I’m faithful to Anya. I mean, I
make a point
of it. Maybe I didn’t so much when I was younger, but”—he shook his head sagely—“I don’t think I’m missing anything. Luckily for me, she never found out. You know, one false step and there’s your whole family. And then, oh my God,
alimony
. Christ, forget it, it ain’t worth it.”
Jake nodded automatically but offered nothing in reply. Engel added, “Let me say it again, Jake. Dinah loves you. She’s gonna do it and never look back. She’s gonna do it for
you
. So don’t be careless, ’cause you’re gonna owe her.”
“Got it.”
“Good boy.”
There was one last pure Engelism, as Jake later reported it to Dinah. Just as they reached the office door, he said, Engel gave his shoulder an especially tight squeeze. “Just promise me one thing, Jake,” he said. “When this all blows over, and the country wakes up and realizes what it’s done to itself, I’m gonna write a script with you and you’re gonna direct it, and together we’re gonna tell the
truth
about this period—and we’ll do it with
humor
.”
“Let’s do that, Irv,” Jake said, disengaging himself from Engel’s embrace. “Let’s definitely do that.”
S he stops and checks her watch: 2 P.M. exactly. A thousand years ago she had won silver cups in dance contests in the ballroom on the same floor, the mezzanine of the Hollywood-Griffith Hotel. Once a château-esque blue extravagance, it is now faded to gray, deep in the smoggy bowels of an already decrepit and tatterdemalion Hollywood Boulevard. She pauses in front of the conference room and by design she’s alone, without counsel, and not in Washington, as she had feared. A deal has been worked out. Jake found a lawyer who has arranged a closed “executive” session right here at home in L.A., and fixed it so that she would show up alone and thus demonstrate greater good faith and cooperation on her part than if she had come with a lawyer at her side. Nevertheless, she breathes fast, and her intestines rumble; she trembles and sweats. Calm down, she orders herself. The lawyer, who has had lots of experience representing “friendly witnesses,” has told her it’s going to be easy and fast.
She knocks at a door. Ever the director, Jake had gone through her closet the night before, taking a dress from the rack and saying, “This’ll do very nicely. I want you to look very Pasadena Garden Club.” It’s a cream silk printed with a pattern of small horseshoes and jockeys astride horses. She is wearing smart brown-and-white open-toed heels and cream-colored gloves, and she stands straight and tall. She is pulled together: a little powder, red lipstick, and mascara, hair and nails perfect, the gold barrette locked into its usual place.
The door opens and she faces a thin man with limp hair. The way he holds his head back at a stiff angle and doesn’t quite look her in the eye reminds her of a heron. “Mrs. Lasker?” he asks in a surprisingly quiet voice.
“Yes.”
“I’m Horace Marlow. Please come in.” He gestures toward a large table piled high with manila folders. At the far end of the table she sees a fat man with puffy jowls and a crew cut. Marlow introduces her to him, but she recognizes him from the newspapers and loathes him on sight: the Honorable Curtis P. Kingman, Republican congressman from Orange County. In a corner of the room, by the open windows and the maroon velvet drapes, a stenographer with glasses and bright red lips sits at a card table with a steno machine.
“Are you ready to be sworn in, Mrs. Lasker?” Marlow inquires.
“I am.”
“Please raise your hand.”
As he recites the oath, she tries to identify his accent. It sounds midwestern to her ears; there’s a slight twang. An Okie? she wonders. Why would an Okie be on
their
side? Hasn’t he read
The Grapes of Wrath
?
The swearing-in completed, Marlow motions for her to sit down. Then he moves to the opposite side of the table and
make a point
of it. Maybe I didn’t so much when I was younger, but”—he shook his head sagely—“I don’t think I’m missing anything. Luckily for me, she never found out. You know, one false step and there’s your whole family. And then, oh my God,
alimony
. Christ, forget it, it ain’t worth it.”
Jake nodded automatically but offered nothing in reply. Engel added, “Let me say it again, Jake. Dinah loves you. She’s gonna do it and never look back. She’s gonna do it for
you
. So don’t be careless, ’cause you’re gonna owe her.”
“Got it.”
“Good boy.”
There was one last pure Engelism, as Jake later reported it to Dinah. Just as they reached the office door, he said, Engel gave his shoulder an especially tight squeeze. “Just promise me one thing, Jake,” he said. “When this all blows over, and the country wakes up and realizes what it’s done to itself, I’m gonna write a script with you and you’re gonna direct it, and together we’re gonna tell the
truth
about this period—and we’ll do it with
humor
.”
“Let’s do that, Irv,” Jake said, disengaging himself from Engel’s embrace. “Let’s definitely do that.”
S he stops and checks her watch: 2 P.M. exactly. A thousand years ago she had won silver cups in dance contests in the ballroom on the same floor, the mezzanine of the Hollywood-Griffith Hotel. Once a château-esque blue extravagance, it is now faded to gray, deep in the smoggy bowels of an already decrepit and tatterdemalion Hollywood Boulevard. She pauses in front of the conference room and by design she’s alone, without counsel, and not in Washington, as she had feared. A deal has been worked out. Jake found a lawyer who has arranged a closed “executive” session right here at home in L.A., and fixed it so that she would show up alone and thus demonstrate greater good faith and cooperation on her part than if she had come with a lawyer at her side. Nevertheless, she breathes fast, and her intestines rumble; she trembles and sweats. Calm down, she orders herself. The lawyer, who has had lots of experience representing “friendly witnesses,” has told her it’s going to be easy and fast.
She knocks at a door. Ever the director, Jake had gone through her closet the night before, taking a dress from the rack and saying, “This’ll do very nicely. I want you to look very Pasadena Garden Club.” It’s a cream silk printed with a pattern of small horseshoes and jockeys astride horses. She is wearing smart brown-and-white open-toed heels and cream-colored gloves, and she stands straight and tall. She is pulled together: a little powder, red lipstick, and mascara, hair and nails perfect, the gold barrette locked into its usual place.
The door opens and she faces a thin man with limp hair. The way he holds his head back at a stiff angle and doesn’t quite look her in the eye reminds her of a heron. “Mrs. Lasker?” he asks in a surprisingly quiet voice.
“Yes.”
“I’m Horace Marlow. Please come in.” He gestures toward a large table piled high with manila folders. At the far end of the table she sees a fat man with puffy jowls and a crew cut. Marlow introduces her to him, but she recognizes him from the newspapers and loathes him on sight: the Honorable Curtis P. Kingman, Republican congressman from Orange County. In a corner of the room, by the open windows and the maroon velvet drapes, a stenographer with glasses and bright red lips sits at a card table with a steno machine.
“Are you ready to be sworn in, Mrs. Lasker?” Marlow inquires.
“I am.”
“Please raise your hand.”
As he recites the oath, she tries to identify his accent. It sounds midwestern to her ears; there’s a slight twang. An Okie? she wonders. Why would an Okie be on
their
side? Hasn’t he read
The Grapes of Wrath
?
The swearing-in completed, Marlow motions for her to sit down. Then he moves to the opposite side of the table and
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