As we pulled away from Clara Bow Drive in Irene’s Cadillac, I noticed Popeye across the street. I glanced over my shoulder, and yes, there he was, following us, a fact I did not bring to Irene’s attention. Popeye now had her license plate number, and the make of her distinctive teal blue car, and there was nothing I could do about it. On the other hand, if I thought it out rationally, he’d certainly learn the car belonged to Irene Conrad, who was related to the Leon Greene, founding member and major nabob in the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals. She’d be safe. And then it occurred to me that I too was related to Leon Greene, and perhaps the FBI wouldn’t look too closely at the Granville Agency since my grandfather was pals with J. Edgar and Dick Nixon. That is, unless they believed Thelma Bigelow was a Communist spy trying to infiltrate the entertainment business, and spread Red propaganda using the Granville Agency as a cover. The burdens of secrecy, the murk and merde, the endless grate of fear of what I didn’t know—and anxiety for what I did—made my innards knot.

“What’s wrong with you?” Irene asked. “You look suddenly sick.”

“I’m fine.” But I rolled down the window a bit just the same, rain and all; I needed the fresh air.

Irene’s Cadillac passed through Empire’s elephant gates with a mere nod from the guard, and without waiting in line. (Popeye of course could not follow.) She parked in front of the ostentatious Executive Mansion and we ran through the falling rain (Californians never carry umbrellas). With only a breezy nod to the gorgon at the reception desk, we went to the screening room on the first floor. Gordon was making a few calls when we walked in, and he motioned to us to have a seat. I hadn’t been in this room since I was in high school, what felt like a thousand years ago. As I sat down, the plush chair gave off a gentle whoosh of stale cigarettes and long-suppressed farts.

Gordon signed some documents, handed them to his secretary, and waved her away. He signaled the guy up in the projection booth. He said to me, “This isn’t properly cut yet, and the gloss isn’t on it, no music, except for that scene where we licensed the song, but I want to know what you think.”

“Well, sure, Gordon, but why?”

“Aren’t you the one who sat at the feet of the masters?” he snapped in his usual snotty fashion while Irene rolled her eyes.