“They were,” said Carleton, easing back in his chair. “In Mexico they all drank too much and talked too much, and each seemed to think he had personally settled the West. They wore out the typewriter ribbons making rewrites, putting in more sex, more violence, more . . . what’s the word I want?”

“Dash,” said Simon. “Art and I, we’re going to write another great picture together. Even if I’m in prison.”

Carleton walked to the glass cabinet, took out a bottle of Rémy Martin and three cognac glasses; he poured us each a splash. “To Adios Diablo!” We clinked glasses. “We’re thinking about putting Simon’s name on the credits, Roxanne. After Art’s name, but right up there on the screen.”

I lowered the glass from my lips. Surely I had misheard. “What?”

Carleton repeated himself, and across from me, Simon beamed like a big fat Buddha.

I said, “Are you out of your mind? Hedda Hopper will tear you to shreds. The American Legion will picket the theaters. The Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals will see to it your actors never work again! I’m talking about the careers of everyone on the picture, the actors, the writer, the director. Even the script girl will never work again!”

“She’ll be okay,” said Carleton. “She’s Mexican.”

“And a little beauty,” said Simon.

“I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” I insisted. “They’ll destroy you personally. They’ll come to your home with red paint and the carcasses of dead dogs, believe me!”

“They might try to destroy me, us,” said Carleton, “but I’m not such an easy target. For one thing I’m a lot younger than Leon, than Jack Warner and the rest of them, and my family are all WASPs from Connecticut. I wasn’t here during the union turmoil in the thirties, the strikes, the informing, making propaganda films during the War. I’m a different generation of studio head. If the unions have to be dealt with, it’s just part of the cost of doing business; it’s not ideological for me. I didn’t sign the Waldorf Agreement. Nine years is a long time to be settling old scores, selling out friends, painting one another Red, just to be able to work.”

“Ask Dalton Trumbo,” Simon muttered. “Ask Ring Lardner and Adrian Scott.”

“But all the studio heads signed the Waldorf Agreement,” I insisted. “Even Paragon.”

“Noah Glassman died last year. I’m in charge now.”

“Yes, but the rest of them haven’t backed down.”