Once you drove past the fanciful Babylonian gates, Empire Pictures was as utilitarian as an army base. Sunlight bore down on the stark walls of soundstages and glimmered up off ribbons of asphalt. Men pushed trolleys laden with costumes of all sorts, and sets and trucks idled in doorways where costumed extras stood outside smoking. (Only the brass and the big stars got to ignore the No Smoking signs posted everywhere inside.) Small trucks and vans, some stacked with scenery and lighting, plied the lanes between buildings and soundstages. Beyond the soundstages were the various offices, the Writers’ Building, Wardrobe, and Editing, and they too looked like an army base: two-story barracks with metal stairs. I drove past the commissary, where the patio was bedecked with tables sheltered by red-and-white umbrellas and tall palms that cast little shade. Beyond this was the Executive Mansion (yes, that’s what they really called it), three stories of cream-colored splendor, a stupendous contrast to the rest of the place, and a colossal waste of real estate. A path lined with palms and lacy jacarandas led to the broad steps, and a pale marble fountain burbled out front. A sharp-faced gorgon sitting at a desk by the door demanded to know my business.

“I’m here to see Elliott Dunne,” I said. “I’m Roxanne Granville.”

“Second floor on the right. I’ll let them know,” she said, pressing on a button.

As a kid I had bounded up the tiled staircase, taking them two by two, to go up to Leon’s office, where he welcomed me anytime, opening his arms and calling me Honeybee. Now I walked slowly and soberly, woozy with anxiety over what I was about to do. I paused, my hand on the mahogany rail. I might have turned around and left, but I looked up. All the framed posters lining the staircase were films starring Denise Dell.

“Roxanne!” Elliott himself came out to greet me and usher me into his carpeted office. “I’m so glad to see you so soon after the party.”

We rattled along with the usual exchanges prefacing these encounters. At L’Oiseau d’Or they taught us a useful feminine art, a mannerism said to have been perfected by Josephine and practiced on Napoleon. A woman, especially when speaking to a man, would drop her voice, gently, not quite to a whisper. The art lay in the nuance. Her listener would have to bend closer to hear, evoking both a sense of intimacy and an air of importance to whatever was being said. The woman was thus made to seem both alluring and imperative in the same moment. I used it with Elliott. “I have here a couple of scripts by one of my writers, Charlie Frye, one of my finest writers, and I just think they’re perfect for Empire.”

“Tell me about them.” He leaned in closer. We sat on a couch of Italian leather.