Hollywood and Levine by Andrew Bergman Page A

on Walter’s mind. We’re not ghouls. It’s a practical problem we’re facing. Careers are at stake.”
    There was much nodding of heads.
    â€œI lived through it before,” Friedland said solemnly. “Progressive people being hounded to their deaths.”
    Rachel Wohl came up to her husband and took his arm.
    â€œMilt, I told the sitter we’d be back by eleven.”
    Wohl looked sheepish. “Children.”
    Friedland beamed like a Viennese Santa. “Ah, die schönen kinder .”
    We all decided it was time to go. Carroll Arthur and his wife were going to stay overnight in case Mrs. Adrian needed anything. June Arthur was reasonably sober, but Carroll was still swimming at the deep end. Mrs. Arthur smiled at me.
    â€œIt’ll be okay. Helen’s a strong girl.”
    I told her I thought so too, and then the whole pack of us got our coats and headed outside, saying our good-byes and shaking hands. It had gotten a good deal cooler and a stiff breeze had the palms bending like catapults. I looked back at the Adrian place; the upstairs lights were still on and I guessed that Helen Adrian wasn’t going to sleep well tonight. Nothing in this world is as empty as a man’s house on the evening he dies. Everything in the house seems to die with him.
    The cars started backing out of the driveway. I got into my Chrysler and started up. No neighbors were out. There seemed to be peace and quiet and ignorance on Escadero Road. But as I drove off I was certain that dozens of eyes were peeking through dozens of curtains.

4
    T he sun was beating on the curtains and a brilliant patch of dust-filled light hung over my bed, the particles tumbling silently like snow in a glass paperweight. I watched with pleasure, a child waking in his crib, snug, and yawning. I stretched and kicked the sheets. It was a quarter to seven in the morning and there was no way, save anesthesia, that I could get back to sleep. My head was busy and lucid, my stomach was roaring; against all my historic principles and precepts, I arose for the day.
    A shower and shave, fresh underwear and yesterday’s brown suit. Humming all the while, I tied the tie and crossed the laces, hitting the street at a quarter past, a hungry lion stalking breakfast on the veldt. The day was a gleaming beauty, heralded by a chorus of birds perched in the Real’s fruit trees. Gentle sunlight and easy warmth fell on my back; I smiled at a familiar bald shadow on the pavement. On Sunset Boulevard, an elderly couple sat on a bench in the sunshine, waiting for a bus. They looked very happy. I thought about moving to L.A. then remembered the reason I was out here in the first place. But it wasn’t enough to make me feel bad; I felt a certain detachment from the Adrian case. It really wasn’t my problem, was it? I had found my own bit of California, if only a California of morning walks to coffee shops. I felt wonderful. It lasted almost half an hour.
    Over freshly squeezed juice, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a pot of coffee, I opened up the Los Angeles Times for news of Adrian’s death. I figured it would be a page one item, given the bizarre circumstances, but the Times had the story, with a head shot of Walter, on the bottom of page three.
    WALTER ADRIAN FOUND DEAD
SCREENWRITER APPARENT SUICIDE
    Screenwriter Walter Adrian was found dead last night at Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank, an apparent suicide. The body of the forty-year-old Adrian, whose many credits included Three-Star Extra, Boy From Brooklyn, Berlin Commando , and Beloved Heart , was discovered by a close friend. Los Angeles Police Lieutenant George Wynn said the probable cause of death was strangulation and there was “no evidence of foul play.” He would not divulge whether a note had been found.
    Studio officials and friends told the Times that Adrian had been despondent for some time, but all were shocked at the writer’s death. Said