When David had called, Marcus demurred. But David had been characteristically persuasive: It would only take a few weeks, he said; he would make it worth Marcus’s while; and there was no one else in the whole country he could rely upon. As an added enticement, David sent a plane. With Marcus seated by himself in the passenger cabin (a glass of his favorite bourbon in hand), the plane inscribed its dotted line from Little Rock across the dustbowl, over the Grand Canyon and Death Valley, to the airstrip in Culver City where David waited at the side of his Rolls Royce. And when they arrived at Selznick International and walked into Building Two, David opened an oaken door with an elaborate flourish to reveal . . . Marcus’s office in Little Rock.

With a bit of help from the property department, the Selznick International set designers had engineered a facsimile—right down to the louvered shades, the antiquated map of eastern Arkansas, and the Roman bust on the book shelf (albeit a papier-mâché Caesar standing in for a marble Cicero.)

That was four years ago.

Marcus surveyed the top of his desk. Neatly arranged along its edge were seven stacks of paper, one of which stood a foot tall. These weren’t from the prop department. They were an essential component of the industriousness of his client—a man for whom no slight was too offhand, no promise too in passing, no penny too thin to wage a battle on its behalf. Selznick versus a Studio. Selznick versus a Star. Selznick v. Temperature, Time, and Tide.

—Mr. Benton, sounded an electronic voice. A Miss Evelyn Ross here to see you.

Marcus put the dossier in the drawer and pushed the button on the intercom.

—Please, show her in.

As was his habit, Marcus came around the desk ready to greet his guest and make her feel at ease; but he was taken aback when through the door came the blonde in blue with the barefooted boy’s fishing rod on her shoulder and his floppy straw hat on her head.

She barely gave him a chance to introduce himself.

—Did you know that a few hundred yards from here is a stretch of the Mississippi River? And not only does it have a rickety dock and a riverboat, it has been stocked with actual fish!

Marcus laughed.

—We do strive for verisimilitude, Miss Ross.

—I’ll remember that.

She gestured with the rod toward the bookcase.

—May I?

—Of course.

She leaned the rod upright and placed the hat on the shelf next to Caesar’s head. Then she took a seat, crossed her legs, and lightly bounced her foot.