Not surprisingly, Gordon’s ulcer flared or broke or burst or something awful, and an ambulance was called to Empire Pictures to take him to the hospital and emergency surgery.

When Irene called me from the hospital, she added, “I’m forbidden to see you, little sister, or telephone or even say your name, and given how sick Gordon is, I think I better go along with this.”

“Sure,” I said, resigned, and too battered to be more heartbroken. “I hope he gets well. He didn’t deserve this.”

Irene paused, clearly on the brink of a big fat I told you so . . . But she refrained and said goodbye.

Hedda Hopper (no doubt thrashing herself for having praised the Granville Agency just a few months before) moved in for the kill about a week after her initial article celebrating Charlie’s patriotic exposé. She inserted a tiny note at the end of her column that the Granville Agency operated illegally out of a house on Clara Bow Drive, a neighborhood not zoned for business.

“I better call up my brother and see if I can deliver produce again,” Thelma said, tossing the page to me, Hedda’s comments circled.

“Ask him if he’ll hire me too,” I replied, looking up from the latest issue of the Challenger, where, as usual, I searched for news of Terrence. Jaylene Henderson was going to New York to record with a new label. Booker’s band was coming back after a West Coast tour. The Comet Club had been raided again for drugs. Ruby’s Café advertised their lemon meringue pie. Jackie Robinson got a lot of ink, as did Paul Robeson, as did the Shoe Drive and the ongoing Montgomery bus boycott. Nothing by, from, of, or about Terrence Dexter, whose name was gone from the masthead.

Tires screeched, and Thelma and I suddenly looked up, alarmed to see an old Dodge pickup truck pull into the driveway, blocking Thelma’s Nash and the MG. Three or four men—maybe fewer, maybe they just moved so fast they seemed like more—jumped out of the pickup. They wore caps pulled down low over their brows and old coats, though it was a warm day. We watched, horrified, speechless, as swiftly and in unison they grabbed five-gallon cans from the truck and quickly flipped the lids off and splashed red paint over everything, covering the big window in front of Thelma’s desk so we could not see anything at all.