“No, he’s doing a picture with Stalin. What for.”
“This wasn’t my idea, Bunny.”
“I have to run, Milton.”
“Bunny. They’re not going to pick up my option. Not after this. I can work quiet. No credit.”
“I can’t, Milton,” Bunny said, meeting his eyes. “I can’t.” He glanced over Schaeffer’s shoulders. “Look sharp. Here comes Judge Hardy.”
Schaeffer moved away without bothering to turn, as if Minot were a scent he’d picked up in the air.
“You said you wouldn’t call Mr. L,” Bunny said, his mouth clenched.
“We both said things.”
“Call it off.”
“The subpoena’s been issued.”
“Dismiss it.”
“You think the studios run this town, don’t you? Nobody elected the studios.”
“He’s not a good enemy to make.”
“Neither am I. Don’t get yourself in a swivet. You tell Lasner to behave. He cooperates, everybody’s fine. He gets to be a patriot and I get to send a message.”
“To whom?”
“You think it’s still twenty years ago, picture people can do anything they want. What did Comrade Schaeffer say? Things change.”
“Don’t do this. I mean it.”
“You mean it.” He made a face. “I appreciate the advice.”
“Want some more? Professional? You’re flopping in there.”
Minot blinked, then looked at him steadily. “Things’ll pick up tomorrow.”
Ben decided to leave before Minot had finished with Schaeffer. The testimony had grown repetitive, used up. Once Schaeffer had admitted to being a Communist, Minot was left with the less exciting story of what he’d actually done, discussion groups and petitions and rallies no one remembered. Still, a Red in the industry—how many more?
He found Hal in the cutting room, finishing the last of the camp footage.
“I thought you were with the lawyers,” Ben said.
“I was. Now I’m supposed to be thinking of anybody who could have been—you know. So I thought I’d get this done. In case things get busy. I hear Dick did a little flag waving.”
“It’s that kind of occasion. What did the lawyers tell you?”
“Be polite. Don’t volunteer. Make him work for it. Whatever that’s going to be.”
Ben leaned toward the Moviola. “Didn’t we already cut this?”
“I was just trying something.”
“What?”
“Seeing how it would work without the Artkino footage,” he said, self-conscious, trying to be casual.
“How does it?” Ben said quietly.
“You don’t want anybody saying—” He looked away. “It’s just in case. You have to pick your fights. You want this made.”
He ran into Lasner in the Admin men’s room, a surprise since his office had its own bathroom.
“Lawyers. It’s the only place I can get some peace,” Lasner said to him in the mirror, his face sagged, slightly withdrawn, the way it had looked during the street fight on Gower, trying to make sense of things. “So you were there? What’s he going to want?”
“Keep himself in the papers for a while.”
“No. From me.”
Ben joined him at the sink. “To go along. Treat him like a big shot.”
“That’s what Bunny says. It’ll blow over. What’ll blow over? I don’t know, a man comes, eats in your house, you make a party for him, and then this. So maybe Bunny doesn’t know what he’s talking about, either.”
“It worked with Dick. It was all right.”
“Did I know I was hiring Commies? Jesus Christ, Milt Schaeffer. If that’s what the Russians got, we don’t have a thing to worry about.”
“He’s not trying to make you look bad.”
“I thought you knew something about pictures.” He raised his hands, framing. “You argue with him, you’re a Commie—sticking up for them, same thing. You don’t argue, yes sir, you’re an idiot for using Milt in the first place. Either way, he’s a smart guy and you’re a putz.”
Ben said nothing.
“So that’s what everybody thinks? Bunny. You. Keep your head down. Be a putz.”
“He can make trouble for the studio.”
Lasner nodded, conceding the point. “When did that happen? I’ve been thinking about that. When did we let that happen, he wins either way?”
Ben looked at him, suddenly back with Ostermann. “A little bit at a time.”
THE NEXT day a steady drizzle came with the morning fog, blurring visibility, everything beyond the next block only half-seen through a gray scrim. Bad weather anywhere else was just part of life. Here it became disturbing, a form of disillusion. Wet palm fronds drooped, pastel stucco walls streaked grime. Without the lighting effects of sunshine, the city was shabby, the realtors’ promises turned into streets of disappointment. Traffic barely moved. The hearings would start late.