Suddenly Tom Willis popped into the room. Grinning, handsome in a crisp new wide-lapel suit, he offered Richard Neville a hearty, masculine handshake while ladling fulsome praise all over his latest unremarkable picture. Bonnie rose and opened Irv’s door. He was back behind his desk (and I assume he had his pants on). He called out in a jovial fashion, totally in control of himself and the situation, “Richard, come and meet Tom Willis. He’ll be your new liaison while we work on this deal. He’ll see to it you’re very well treated. He’s a Dartmouth man.”

The mirth died from Neville’s lips, and color drained from his face. He knew this meant Irv Rakoff, the name partner, would no longer personally represent him; he was passé, maybe even finished, handed off to . . . “What did you say your name was?”

“Tom! Tom Willis, your new agent.”

“Plenty of time to get acquainted,” Irv said. “Come into my office.”

Bonnie closed the door after them. She took from her desk a stack of scripts and placed them unceremoniously in my arms. “Deliver these, then come back to the office and take up the rest of your duties.”

“You think letting Mr. Rakoff feel me up is part of my duty?” I rasped. I know my mouth was gaping, but I couldn’t help it. “You think I’m supposed to—”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up right now.” As if on cue, her phone rang, and she picked it up. “Mr. Rakoff’s office.”

I went downstairs feeling rickety, uneven, tottering in my heels, knowing I had to go back to the Farm to get my purse and keys before I could leave. I went first to the women’s bathroom and washed my hands and saw Julia’s diamond ring flash in the harsh light. I started to cry, bringing my wet hands to my face until I all but heard her voice. Not here. Not now. Never forget you are named for the romantic heroine of a great play . . .

After I collected myself (which took some doing), I strolled into the Farm, where the guys were all underemployed—reading the newspaper, chatting on the phone, doing a crossword—but when they looked up and saw me, their collective expression was sympathetic. Did they know? Did they guess? “I spilled champagne on my skirt,” I stammered.

Dave handed me the newspaper. “I know Max Leslie is a friend of yours,” he said.

My heart sank as my eyes devoured Hedda Hopper’s shrill column excoriating Max as another Red serving the ambitions of the Soviet Union, another cowardly Red who had taken the Fifth before the House Committee and refused to name his Communist comrades.

“His ass was cooked when his name showed up in the pages of Red Channels. Anyone, everyone whose name is there, well . . .” Joe sliced across his throat.