“Maybe you could go to England. I’ve heard lots of blacklisted writers are doing well there,” I said. “Maybe not well. But they’re working. Or Jerrold in Paris! He would love to see you, I’m sure of it.”

“I can’t go to England. I can’t go anywhere. I can’t leave Marian, and she can’t leave our son. If I don’t get some money, Norman will have to move to a public insane asylum. That would kill my wife.”

Sinatra crooned, filling up the silence. “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” seemed all the more poignant. Finally I said, “It’s so unfair, Max. You’re the screenwriter always known for sparkling wit and the funny lines and madcap stories.”

Max shrugged as though dusting defeat from his shoulders.

“If you decide to do this, Roxanne,” said Thelma, “and I do mean if—really, if you don’t want to, we all understand the risks—but if you do, then we need to find a writer we can trust.”

“There is no one we can trust,” said Max, “present company excepted. We have to take a chance.” He ran his hands over his face. “I’m still under subpoena, and if the FBI finds out I’m not in Mexico, I could easily be indicted for contempt of Congress. They can revoke my passport. If it weren’t so tragic, it would be comic. It would be a comic movie full of misunderstood intents.”

“A movie like you would write.” I rose, took the needle off the record, and turned off the hi-fi. “Leave the scripts with me. I’ll read them. Still, I mean, the kind of witty comedies that you wrote, who’s doing those now? No one. Everyone’s flinging themselves into musicals or biblical epics, extravaganzas they can splash across the screen in Cinerama or VistaVision and Todd-AO, 3-D, or any of the other cinematic marvels the studios are flogging.”

“Movies people can’t watch at home on that little grainy-gray box,” said Thelma.

“Exactly. These big glamorous pictures, well, look at last year’s The Egyptian or The Sign of the Pagan, they’re terrible, but they’re making money, and that’s the only standard. Sadly.”

“I saw Banner Headline,” said Max, shaking his head. “Vic Hale and Phil Tobin might be all-American, but they’re sure turning out limp-dick pictures. These, at least”—he nodded toward the briefcase—“these are charmers, like the old Cary Grant comedies. But I don’t expect miracles, Roxanne.” Max got slowly to his feet. “I’m grateful for whatever you can do. Truly grateful. And if you decide it’s too risky for you, I still thank you.”