I thought about this as we walked. “Well, the people who have to get up every morning and go to the factory, they stay home watching television. Like pigeons on a roost,” I added with an internal nod to Thelma. I stopped and turned to him. “So who is in the theaters, Carleton?”

“The kids, teenagers, young people. They have money. They have cars. They have time. They want to get out of the house and go to the movies. These kids don’t give a damn for Communism. They want sexy stuff. Look at Blackboard Jungle, Rebel Without a Cause, Rock Around the Clock, To Catch a Thief. We don’t need Jesus Christ, pharaohs, and ten thousand extras for this audience. We need to make new kinds of pictures, like Adios Diablo.”

“Really, Carleton? Teenagers coming to see a film about Mexico in nineteen fifteen? I mean, yes, it’s a great picture, but you think kids are going to care about the Mexican Revolution? Meaning no disrespect.”

“None taken. Adios Diablo is going to be a coup for us next year. Oscar fodder. Why do you look surprised, Roxanne? It happened for High Noon, didn’t it? A little Western no one paid much attention to until suddenly, wow! Everyone sees it is a masterpiece!”

“It can happen again,” I agreed, though I didn’t actually believe that was true.

“Did I tell you I went down to Mexico myself? The shoot was way over budget and going on way too long. I wanted to have a personal look at the damage.”

I was glad he was on my left so he could not see the birthmark flush with color while he talked at length. The set was chaotic. The delays had already doubled the cost of the picture. Some of these delays were the result of clashing egos and power struggles. Some had to do with acts of god, bad weather, and bad behavior, even rampant Montezuma’s revenge among the cast and crew. While my own innards roiled, I commiserated without asking questions. Any minute now the accusation would unfold.

“You’ll never guess who was on-set down there. Not on the payroll, mind you, but on-set. Simon Strassman, remember him?”

“Sure. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Yes, that’s what he said. He said you two were great pals when you were a kid. He has a very high opinion of you.”

“How could he? I was just a kid.” I stumbled in my high heels, and Carleton caught my arm. We had come to the Paragon executive offices, a stolid-looking brick building from the forties that now, only ten years later, looked totally passé and boring. It was late, nearly seven, and the place was deserted, the staff gone except for the security guard, who stood up when Carleton entered.

“My offices are on the second floor,” he said as we started up a utilitarian staircase.