Stardust (58 page)

“Overseas? They get it free. Part of the war effort. The industry paid
for the prints, those pictures you used to see,” he said, Minot suddenly a GI again, young. “The boys, we didn’t make a dime on them. Wouldn’t. Your gross was in the home market.”

“And not enough of them wanted to convoy to Murmansk,” Minot said, trying to be light, but sounding forced.

“Not until second release.”

“And yet you’re full of praise for Mr. Schaeffer—everybody who made it, in fact.”

“It was a good picture.”

“You say that even though—”

“There were timing problems,” Lasner said, going somewhere else. “They put out a Bogart early so all the sudden we’re up against that in the first run. Plus
Cover Girl
was still—you know, you’re going to do tremendous business with a Hayworth.”

Ben noticed that the names made the audience more attentive, as if the stars themselves had entered the room.

“Mr. Lasner,” Minot interrupted, sensing this, “the fact remains that millions of people saw
Convoy to Murmansk
. We’re not interested in the studio’s account books. We’re interested in what the movie had to say, how it was changed to say it. Now I can appreciate you want to make money, I guess most of us do, but we’re here to see how these people work, how they get their message out when the rest of us are just going about our business—you up there counting your money—” He broke off, seeing Lasner’s face grow tighter. “Now I also appreciate that as head of the studio, you want to take responsibility for everything that happens there, but one man can’t do it all. These are people who know how to play on sympathies. It’s not just what happens in the front office, who decides this or that, it’s what happens on the ground—I guess we’d say on the sound stage. And what happens off.”

“What happens off.”

“Social life’s an important part of the business, wouldn’t you say? Sometimes you want to know about a person, you can tell by who he knows.”

“You mean like you coming to my house?”

Minot said nothing, blindsided, barely noticing the ripple of interest in the press section, a new detour.

“I know what you mean,” Lasner said. “People listen to us a while ago—” He raised his hand slightly, deflecting an argument. “My temper, I know. But they wouldn’t think you’d been to my house. Had dinner. But maybe we have more in common than they think. This country, how we feel about it. Of course, I don’t know what it says about you and Milt Schaeffer. I mean, both of you being there, at the same party.”

“Mr. Lasner, we’re not here to discuss my social—”

“Just Milt’s, huh? I thought maybe the two of you had talked. You were the guest of honor. The point was to meet you. But there were a lot of people. Sometimes it’s like that, you don’t get to talk. At least this time it wasn’t a fund-raiser, unless you were raising funds I didn’t know about,” Lasner said playfully, the scene his now, as if the tables themselves had changed places.

“Mr. Lasner,” Minot said stiffly, “can we get back to—”

“I was just making a point. You said you can tell a lot, who people know, but, see, we can’t really tell anything about you by the fact that you and Milt were both there.”

“Your point being?”

“So Hal and Milt were at the Fund party. Does it mean anything, they were both there?”

“Those were very different occasions,” Minot said, defensive now.

“I’ll bet. I’ve been to Milt’s parties. You’re lucky, you get cream cheese on a Ritz cracker.”

Everyone laughed, even Schaeffer, a little color now in his cheeks. Minot waited it out.

“Mr. Lasner.”

“I’m just saying, we don’t even know if they talked. You just said they were there, is all.”

Minot stared at him, trying to close down the volley with silence. “Because if you don’t know anything more than that, there’s no reason to bring it up, is there? It’s just like you and Milt at the house.”

Minot covered his microphone and said something to the other committee members, a quarterback running through plays.

“Mr. Lasner, I’m not going to debate this with you. The event we were discussing is part of a much larger web of association.”

“What, like that letter in the paper?”

“Among other things.”

“I was wondering about that. I wanted to ask you—”

“Mr. Lasner, we’re asking the questions here.”

“I’m sitting here all morning, I don’t even get one?” he said, facing away from Minot to the rest of the committee, one of whom leaned over and whispered to Minot.

“Ask me what, Mr. Lasner?”

“That letter in the paper, for the European Relief Fund. You say Milt signed it. And Hal. Gus Pollock.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you think that means something.”

“
Red Channels
has listed the Fund as a suspected Communist front organization.”

“What’s
Red Channels
?”

“It’s a publication that— Mr. Lasner, this is all beside the point.”

“Not to me. Who are they to accuse me—”

“Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”

“No? You’re pretty quick telling us Hal signed that letter. So they’re all in it together, Hal and Milt and— But you don’t say who else signed it. Take a look. Jack Warner, I remember. Selznick for sure. Even Mayer, I think, but I can’t swear to that. I know they asked. How? Because I signed it, too. And gave them money. Is that why you got me down here? With a subpoena. Under oath. Because I gave money to save some Jews before they were killed? Are you calling me a Communist, too?” All the cameras had now swiveled toward him, the entire room pitched forward, waiting. “Who’s
Red Channels
? Bring them here, so we can take a look. Let them call me that to my face.” His voice kept rising, then dropped. “Or is that what you’re doing? Calling me a Communist?”

“Mr. Lasner, this isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“No? Where are we going? I thought you got me down here to tell me there were Commies in the industry. Making trouble. And all you’ve got is Milt giving parties? Who’s paying for all this, by the way?” He threw his arm out, expansive. “You got a budget on this thing or do the taxpayers just keep forking it over till you dig something up? All right, I’m under oath?” He raised his hand. “I am not a Communist. I don’t even
know
any Communists. Milt wants to think it’s a paradise over there in Minsk, let him, I don’t care. I make pictures, that’s all.”

“That tell the American people what to think,” Minot leaped in, visibly angry now, finally drawn out of public politeness. “Nobody here has accused you of anything except possibly a political naïveté so profound—”

“Naïveté, what’s that?”

Minot stopped, flummoxed. “Innocence,” he said. “A political innocence, or indifference, that allows people, clever people, to exploit—”

“Now you’re calling me stupid?”

“To exploit an industry without your being aware of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I guess that makes two of us because you don’t know what you’re talking about, either. Are we finished here?” He scraped back his seat, getting ready to go, startling the lawyers behind him. “Because I am.”

“Mr. Lasner, with all due respect, you are testifying before a committee of the United States government. This kind of—grandstanding will not be tolerated. This is not a theater.”

“No, a circus. A congressman. I expected better from you.”

Minot flushed, as if he’d been slapped. “You are out of order, Mr. Lasner,” he said, furious, his face twisting. “This is not Continental Pictures where you can strut around, make people jump just because you say so. This committee doesn’t work for you.”

Lasner looked at him, then stood up, a move so abrupt that the
committee started with alarm. Two lawyers jumped up to hold him, but Lasner brushed them away, swatting flies, all the calculated restraint gone now, jabbing his finger into the air at Minot.

“That’s just where you’re wrong. You do work for me. I learned that in civics. That’s a class you take when you first get here. From
Poland
. Maybe you ought to take it. You work for
us
. We pay you. We elect you. Once, anyway. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re off the lot.”

“Sit down,” Minot said, rising himself, both glaring at each other.

“Or what? You going to put me in jail? Is that what happens when somebody stands up to you?” He turned to the room. “We should all watch this. What happens when you stand up to these people. Maybe you’ll be next. Any of us. Anybody in pictures.” He looked back at Minot, a beat while the room waited. Even Polly had stopped writing, looking around the room, disturbed. “What happens? Or do you think everyone will be too scared to stand up?”

Minot banged the gavel again, even though the room was quiet, mesmerized.

“You are still under oath.”

“You want to know about
Convoy to Murmansk
?” Lasner said, almost shouting, so worked up now that the committee seemed to draw back, out of the way. “I’ll tell you. Want to know who changed it? What Commie? Me. I asked them to change it. Want to know why? I got a phone call. From the president. We need your help. We’ve got an ally doesn’t think we’re pulling our weight. We’d like to show them we know what they’re going through. A picture would be a big help. Is there anything we can do? Asking me. I had tears in my eyes. He’s calling me. It was the proudest day of my life.” He looked around, emotional, shaking a little. “The proudest day. And this? What’s the opposite? I feel—shame here. Not of this country. I’ll never feel ashamed of this country. I’m ashamed of you in it,” he said directly to Minot. “I’m ashamed anyone listens to you. I’m going to work. You want to arrest me, do it here, because you won’t get on the lot. That’s me at the gate stopping you.” He pointed to his chest and it was then
that Ben noticed the film of sweat on his forehead, a white fleck of spittle in the corner of his mouth. Lasner leaned on the table with both hands, under the heat of the camera lights, almost vibrating with emotion, the same sweat and tremor Ben remembered from the train. “You want to make fun of me, go ahead. You think I ‘strut’ around? I do. I’m proud of Continental. And I’m not letting you have it. You think I don’t know what you want?” He turned to the audience. “What he wants from all of us? He wants to take over. Tell us what to make. Who to hire. Who to fire. Well, I run the studio. Me. You don’t tell me who works there. Milt,” he said, turning to him, “you looking for a job? If he doesn’t lock you up, give me a call.” He turned back to Minot. “I run Continental, not you. Go tell Warner what to do. If he has any sense, he’ll throw you out, too. You’re finished here. If I can see it, with my— what’s it? naïveté?—they can all see it. I thought this was about politics. About the good of the country. And what is it? Just another
pisher
wants my job. Not my studio. Not my—”

His hand went to his chest so fast that the room saw only the body slump forward, but Ben had been watching for it, waiting, so as he leaped out of his seat, pushing past the lawyers, he saw the hand clench, grabbing suit cloth, as if it could stop the pain by squeezing, then the head hitting the edge of the table as he fell over. There was a frozen moment of shock, then screams, gasps, everyone standing, beginning to surge toward him, but Ben was already there, turning Lasner over on his back, reaching into his pocket.

“Oh my god,” one of the lawyers said.

“Where are his pills?” Ben said, searching, not even aware he’d said it aloud.

“Here.” Fay, dropping to her knees next to him, clawing at her purse, behind them a roar of noise.

“Give him air! Call an ambulance,” Ben yelled to the circle around them, grabbing the pills and shoving two into Lasner’s mouth. “Water.”

A glass appeared out of the air and Ben forced water between Lasner’s lips, waiting to hear him choke, afraid the white, sweaty face was beyond responding. But there was a kind of hiccup, a faint sign of life,
not yet gone. Ben undid the tie, tearing the collar open, as if the problem were air, not his heart. Lasner had cut his head in the fall, so now there was blood, too, seeping in a small stream, inching toward Fay’s nylons. She was clutching Lasner’s hand, watching Ben as he undid the collar, then massaged Lasner’s chest, the rhythm a makeshift substitute for the heart, a pretense that you could keep life going from the outside. He bent down to Lasner’s mouth, listening for air.

“Give him room.”

Behind them the crowd tried to back up without really moving, pressing against each other. Polly had wedged her way to the front.

“Oh,” she said, distressed, her hand at her mouth. “Is he dead?”

“Give him air,” Ben said.

Lasner’s eyelids fluttered open for a second, taking in Ben and Fay, the circle of faces, then closed again.

“Did you get them down?” Ben said to him. “Try one more.” He pushed the pill between Lasner’s lips. “Swallow. Try.”

Lasner opened his mouth a little, obedient, and Ben watched his throat move, his face tightening with the strain.

The committee had now reached them, Minot pushing his way through. He stood for a second looking down, appalled and confused, then stepped back when he felt the flashbulbs go off, catching him looming over Lasner, an unintended boxing ring pose.

Ben took out a handkerchief and wiped Lasner’s forehead, then held it against the cut to stanch the bleeding. “They need a minute to kick in,” he said to Fay, then grabbed a folded paper and started fanning Lasner’s face, forcing air toward him.

“Breathe,” she said to Lasner. “Sol, can you hear me? The ambulance is coming.” She tightened her hand on his.

Now that Lasner had responded, the crowd grew louder with talk. “All of the sudden, like
that,
” someone said, snapping his fingers. Ben opened another button on Lasner’s shirt.

Fay glanced up at one of the studio people. “Did anybody call Rosen? Dr. Rosen. Bunny knows the number.” She turned to Ben. “You knew about the pills. What, on the train?”

He nodded. “It’s worse this time. We have to get him to the hospital.” He felt Lasner’s wrist. “It’s weak.”

“I’m not dead,” Lasner said, then winced.