ Chesty Whittaker said.

  Then he followed Stanley S. Fine and Cynthia Chenowith out of the dining room.

  ‘‘As Jim’s guest, I know I’m not in a position to say this, but I will. The two of you were disgusting,’’ Bitter said.

  ‘‘Go with the good people, Edwin,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘I have all the self-righteousness I can take for one night.’’

  ‘‘I told Mr. Whittaker I would take care of you, and I will,’’ Bitter said.

  Whittaker and Canidy looked at each other, and then, simultaneously, they both gave Bitter the finger.

  ‘‘Fuck you, Edwin!’’ they said in chorus. And laughed.

  Bitter walked quickly after the others.

  Whittaker caught the sommelier’s eye and ordered a bottle of cognac.

  ‘‘Nothing very elaborate, you understand, my friend and I are just junior officers, but something decent.’’

  ‘‘I have just the thing, Mr. Whittaker, a very nice, not very well known label, by the people who bottle Grand Marnier. ’’

  ‘‘That will do nicely,’’ Whittaker said.

  When the cognac was delivered, he interrupted the waiter’s ritual pouring by taking the bottle away from him and filling the snifters well over half full.

  ‘‘I am going to miss you, Richard,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Me, too,’’ Canidy said.

  ‘‘Here’s to strays and orphans,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘You and me and Fulmar, wherever good ol’ Eric may be.’’

  They took a swallow of cognac.

  ‘‘Aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces,’’ Whittaker said.

  ‘‘Whatever you said,’’ Canidy said, and they took a second swallow.

  ‘‘Draft dodgers,’’ Whittaker said.

  ‘‘Especially good ol’ Eric, who is obviously smarter than you or me,’’ Canidy countered.

  They drained the snifters with the third toast. Whittaker picked up the bottle and started to pour again.

  Not looking at Canidy, and very softly, he said, ‘‘I used to wonder how I knew Chesty was bedding her. I never caught them, of course. But I knew.’’

  Canidy looked at him but said nothing.

  ‘‘You realize, of course, Richard,’’ Whittaker asked, ‘‘that I am confiding in you only because I am confident you will get your ass shot off in China?’’

  Canidy nodd
ed.

  ‘‘And then I knew how I knew,’’ he said. ‘‘Because I love her. And because I love him.’’

  He handed a snifter to Canidy and raised his own.

  ‘‘Love, Lieutenant Canidy,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Love, Lieutenant Whittaker,’’ Canidy said.

  The Plantation Bibb County, Alabama June 17, 1941

  Ann Chambers had known since she was fourteen that she had inherited her father’s character and his brains and that her brothers Mark and Charley had gotten from their mother their charm and their tendency to see things as they wished they were, rather than as they really were.

  They were considered charming and pleasant—and they were. Ann was considered assertive and aggressive—and she was. In fact, she had a masculine mind, she thought. She much preferred the company of men to women. And she felt she understood men in ways her girlfriends didn’t . . . couldn’t; Sarah, for instance, didn’t. Sarah had gotten itchy britches from Ed Bitter the moment she had seen him, and she had done everything but back up to him like a bitch in heat.

  Ann didn’t think that was going to get Eddie Bitter to make a play for Sarah. Eddie was the Boy Scout type, who would be frightened away if a girl made herself readily available to him. All Sarah had succeeded in doing was to make him uncomfortable. As a general rule of thumb, Ann Chambers believed that the more desirable a man was, the less responsive he was to feminine wiles.

  She had, she admitted, itchy britches for Dick Canidy. She had been able to face this fact from practically the moment she laid eyes on him. It had been almost immediately apparent to her that Canidy was cut from the same bolt of cloth as her father. And she knew that they hadn’t made very much of that particular material.