“I’m so sorry, Max.”

“You had nothing to do with any of this.”

“But Leon did.”

“Then let him apologize,” Thelma snapped.

Max’s whole body seemed to sag, and his gaze rested on the old upright piano, but I felt he was looking into some long-distant past I could not share.

“That piano looks like the one Nelson used to play.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

“You still play?”

“Now and then. I don’t want to forget everything I once knew.” The silence between us prickled with the unsaid. “It’s dreadfully out of tune.”

He placed a hand over the briefcase. “I have an enormous favor to ask of you, Roxanne. As an agent. As a friend. I guess you know what it is.”

“Max, if I can help you in any way, I will.”

“Listen carefully, Roxanne,” said Thelma.

“If you’re found out, you’ll come under the scrutiny of the Red hunters, the Un-American bloodhounds, the FBI. So I do not ask this lightly. Whatever you decide is fine with me. Really.”

“Why don’t we turn on a record?” suggested Thelma, getting up and bringing down the bamboo shades.

I went to the hi-fi and lifted off the album of John Philip Sousa marches. (I sure as hell didn’t want to have to explain that!) Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Young Lovers was nearby—not exactly suitable, but so what? I returned to sit across from them.

“Everyone knows the rumors,” said Max. “Writers get blacklisted and the studio revenues go down, and sometimes even the studios collude to put another name on scripts so that writers can go on working. That’ll never happen at Empire, and Empire is the only studio I ever worked for. Only studio Nelson or Simon ever worked for. I’ve heard that Empire sold off the old Western lot last year.”

“Empire isn’t making Westerns anymore.”

“They’re building tract houses where the Western lot used to be,” said Thelma. “They’re building tract houses everywhere. Someone offered my brother five hundred thousand dollars for his farm.”

Max poured himself another Scotch. “I told Thelma I didn’t want to come to you, but you’re the only one I can turn to, Roxanne.”

“And I told Max you make your own decisions,” said Thelma.

“Roxanne, if I don’t write, something inside me dies. I learned that much in Mexico. I’ve got two brand-new scripts here. I think they’re good. I’m hoping that you’ll read them and think they’re good, and maybe give my work to one of your young clients. A decent writer. He puts his name on it. He takes the credit. We all split the money. I’m sorry to ask at all, but I’m desperate to make some money. All our savings are gone. If I could do anything else but write, I would, but I can’t.”