Interlude

Winter 1948

"The Beverly Hills Brown Derby?" Vera asked as they were parking. "Wouldn't it be more impressive to eat at The Polo Lounge? It's right across the street."

"The partners made the decision, not me."

Patrick Gill was a junior partner at Webster Steenburgen. The dinner had been planned to impress a lawyer named Hammerstein they were courting from New York. As much as Vera's question was right on the money, it annoyed Patrick. He was finding she did a lot of annoying things.

She'd come to Thanksgiving dinner; at which time they'd announced their engagement. She'd worn a green dress with a floral print, large skirt, matching belt, and a white collar. It wasn't as formal as he'd have liked. She was wearing the same dress to dinner, and he kicked himself for not insisting they buy her something more appropriate. He knew the partners were expecting evening wear.

Unlike its sister restaurant in Hollywood, the restaurant was not shaped like a hat. There was a derby on a neon sign sitting high above them as they walked under the awning into the restaurant. Inside, the walls were covered in a light beige linen on top of which hung dozens of 8x10s of movie stars neatly arranged in rows. From the ceiling hung spider-like chandeliers with two dozen light bulbs every ten feet. The round tables were surrounded by dark green leather club chairs held together with brass tacks. Dinner was well underway, and the room was filled with chatter and cigarette smoke.

The ma?tre d' led them to a large round table in one corner. There were already three other couples there. Seeing them, Roland Webster stood up, acting the senior partner. He was well into his fifties, balding, angry blue eyes and a phony smile. He wore a loose-fitting gray suit with a fresh white shirt and a navy blue tie with white anchors.

"Well, there you are. We've already ordered drinks. Patrick, this is Bernie Hammerstein and his wife Rachel."

Bernie was just a bit older than Patrick, though he looked younger. He seemed terrified of something. Patrick couldn't decide if it was the restaurant, Roland, or California in general. His wife looked surprised.

"It's good to meet you," Patrick said. "This is my fiancée, Vera Korenko."

Bernie stood up and shook Patrick's hand but then wasn't sure what to do with Vera. She said, "It's a pleasure to meet you both." Which allowed him to sit back down. She smiled at Rachel. Dressed in a crepe black dress with a modest décolletage, she seemed in awe of everyone and everything around her.

Harold stood, saying, "Well Patrick, you know who I am, but your fiancée doesn't. Vera, I'm Harold Steenbergen and this is my wife, Catherine."

He was tall, in his early sixties and graying, while his wife was also tall, rail thin and around the same age. They were both in black; his suit impeccably tailored, her dress fully formal going nearly to the floor.

As Patrick held out a seat for Vera, Roland said, "I've been remiss. This is my wife, Olive."

Patrick and Vera smiled and said "Hello."

Olive smiled. She wore a navy dress with a large rhinestone brooch. Hooked in her elbows was a mink stole—though it was anything but chilly.

A waiter arrived with the drinks they'd ordered. The men appeared to be having some kind of highball, while the women had ordered grasshoppers. When everyone was served, the waiter asked Patrick, "Can I get you cocktails?"

"I'll have a rye and ginger," Vera said.

"Scotch and water," Patrick said.

The menus were waiting in front of them. Patrick perused his while Roland asked Bernie, "So, how are you finding Los Angeles?"

"Everything's so far apart," Rachel answered for her husband.

"That's the American dream," Roland said. "Space."

"You've certainly got that," Bernie said. It was clear to Patrick he wouldn't be joining the firm. If he were, he and his wife would be talking about the sunshine and the constant warmth.

The overlooked Olive must have picked up on the unease, because she asked, "What's everyone having? It all looks so good."

"I'm having the calf's liver," Roland said.

"Of course, you are dear."

"Well, you won't cook it at home."

"It smells up the whole house. I'm thinking the Pompano Beatrice."

"Oh, that sounds good," Catherine said.

"Is the seafood here any good?" Rachel asked.

"Rachel went to Brandeis," Bernie said proudly. "The seafood in Boston is incredible." Then to his wife he suggested, "Maybe the chicken curry with bananas. You'd like that. I'm thinking the creamed turkey, myself."

Patrick and Vera's drinks arrived. Vera said, "Thank you."

"Ladies, save some room," Olive said. "They have fresh spinach ice cream. Nonfattening."

"That's a terrible idea," Roland said. "Don't want any of you girls turning into Popeye. Especially you Olive."

That got a chuckle from his wife.

Vera took a pack of Parliaments and a lighter out of her purse. Rachel glanced at them and asked, "Oh, what are those?"

"Parliaments. They have a filter. ‘Only the flavor touches your lips,'" she said, quoting their slogan.

"So you don't get tobacco on your lips? I hate that. Can I try one?"

"Of course." She held out the pack of cigarettes. Rachel took one and Vera lit it for her.

After inhaling, Rachel said, "Oh it's very mild." She smiled at Vera and sipped her grasshopper.

"I like this fellow Nixon," Roland said. "We need politicians like that, unafraid to go after communist spies."

It was obvious to Patrick that the comment was meant for the men at the table. He could see Roland bristle when Vera replied. "Oh, but I feel sorry for Mr. Hiss. I mean, the whole thing is ridiculous. Who hides important documents in a pumpkin? I mean, it makes no sense."

"And where would you hide classified documents, young lady?"

"It depends on who I'm hiding them from."

"Imagine I'm the FBI and I'm coming to search your house."

"Oh, that's easy. I'd put them in an envelope and mail them to myself with insufficient postage. I'd get a notice from the Post Office that I owed postage due. I wouldn't pick them up until the coast was clear."

Her answer seemed to make Roland very cross. Patrick was blushing deeply.

"What did you say your last name was?" Roland asked.

"Korenko."

"And what kind of name is that?"

"Czechoslovakian."

"Are you a communist?"

Vera laughed. "Why would I be a communist? I love money too much. Ladies, don't you love money?"

That seemed to embarrass the other women at the table, and Patrick knew why. If you were rich, you tried not to talk about money. It was bad form. Vera seemed to be good at bad form.

Roland gave him a look, one that said they'd be discussing this later. His pact with Vera was meant to solve problems, not create them. But here it was again. He knew that he'd have to extradite himself from this situation. But how?