In three weeks, his fellow studio heads and their many representatives would have a breakfast meeting that would end the reign of actors’ and directors’ salary demands. Chaplin and Pickford and the rest would be brought in line.

There was, however, a glitsh, as they said in his old neighborhood. Bolsheviks.

It was a rare rainy weekend. Rain had started Friday night, and now, Sunday evening, it was continuing. When it rained, people tended to stay inside, and if it lasted more than a few hours, they went to the windows and looked at the sky as if it were a spouse that had deceived them. At eight o’clock in the evening, Zukor left his hotel suite, lurched into his private car, and was driven to meet with, he seethed, Bolsheviks.

With every piece of real estate reclaimed from wilderness, and every folly becoming standard practice, Los Angeles was evolving along its own logical course. It was not entirely clear yet whether studios were closed or open shops. Zukor loved the phrase “open shop.” It sounded so welcoming.

There had never really been a strike in Hollywood, except once, when Bolsheviks (this would be Zukor’s view) convinced the extras to demand that their pay be increased to two dollars a day. But recently ideas had been passed around with the same effectiveness as influenza. Actors were unionizing. Nice fellows seemed to join Actors’ Equity. Bolsheviks seemed to join the Photoplayers Union. And everyone from Bolsheviks to nice fellows to those who were easily influenced to those who knew no better to those who enjoyed the parties (Zukor surmised) joined the International Alliance of Theatrical and Stage Employees, the sheer, polysyllabic bulk of whose name Zukor loathed. His son-in-law Goldwyn had been very clever when he lined up actors with single adjectives. There was discomfort in a complex name; it hid conflicting ideas.

There was talk of a new union called the Amusement Federation, which would represent all studio unions. They had it right, Zukor thought. A very simple name, and it had the word “Amusement” in it, which showed that the organizers understood irony. Zukor was on his way now to meet with their business agent.

Adding to his respect, and a certain ill-ease, Zukor could find no information about the business agent. His network of informants could turn up not a shred of information about the man, as if he had dropped out of the sky.

The automobile was now idling on a residential street in an area Zukor did not recognize. “Are you sure this is it?” he asked his chauffeur.