“I didn’t. We were never introduced. People weren’t. Not exactly a garden party. But I knew who he was.”
“And he knew you.”
“He must have. And, think, to remember all those years. Just store it up here and wait till you need a little mud to throw.”
“So it wasn’t MacDonald.”
Bunny hesitated for a second, either rattled or genuinely confused. “Who?”
“He was at the meeting, too.”
Bunny shook his head. “I told you, nobody was introduced.”
“Danny said you were with him.”
“With him?” Bunny said, wrinkling his brow, acting out thinking. He dropped the cigarette and started rubbing it out. “Oh, Jack. It’s been years. He was in the Pasternak unit, over at Universal. An arranger. He worked on some of the Durbin pictures.”
“A friend?”
“Just someone around.”
“Who took you to meetings.”
“Once. I didn’t know-well, we all say that now, don’t we? Anyway, I didn’t. Not really my idea of a good time.”
“Where is he now?”
“No idea. We’re talking about years-”
“He went into the Army.”
“Did he? I didn’t know.” He looked up. “How did you? Oh, Brother Tell All. What else did he say?”
“Nothing. Just the one meeting.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
“A loose end. I just wanted to know.”
“A loose end of what? You want to hound him, too? Sorry to disappoint. I don’t have the faintest. I expect if the Army got him, he’s probably dead. Not much of a fighter.” He paused, checking himself. “You don’t want to get mixed up with Minot. They don’t fight like this,” he said, waving at Ben’s shirt. “You won’t even see it coming. I don’t want Continental involved in any of his-” He stopped again. “Not one person on this lot.”
“I don’t work for him. I’m not Danny.”
He looked at Ben, then backed off. “Better get a shirt from Wardrobe. Before you start scaring people. I’ll see what’s happening outside. I suppose they’re arresting people.” He sighed. “But they won’t stay arrested.” He started to move off, then stopped. “How much does she know? About all this. I mean, married to him.”
Ben shook his head.
“You’d want to keep this to yourself, then. Not clutter things up.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “You don’t want anything here now but the part.”
Before Ben could answer, the doctor came through the screen door.
“Is he going to be all right?” Ben said.
The doctor nodded. “Just a little agitated. About being on the lot.”
“While we’re so tickled pink,” Bunny said. “So to speak.”
“I’ll go in,” Ben said.
Stein, his head now bandaged, opened his eyes when Ben approached the bed.
“We’ll get you to a hospital. Just take it easy.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen. Now they’ll say we started it.”
“Probably.”
Stein grimaced. “So thanks for-”
Ben nodded, cutting him off. “We’ll get you an ambulance.”
“You know, with your brother? That was all right. A lot of people lose interest.”
Ben said nothing, confused for a minute, until he realized Stein meant the union.
“I don’t want you to think-he wasn’t a friend. People lose touch, that’s all.”
After Stein was taken away, Ben stopped by the cutting room to check on Hal, already back splicing film, as if nothing very much had happened. But something had. The lot had a hospital quiet, and, even though the police had now cleared the street, people kept looking toward the gate, an accident after the tow truck had pulled away.
“On Gower,” Hal said. “Lasner-it’s like somebody knocked the wind out of him.”
“Nobody’s had a raise since wage controls. He had to expect-”
“It’s not the money. It’s his studio. He knows everybody’s name.”
R OSEMARY WAS in Post-Production, recording, the red light on. Why did he have to know? To salvage one piece of decent behavior? Find one line Danny hadn’t crossed, after crossing all the others?
When she came out on break she was in street clothes, her skin pale, not made up for the camera.
“I heard you got beat up,” she said, noticing the cut on his forehead.
“You should see the other guy.” He smiled. “Cheap line. How’s it going? I thought you wrapped.”
“Dubbing. They want to sneak it and the sound’s still not finished.”
“I need to ask you something. I hope you don’t mind.”
“About Daniel?”
“Yes. Well, about you.”
“Me.”
“Did you ever tell him about Pine Hill? When you were with him, I mean, did you ever mention it?”
She stared at him, clearly thrown. “You have a great way of coming up from behind,” she said finally.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“Sure you did.”
“Did you? Talk about it?”
“No.” She took out a cigarette and let him light it for her. “Why, did he?”
“No,” he said, a relief audible only to him.
“How do you know about it, then?”
“I read something. It said you’d been there as a kid. I wondered if he knew.”
“Why? Am I supposed to be ashamed of it? Eight years old? Read something where?”
Ben shrugged.
“Or are we going to? Is that what this is, a shakedown? ‘Rosemary Miller: Red Diaper Baby.’ ” She moved her hand through the air, a headline.
“No.”
She looked at him sharply. “I always knew somebody would someday. You never see it coming, though, do you?”
“It’s not coming now. This is just between us.”
“You think I’m afraid of this? There are pictures. Me and Aaron Silber, who later went on to-who knows? His father was a button supplier, he’s probably running that now. Anyway, we’re on a raft. In the lake. Cute. They ran it in the Daily Worker. My parents still have a copy, if that’s what you’re after.”
“I’m not after anything.”
“No, just curious. Want to know what it was like? Nice. We had a lake. Campfires. No running water in the bunks, but that was all right. Everything looks good when you’re eight. Eight.” She looked directly at him. “A child. Who didn’t know it was any different from the other places in the mountains. I felt lucky to go. The classes with the lessons? Only one a day and who listened in class anyway? Not with Aaron Silber around. Shows, too. I was on the stage. My parents came up for it. They thought it was wonderful. They thought the whole thing was wonderful. What the future would be like. One big Pine Hill.” She looked down, her voice lower. “Maybe I would have thought so, too. If I’d had that life. You see these fingers?” She held up her index and middle fingers. “My mother has no feeling in them. Ever operate a sewing machine?” She held her hands in front of her, mimicking pushing material toward a bobbing needle. “Sometimes it slips, you get your fingers caught under the needle. It hurts. Not like a saw or anything. You don’t lose them. But after a while, it happens enough, it kills the nerves, so you lose feeling. My father, with him it’s the cough. From the fabrics, the dust. It gets in your lungs, you never get it out, just keep coughing. So maybe they were right, what they thought. If you have that life.” She looked up at him. “But I don’t. I
