“I assumed you had lied to me too. That you and Art had both lied to me. Hedda Hopper paid me a nasty personal visit, and I took a lot of shit from her because I’d said you were the most interesting woman in Hollywood. I was placed in the unhappy position of having to defend you. I had to assure Hedda that Art was true-blue, a veteran, the sole writer of Adios Diablo, or else let her believe that Miss Roxanne Granville had duped me too, just like she duped her own grandfather.”

I could feel my birthmark flush with shame.

“People would think I had fallen for your pretty face, or that I’d lost my wits. A man in my position, I can’t have that. After my talk with Hedda, I was so furious I almost recalled Art from Mexico, but if I did that, word would get out, and it would look like . . . No, I’d gone too far, and committed too much to the picture. I had to look as though I had faith in my own production. Which I did not. That’s when I went down to Mexico to see for myself what the hell was happening, and there was Simon Strassman, large as life.”

He fell quiet for a bit as though reliving that awful moment, and I wobbled alongside him.

“Simon wasn’t shy about its being his picture. Everyone working down there knew who wrote the original script. Someone would blab, when everyone came back to Hollywood, someone, drunk—whether he was in Ciro’s or some sleazy bar—someone would blab, and pretty soon the whole world would know that you and Simon and Art had all duped me. So, yes, I was plenty angry with the Granville Agency and with you. But”—he stopped to light a cigarette—“when I was down there, I also couldn’t help but notice the great creative chemistry that Art and Simon and Sam Pepper have together.”

We had come to my car, and I leaned against it for support. I wanted to get in and drive away, but I was too proud to squirm. After all, I had asked the question. I had to be able to hear the answer.