“That’ll be him,” Minot said, picking up and talking, the words bunching together, slipping past Ben, just business.
A meeting with Bunny arranged by whom? Minot just another union, another negotiation? Bunny was walking around the room, politely distancing himself from Minot’s call. Maybe looking out toward the hall, where Liesl would be any minute. But she’d see the lights, realize people were here. Ben imagined her in the hall, being swept down toward the back door by her own story-she had the papers, why stay? Her voice now, to Frank. Don’t say any more. If he could hear it, Bunny could.
“You’re a peach,” she said. “You saved my life.”
Distinct to him, or was he the only one listening, Bunny preoccupied? Then the sound of her heels.
“Everything okay, Congressman?” Frank said, his head in the door.
Minot nodded and waved him off. Now he’d follow, let her out, and she’d go to her car, expecting to find Ben, alarmed when she didn’t. Don’t come back.
“Sorry about that,” Minot was saying. “Now where- Ginny was supposed to leave- Here it is.” Ben heard the ruffle of paper. “We can talk more in the car.”
“I think I know what you need. You understand, our records aren’t anything like this.” Ben imagined him waving to the cabinets.
“No, these are the best anybody has, thanks to Jack Tenney.”
“It’s understood that Mr. L won’t be called,” Bunny said.
“I see no reason for that at this juncture,” Minot said, oddly formal.
“He’s not Mayer. No real press value for you. And the studio heads might see it as an attack, close ranks.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
“Besides, I’m not sure he really understands what this is about.” He dropped his voice. “He’s out of it. That’s understood.”
“He hired Schaeffer,” Minot said.
“So did Zanuck. Anyway,” he said, switching tack, “who talks to writers? People on the set, not the front office. We can help you there. What kind of charges are you going to bring?”
“Charges? This isn’t a criminal trial. I’m not looking to send anybody to jail. Takes time and then you make martyrs out of them. Of course, if he perjures himself-but I doubt that, don’t you? Especially with all the corroborating testimony. Schaeffer’s a Commie and he knows we know. I don’t want to put him away, I just want everybody to know he’s there. Anyway, the public isn’t going to care about Schaeffer. They’ll want-” He stopped, evidently aware that he was saying more than he needed.
“Actors,” Bunny finished. “Stars.”
“Well, let’s just say people they know. Not necessarily Reds. Maybe just people who are as concerned as we are. Friends.”
“I understand,” Bunny said, interrupting him. “Faces for the newsreels.”
“Well, just so we do understand each other,” Minot said, annoyed. “How mutual interests work. The studios. The committee. We want to be on the same side here. As I say, I’m not looking to put people in jail. I’m expecting the studios to do their own police work. You wouldn’t want one working for you, would you?”
There was a pause. “Not even a suspected one,” Bunny said quietly, taking this in.
“That’s right. And once people know the studios feel this way, that it’s about their jobs, I think we’ll have a whole different situation. You fire one, everybody sits up. They’ll know it’s not going to be tolerated. Not in American movies. You don’t want to employ people who are against everything you stand for. You get together on this, hell, you could put the committee out of business.”
“Their jobs,” Bunny said. “Then why not give us names. We can take care of it before you have to call them. Saves expense.”
“Maybe in time. But right now-I don’t have to tell you about the value of publicity to get things rolling. That’s mother’s milk to you people.”
“Preview of coming attractions.”
“That’s right. We understand each other?”
For a minute Ben heard only the clock ticking.
“Mr. L is out of it,” Bunny said. “And the union contract?”
“That’s not in my gift. But I can promise that Mr. Stein will be otherwise occupied. That should help things along. Funny how they’re always Jews, isn’t it? Well, I have to get going. Do me a favor, will you, and reach behind? Get me an envelope for this? There should be a box of manilas in there.”
Ben fixed his eyes on the edge of the screen. What an animal must feel, he thought, finally outrun, trapped, a rush of blood to the head, then an eerie stillness, everything stopped, waiting. A hand, then a body blocking the light, Bunny turning. Ben reared back, flattening himself against the shelves, as if he could disappear, out of Bunny’s startled gaze. He expected Bunny to jump but instead he put his hand to the shelf, maybe to steady himself, still staring. A second passed, then another, neither of them making a sound, so that of all the things racing through Ben’s mind, what stuck was Bunny’s control, a will stronger than shock. And then it was too late for him to say anything, the moment over, both thinking, not breathing, trapped by each other.
“The door slides,” Minot said. “They’re back there somewhere.”
Maybe coming to help. Ben made his eyes go to the shelf beside him, a direction, then repeated it, like a flashing light.
“I see it,” Bunny said, reaching to the box on the shelf, his hand grazing Ben’s shoulder, complicit now by his silence, suddenly Ben’s protector. They looked at each other, a whole exchange without words, beyond the obvious question.
“I’ll have Andy drop you home,” Minot was saying, his voice sounding closer.
“No, the studio,” Bunny said, still looking at Ben. “I have a meeting. Somebody I need to see.” His voice now pitched directly at Ben, unmistakable. He took the envelope, then pulled the accordion screen closed, hiding Ben. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to Minot, and it was only then Ben heard the first waver, Bunny’s nerves finally engaged, not wanting Minot to know.
“This late? Well, I know how that is. Come on, I’ll get you back. I feel good about this. I think we got something done tonight.”
Ben heard them cross the room and then the light went out and the door slammed. He breathed out, the blood coming back, and realized he was sweating. He nudged the screen back, trying to do it silently. Give them a few minutes. He looked around the dark office. He’d have to use the window after all.
He leaned against the wall, waiting, thinking about the conversation. Their jobs. He was going to get the studios to do it for him. And they would. Buying time, feeding him one piece at a time, staying 100 percent American. Even Bunny, who understood, would have to give him somebody, a face to start with. He thought suddenly of Bunny’s face as it had been, guileless, a Freddie Bartholomew tear running down his cheek. An orphan. If you were fired at one studio, you’d never work at another. It would be understood, the way Minot wanted it.
Some headlights went by outside the window. Minot’s or just another car? Not yet. He looked at the files. Any one of them. And then he knew who it would be, the pragmatic choice. The file was right here, easy for him to take. Would it make any difference? You could reconstruct a file. If you remembered the sources, knew the cross references, had the time. And Minot now was in a rush. Danny had tried to help her once, never reported a thing. She must have meant something to him. Ben glanced at the file drawer again. Right here. Be Danny one more time.
He went over to the files and flicked through the tabs. Miliken, Millard, Miller. He took it out, bulky, and put it in his jacket, feeling his blood rush again. He glanced around, a thief’s involuntary gesture, then closed the drawer and went over to the window, trying to estimate the drop. Not far, the first floor, but you’d have to dangle a second before you dropped or risk your ankles, just the second a car might be passing. But everything seemed quiet. Wilshire was always busy, but the side street mostly took the outflow of the parking lot. He waited another minute, listening, then opened the window and swung out. When he was over, still hanging from the lintel, he tried to reach up with one hand to bring the window back down, but it jammed and putting his weight on one hand made it begin to slip, so he brought the other back and let himself down, dropping slowly until he was a few feet from the ground. Now. He hit the ground just as a pair of headlights swung around from Wilshire. He was wincing from the dull shock of the jump, but forced himself up before the light could reach him. A crouch would be suspicious. Your body told
