Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery (38 page)

As Toscanini bellowed in rage, the members of the press began to turn around. Sarnoff lifted his head, searching for the origin of the shouts, but his face was draining of all color: He knew that voice.

“Infamia! Disgrazia!
”

And now more and more reporters and photographers were whirling about, as agitated as wolves on the hunt. They snapped, they whirred, they shouted incoherent questions, startled by the presence of this second Maestro.

“For shame, David!” the old man screamed once more.

When he finally locked eyes with Toscanini, Sarnoff turned whiter than a Siberian Christmas. He stared blankly for two numbing seconds, trying to process what must have been an almost unimaginable piece of information—that his company and reputation were dangling on the very precipice of ruin.

Then David Sarnoff did something quite brilliant.

He began to shake with rage, and then turned his powerful body toward the Clipper. He pointed to the utterly confused ersatz Maestro and screamed, “Who is that man?”

The double didn’t move, but Giuseppe LaMarca, a.k.a. Joey Blinks, took immediate and imprudent action. He drew a small revolver from his jacket and, astonishingly enough, aimed it at Sarnoff. It was panic, pure and simple. A couple of terrified reporters shouted, “Gun!” which distracted LaMarca for a split second, and during that brief unit of time a city cop whipped out his pistol and shot the gangster just above the elbow. LaMarca dropped his pistol, clutched his arm, and stumbled onto the tarmac, where two bulky and raincoated members of RCA’s security force fell on him like bullies in a schoolyard. The faux-Toscanini just stood there, and then ran into the plane, but a couple more members of the RCA Gestapo went hustling up the stairs and into the Clipper.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sarnoff declared, his voice trembling, “I can assure you we will get to the bottom of this situation. Maestro”—and here he extended his hand to Toscanini—“I don’t know what happened here, but I extend you a heartfelt welcome, and may I only say how happy I am to see you back to New York.”

By now the press had turned a hundred and eighty degrees and was shooting photos and newsreel footage of the old man and Barbara and me. I caught sight of Toots Fellman at the edge of the herd and gestured to him. When he stepped forward, so did a mob of other reporters, but I held up my hand.

“Sorry, fellas, he has the exclusive.”

I was then assaulted by an outraged cacophony of press abuse, much of it in deeply intemperate language, the gist of which was who the fuck was Toots to get an exclusive, who the fuck was I to make such a decision, and who the fuck was I anyhow? But the choleric reporters had to make way for Sarnoff, who was pushing his way through their massed legions to get at Toscanini. He reached Maestro and threw his arms around him with Academy Award-winning fervor as a thousand flashbulbs detonated. You might have seen the pictures—they were famous at the time: Sarnoff is smiling apprehensively and Toscanini is staring at him with a fearsome countenance.

While Sarnoff was hugging Toscanini, he looked over the old man’s shoulders and up at me, his eyes broadcasting both contempt and sheer terror. Reporters were screaming wall-to-wall questions.

“Who was the second Toscanini?”

“Was that an attempt on your life, General Sarnoff?”

“Maestro, did you have a heart attack or not?”

“Let’s get out of here,” I told the general. “We’ve got a lot to talk about it.”

“Yes,” he mumbled, and then gestured for his RCA minions to clear a path through the reporters, which they did with totalitarian efficiency. The old man, Barbara, and I strode unimpeded through the mob, with a very happy Toots bringing up the rear. Photographers had a field day with Barbara, shooting acres of film and screaming for her name.

“Barbara Stern,” was all she said, like they should know who she was.

We got into Sarnoff’s limo—the three of us, plus Toots, plus an NBC security man who sat up front with the driver. It was a deluxe and heady vehicle, speaking volumes about life at the apex of corporate life: The seats were the finest cowhide, and all the appointments—door handles, ashtrays, window cranks—were finished in mahogany. And plenty roomy—you could have played ping-pong in the back of this car. A very nice means of transportation for a man who, at this moment, was terribly frightened. Sarnoff sat in the rear seat, all the way to the left; Toscanini was beside him; and Barbara sat on the right. Toots and I were perched across from them on a facing, and identically upholstered, seat. The car started speeding along the tarmac toward a chain-linked gate. Photographers raced alongside, furiously flashing away.

“Who are you?” Sarnoff barked at Toots. I wasn’t sure that he knew who Barbara and I were, but I suspected he did.

“My name is Toots Fellman,” he replied, totally unruffled, “and I write for the
Daily News.
”

“You’ll have to get out of the car,” Sarnoff said.

I shook my head in the negative.

“He gets out, we all get out. That’s the deal. Wasn’t for Toots, you don’t get your Maestro back. And isn’t that the way we’re going to play this? That you wanted him back?”

The general’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. “Of course I wanted him back! What are you talking about?” Sarnoff pushed a button on a roof panel and a steel divider rose silently, walling us off from the driver and the security man.

“Pretty neat trick,” I said cheerily. “Maybe I should get one of these babies.”

Sarnoff ignored me, in full panic. “You cannot report on any of this,” he said to Toots. “It could be extremely dangerous.”

“Dangerous to who?” I asked. “Besides yourself.”

Toscanini just stared straight ahead. He looked angry, but also tired.

“To the business climate in general, and to certain highly sensitive negotiations my company is involved in.” Sarnoff turned to the Maestro. “When we heard you’d been kidnapped, I have to admit we all panicked.”

“That’s a load of crap,” I told him.

Sarnoff folded his arms and glared at me.

“In fact, everything you’ve said so far has been a load of crap,” I said, then stared out the window. “Where the hell are we going?”

“I think we should drop Maestro off at Villa Pauline,” Sarnoff said.

“Is he going to be safe?”

“Of course he’s going to be safe. He gestured toward the closed divider. “Roger Atkins is my personal security man; he was a marine captain, five citations for bravery. He’s going to stay with Maestro.” Sarnoff patted Toscanini’s arm. “You’re home now, Maestro. You’ll be well protected.”

Toots looked at me and rolled his eyes.

“And after we drop him off?” I asked.

“Then we can talk,” Sarnoff said.

Toscanini finally spoke. “I am old man—”

Sarnoff went right up his ass. “No, Maestro, the youthful spirit—”

“Basta!
” Toscanini said with some force “I am old and there has been much in my life.” He paused and his eyes got bright with tears. “But this man”—he nodded at me—“this Boston Blackie, he is special person, David. Very important to me. Nothing can happen to this person ever.”

I was speechless. Me, Mr. Snappy Comeback himself. It was all I could do to keep from bawling.

Sarnoff took it all in, and then turned to Barbara.

“And, Miss …”

“Stern. Barbara Stern.”

“Of course,” Sarnoff said solicitously. “Fritzs daughter. Can we drop you somewhere? I’ll phone for extra security if you’d like.”

Barbara just shook her head and stared at me.

“No,” she said. “I’m with him.”

A little less than an hour later, the limousine pulled into the long circular driveway of the Villa Pauline and we all got out. The sun was casting its last rays across the lawn, shining from the Palisades right across the Hudson and onto the house. A diminutive woman stood by the door, shielding her eyes from the glare, and in back of her hovered a pale, bespectacled man whom I took to be the Maestro’s son Walter. When the old man got out of the car, Mrs. Toscanini shrieked with joy, then covered her mouth with both her hands. Toscanini turned and looked at me, and did not immediately start for his wife. He grasped my hands in his.

“I am safe now?” he asked.

“Yes you are,” I told him.

“Bene.
” He nodded, and looked happy and exhausted and a little lost.
“Bene.
” He hugged Barbara.
“Cara,
” he muttered, and kissed her on both cheeks and then on her lips, as his wife waited patiently; she knew her husband all too well. Finally, Toscanini turned to his family and went to them, and was encircled by their arms. Seconds later, they all disappeared into the house.

He never looked back.

Barbara watched him go and burst into tears. Sarnoff stood with his hands behind his back, then nodded to Roger, his security man. Roger walked to the front of the Villa Pauline and took a position with his arms folded across his chest. Just like he was taught.

“Thank God Maestro is safe,” Sarnoff told me. “What a harrowing couple of weeks for all of us.”

“General, let’s can the philosophizing and go someplace cozy.”

Sarnoff nodded. It was obvious that he wasn’t used to being addressed in so blunt a manner, but it was also obvious that he knew he was in no position to get huffy.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s do just that.”

It was a very quiet ride into Manhattan, down the West Side Highway, then cutting across town. Toots and I sat in our seats like a pair of mute twins, while Barbara was still brushing away tears.

“Quite a man, isn’t he?” Sarnoff said to her. “Has such an incredible impact on everyone he meets.

Barbara just nodded her head.

“I have to tell you, Miss Stern,” Sarnoff said unctuously, “that it was such a tragedy, what happened to your father, such a terrible waste.” He looked at me. “I’m sure you have your theories, Mr….
LeVine,
is that correct?”

“The ‘LeVine’ is correct, and also the first part of your statement. But what I think happened isn’t a theory.” I gestured toward the closed divider. “You sure you want to talk about it in here? This thing is totally soundproof?”

Sarnoff took out a monogrammed handkerchief and patted down his brow. “Let’s wait.” He looked toward Toots. “And I must tell you again, Mr….

“Fellman comma Toots,” Toots told him.

“… Mr. Fellman, that whatever we say between us this evening is totally off the record.”

Toots nodded gravely. “I write for the
Daily News,
Mr. Sarnoff. You can trust me with your life.”

The limo pulled into the basement garage of 30 Rockefeller Plaza and stopped at a red carpet that led to an elevator marked
PRIVATE.
The elevator door was already open and a uniformed operator was hustling over to open the door to the limo.

“Evening, General,” said the elevator jockey, a gray-haired Negro who looked at the rest of us with undisguised suspicion.

“Evening, Buster.”

We all got into the elevator and were rocketed up to the forty-sixth floor. Nobody said a word. Buster didn’t hum or even tap his feet. When the doors opened at the forty-sixth floor, our party was met by a tall and severe-looking woman who wore her gray hair braided intricately on the top of her head. She greeted us with the warmth usually accorded escapees from a chain gang.

“General?” she asked in some astonishment.

“The little office, Helen,” Sarnoff said to her.

The obedient Helen turned on her heel and marched away from the elevator bank. Sarnoff indicated that we should follow. We walked down a long corridor marked by very few doorways. This was the eagle’s nest, the land of offices the size of ballrooms. At the end of the hallway was a set of double glass doors. Helen pushed them open and gestured for us to enter—this was Sarnoff’s executive suite. In the reception area, two women sat behind facing blond-wood desks, their fingers flying over matching typewriters. They didn’t so much as stir when we entered, not even looking up when Sarnoff strode imperiously past their desks.

The steely Helen opened an unmarked office to her left. We entered. The “small” office was about twenty-five hundred square feet and furnished like a sitting room in a London hotel, with clubby leather couches and chairs. The walls were covered by dozens of plaques, presumably awarded to Sarnoff, as well as a few second-rate oil paintings of hunting dogs. I don’t think Sarnoff had ever hunted for anything besides Treasury Bills, but it helped give the room a cozy and Protestant feeling. The general entered the room and slammed the door so hard that one of the plaques fell off. I picked it up and studied it. It was a Brotherhood award from the Catholic Charities.

“I always liked the Catholic Charities,” I told Sarnoff. “Glad to see you feel the same way.” The general just grunted in reply and I hung the plaque back on the wall. Sarnoff sat himself in a leather chair and indicated that we should do likewise. Toots and Barbara made themselves comfy on the couch. I leaned against a mahogany buffet.

“Think I’ll remain standing, sir, if you don’t mind,” I told him. “Been on my butt all day.”

“Whatever you wish,” the RCA chairman muttered in reply.