The Paper Dragon

5

It began snowing early in the morning, but by nine-thirty there was scarcely any cover at all on the sidewalk outside the courthouse. The snow was fine, a sharp powder that sifted from the sky only to be blown off the streets and sidewalks, patches of gathered white suddenly in motion, rearranging to reveal black asphalt and gray concrete, moving again like mist on a bog, to form yet another pattern directed by the wind. Arthur stood with Brackman just inside one of the barred windows fronting the street, looking past the thick white columns to the shifting snow beyond. He had not been able to sleep last night, and his eyes felt heavy and puffed.

"I want to give you some tips about Jonah Willow," Brackman said.

"I feel like hell," Arthur said.

"You'll wash your face before we go in. That'll make you feel better."

"That'll make me feel worse."

"Arthur, do you want me to tell you about Willow, or do you want to make wisecracks? If you want to make wisecracks…"

"You have no sense of humor, Sidney," Arthur said.

"That's right. Not when ten million dollars is at stake."

"All right, tell me about Willow. What should I know about him?"

"He's very smart," Brackman said. "That's the first thing you should know."

"I'm smart, too," Arthur said.

"Yes, but you're not a lawyer. Willow is smart, and he knows the law, and you can bet he's researched this case from top to bottom and can quote you precedent in Sanskrit. Don't underestimate him at any time during the cross. That's my first word of advice."

"All right, I won't underestimate him."

"Especially if he seems to be fumbling for words. That's an old trick of Jonah's, he does it to give the witness a false sense of confidence. Then he springs like an animal."

"I'll watch for it."

"He has a habit, too, of shooting questions at you from every corner of the universe, seemingly without logical order. He knows where he's going, but very often the witness can't connect the line of progression because the questions aren't in sequence. Watch out for that, Arthur. He can have you admitting your mother is a whore, and then ten minutes later contradicting it."

"You do have a sense of humor," Arthur said.

"So watch for that," Brackman said, ignoring him, "questions out of sequence. I'll help you all I can from the table, but there'll be times when I can't object, and 1 won't. You're up there alone, and you've got to watch yourself."

"I'll be very careful."

"Take your time with him. If he asks a question that sounds at all tricky, hesitate before you answer. If he pushes for an answer, ask him to repeat the question, even though you heard it the first time around."

"That'll fool him, I'll bet."

"It won't fool him for a minute, but it'll gain time for you while you think. And if you need more time, even after the question has been repeated, simply say you did not understand the question. While he explains it to you, you keep thinking. And then you answer it."

"Okay," Arthur said.

"If he asks a question that requires a 'yes' or 'no' answer, and you feel that such an answer will hurt you, I want you to say — and please memorize this, Arthur — I want you to say, 'I can answer that with a yes or no, but the answer will be misleading.' Have you got that?"

"I can answer it with a yes or no, but the answer will be misleading, right, I've got it."

"Good. Don't lose your temper."

"I won't."

"Don't raise your voice to Willow."

"I won't."

"Don't argue with him. Just answer…"

"I won't."

"… the questions."

"Okay."

"And don't let him trick you into saying anything you don't want to say."

"I doubt if he can do that."

"I'm telling you he can."

"Words are my business, Sidney."

"They're Willow's, too, and you're playing in his ball park."

"I'll remember."

"Be especially careful of the negative question — where if you answer yes, you're really saying no."

"I'll be careful."

"This is the cross-examination, Arthur, and during the cross he's going to try to get you to contradict everything you said in the direct. Failing that, he'll try to make you appear foolish or ridiculous. He can be a ruthless man when he wants to, I've seen him in action, and he can make you feel like a child or a stuttering moron. If that happens, just take your time, regain your composure, and continue answering the questions truthfully. Don't he, Arthur. Not about anything. I can guarantee that if you lie, Willow will pick up the lie later, and then your credibility will be questioned and that could very well lose the case for us. Am I making you nervous?"

"Yes, you damn well are."

"Good. I want you to be nervous because that'll make you careful. Don't forget, Arthur, this is where they got Jesus."

"What?"

"By the cross," Brackman said, and grinned.

"Mr. Constantine, had you ever met James Driscoll before the publication of The Paper Dragon?" Willow asked. "Just a moment, and I'll set a date for that."

"October of 1963," Brackman said.

"Thank you, Mr. Brackman," Willow replied. "Yes, Plaintiff's Exhibit 2 does indeed show that the copyright was in 1963. Thank you very much." He turned again to the witness chair. Arthur studied Willow's face and wished he could see through the reflecting lenses of his glasses.

"Had you met Mr. Driscoll at any time before October of 1963?"

"No, I had not."

"Had you in fact ever set eyes on him before the beginning of this trial yesterday morning?"

"No, I had not."

"Is it correct to say that you never gave a copy of your play to Mr. Driscoll?"

"That is correct. I did not."

"Did you ever submit copies of your play to Mitchell-Campbell Books?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, surely you must know, Mr. Constantine."

"I have an agent, Mr. Willow, and he takes care of such matters for me. If you want to know whether I myself sent a copy to Mitchell-Campbell, no, sir, I did not. Nor to Camelot Books, nor to Mr. Driscoll, either."

"Did you ever ask your agent to send copies of your play to any publishing house?"

"I did not."

"Before this action began, Mr. Constantine, had you ever met Mr. Chester Danton of Mitchell-Campbell Books?"

"I had not."

"Had you ever met any other person employed by Mitchell-Campbell Books?"

"No, sir."

"Had you possessed any personal knowledge of James Driscoll's writing habits or procedure?"

"No personal knowledge, no."

"Had you possessed any personal knowledge of the editorial work done on The Paper Dragon?"

"No."

"Had you possessed any knowledge whatever of the author-editor relationship between James Driscoll and Chester Danton?"

"No knowledge whatever." *

"Are you aware of the complaint in this action?"

"I am," Arthur said, and glanced quickly at Brackman.

"Is it based upon information you supplied to your attorneys?"

"Yes."

"Did you read the complaint after it was drawn?"

"I did."

"Did you swear to its truth?"

"I did."

Willow walked to the defense table. His assistant handed him a document, and he carried it back with him to the witness chair. "This is from paragraph 12 of your complaint, Mr. Constantine." He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, flipped through the document — which Arthur now recognized — and began reading: " 'On information and belief, James Driscoll and Mitchell-Campbell Books conspired to deprive plaintiff of his rights in the copyrighted composition.' " Willow looked up from the document. "Did you swear to that statement, Mr. Constantine?"

"I did."

"Did you then possess any knowledge or information concerning a conspiracy to plagiarize your work?"

"Oh, I see," Arthur said.

"Yes, what do you see?"

"Mr. Willow, I can only repeat what I said at the pretrial examination. I do not know how the plagiarism was effected, I do not know of any confidential meetings, or secret correspondence, I did not wiretap anyone's telephone. But I do know that there are similarities between my play and The Paper Dragon that far exceed the possibility of…"

"Please answer the question," Willow said. "Did you in fact possess any knowledge or information of such a conspiracy?"

"I had no such knowledge or information, no, sir."

"You have testified that you swore to the truth of your complaint."

"Yes."

"Did you swear to the truth of a similar complaint against API?"

"Yes, but…"

"Even though you then possessed no knowledge or…"

"… these complaints are only legal terminology for…"

"… information as to its truth. Thank you. Mr. Constantine, can you tell me if any other play of yours was ever produced? In addition to The Catchpole, I mean."

"It's Catchpole, not 'The' Catchpole. I think I pointed that out to you before."

"Yes, Catchpole, forgive me."

"The code name for the invasion of Eniwetok Atoll was 'Operation Catchpole.' That's where I got the title."

"Isn't there another meaning of the word 'catchpole'?" Willow asked conversationally.

"Not that I know of. I believe it was coined for military purposes, a coined word."

"I think there's another meaning, Mr. Constantine."

"I wouldn't know it."

"It's archaic, of course," Willow said, "but a catchpole was a petty officer of justice, especially a man who made arrests for debt."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know that."

"You were not aware of this other meaning when you wrote your play?"

"No."

"In any case, I will try to remember the correct title from now on. Catchpole."

"I'd appreciate it."

"Have you had any other plays produced?"

"I have a play in production now," Arthur said.

"Do you mean you have a play in rehearsal?"

"No, we're not in rehearsal yet. We're still casting it."

"When do you plan to open?"

"We haven't set a date as yet."

"In what theater will you open, Mr. Constantine?"

"That hasn't been decided yet."

"Has the play been fully capitalized?"

Arthur hesitated.

"Mr. Constantine? Has the play..?"

"Not yet."

"Then this 'play in production,' as you refer to it, is really in a very early stage of production, isn't that so?"

"That's so, yes."

"In fact, we might say that until it is capitalized…"

"The play is under option," Arthur said. "It's our intention to produce it as soon as possible."

"Your intention, yes."

"Yes."

"But in fact, you have not had a play actually produced, actually presented since The Catchpole, forgive me, Catchpole. I'll try to remember."

"I've had movies and television plays produced."

"Yes, but not a stage play."

"No. Not until this play, which is in production now."

"Which is 'under option' now, isn't that what you mean?"

"No, I mean 'in production' now. We are actively casting it."

"But we may say, may we not, that since October of 1947, which is when Catchpole was produced — a period of more than nineteen years — you have not had a play produced on Broadway or off-Broadway or, in fact, anywhere in the world. Isn't that true?"

"That's true."

"Thank you. Mr. Constantine, you testified that you were sent to the Pacific as a new lieutenant, a second lieutenant I believe you said, after a short period of training as an officer."

"I did not say that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said that Roger Mason, my character in Catchpole, was sent overseas after a short period of training."

"Would you say that your character bears any resemblance to you?"

"Some."

"Were you also sent overseas after a short period of training?"

"I was."

"Do you feel this experience was unique?"

"Unique?"

"Yes, sir, unique. You know the meaning of the word 'unique.' "

"Yes, but I don't understand the question."

"I am asking you, Mr. Constantine, if during World War II, during the period of time before and during the Eniwetok landings, I am asking if it was unique to send an officer overseas after only a short period of training?"

"I don't know if it was unique or not."

"Have you ever heard the expression 'ninety-day wonder,' Mr. Constantine?"

"I have."

"It was a common expression, was it not?"

"It was a derogatory expression."

"But common. You did, in fact, use this very expression in your play. One of the enlisted men refers to Lieutenant Mason as a ninety-day wonder, doesn't he?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I don't recall exactly."

"Let me refresh your memory then," Willow said, and turned again toward the defense table.

"I'll take your word…"

"Here we are," Willow said, leafing through the manuscript. "Act I, Scene 1, page 4. This is Corporal Janus speaking. He says, 'Another ninety-day wonder. I wonder how long he'll last.' Do you recall the speech now?"

"If it's there, I recall it."

"It is here, Mr. Constantine. As a matter of fact, you cited it only yesterday in referring to one of your specific character similarities."

"Yes, I remember now."

"When you wrote your play, you were undoubtedly fully aware of what the Army called 'ninety-day wonders,' weren't you?"

"I suppose I was."

"And therefore you must have also been aware that so-called ninety-day wonders were not unique, Mr. Constantine."

"Yes."

"You know they were not unique?"

"I know that."

"Do you think they were unique at the time of the Korean conflict?"

"I have no knowledge of the Korean conflict."

"Then you are possibly not aware that the average training time for an officer in October and November of 1950 — which is the time span covered by the novel The Paper Dragon — the average training period for an officer was ninety days. Did you know that, Mr. Constantine?"

"I did not know that."

"Will you accept my word for it? Or need I produce a letter received from the Office of the Chief of Information, United States Army, stating it as a fact?"

"I will accept your word for it."

"And will you further agree that ninety-day wonders were not unique during World War II, nor were they unique during the Korean conflict?"

"I would agree to that."

"That Roger Mason being a ninety-day wonder was not unique?"

"Yes."

"And that Alex Cooper, the lieutenant in The Paper Dragon was not unique, either."

"Yes."

"That both characters in fact are commonplace characters who might be found in any war at any time in the world's history?"

"I don't know about that."

"But you do agree, Mr. Constantine, that wherever there are wars, there are also officers hastily trained to fight them?"

"Yes, I would agree to that."

"Thank you. You are a writer, Mr. Constantine…"

"Yes, I am."

"… so surely you must know that the basis of all drama is conflict."

"Yes, I know that."

"If a man were writing about an Army combat squad, wouldn't it be natural to have the conflict take place between an officer and his men?"

"No; it would not."

"It would not be natural?"

"I can imagine any number of conflicts taking place in a combat squad, and they need not all be between an officer and his men."

"The question was whether this would be a natural development."

"And the answer is that this would be only one of the possible developments."

"Would you say that one of the developments in The Naked and the Dead is a conflict between a man or men in command, and those who are not?"

"I have not made a study of The Naked and the Dead."

"Would you say that one of the developments in From Here to Eternity is a conflict between a man or men in command, and those who are not?"

"I haven't studied that one, either."

"You testified that the film based on that book won the Academy Award in 1953."

"Yes."

"Did you see the film?"

"No."

"Did you read the book?"

"No."

"Did you read The Caine Mutiny?"

"Yes."

"Do you agree that one of the developments in The Caine Mutiny is a conflict between a man in command and men who are not?"

"All the men in The Caine Mutiny are in command."

"You mean that the leading characters are officers, don't you?"

"Yes."

"But Captain Queeg is in command."

"Yes."

"And Maryk and Keefer and the others are all subordinate officers."

"Yes."

"And the conflict is between them."

"Yes."

"The conflict is between the man in command and those below him in rank."

"If you wish to put it that way, yes."

"Is there another way to put it, Mr. Constantine?"

"I am merely saying that this is only one of the paths a war story can take."

"But this is a very natural development that has been utilized time and again by a great many writers producing works about men in war."

"Yes, I would say so."

"Would you also say that another possible development would be a conflict between an officer and a specific enlisted man?"

"That's one of the possible developments, yes."

"Such as the conflict between Roger Mason and Corporal Janus in your play, and the conflict between Alex Cooper and Private Colman in The Paper Dragon."

"Is that a question?"

"The question is would you consider this conflict a natural development in a work dealing with an Army combat squad?"

"I don't know if it is a natural development or not. It was a development of mine when I was writing the play."

"Do you claim it as a unique development?"

"I claim it as an integral part of my play. In that respect…"

"But not unique."

"Not unique, but—"

"Thank you, Mr. Constantine. Would you also—"

"I would like to finish what I—"

"You have sufficiently answered the question."

"I'd like to hear what he has to say, Mr. Willow," McIntyre said. "Go on, please."

"I was going to say that simply because a line of development is a natural one doesn't mean that two separate writers would automatically choose it as their approach. If we pick apart the play and the novel, piece by piece…"

"I am prepared to do exactly that," Willow said.

"… the isolated pieces and fragments would seem to be coincidental, I mean the similarities between them would seem coincidental. But when we put them all together, we're presented with overwhelming evidence of…" Arthur hesitated.

"Yes, Mr. Constantine?"

"Of copying," Arthur said.

"You seemed reluctant to use the word."

"I don't like to call a man a thief."

"But that's exactly what you've done in your complaint," Willow said and paused. "Do you or do you not believe Mr. Driscoll copied your play?"

"Actually sat down and copied it, I don't know. I mean, I don't know if he actually had a copy of my play on his desk while he was writing his novel."

"You are aware, are' you not, Mr. Constantine, that access must be proved in a plagiarism case?"

"I have been so informed by my attorneys."

"But you don't know whether or not James Driscoll actually possessed a copy of your play when he was writing his novel?"

"I was not there when he was writing his novel."

"Please answer the question, Mr. Constantine."

"No, I don't know if he had a copy." Arthur paused. "But if he didn't have one, then he must have seen the play."

"When it was performed in New York, do you mean?"

"I don't know when. The similarities are too astonishing for someone who did not have prior knowledge—"

"We are here to decide whether there are similarities, Mr. Constantine, astonishing or otherwise. In the meantime, do you believe that James Driscoll saw your play during its brief twelve-day run at the Fulton Theatre in October of 1947?"

"I don't know."

"But you testified that he must have seen it."

"Yes."

"Well, when do you think he saw it?"

Arthur glanced at Brackman, and Brackman nodded. "There was also a series of previews," Arthur said.

"Are these the previews you testified to during the direct examination yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Did you personally distribute the tickets to those previews?"

"I did not."

"Who was responsible for the distribution?"

"Our press agent."

"How do you know they were distributed?"

"I was told."

"Then all you know about the distribution is what you were told."

"Well, we were concerned with getting a representative college audience."

"Yes, but all you actually know about the distribution is what you were told, is that true?"

"Yes. But I know the tickets were sent out to various colleges and universities."

"Do you know which colleges and universities?"

"Yes."

"Of your own knowledge?"

"No. The names of the schools were given to me."

"By whom?"

"We had a meeting and decided we wanted this play to be seen by representative college kids, and we decided to distribute a limited amount of free tickets."

"Who gave you the names of the colleges to which the tickets were actually sent, Mr. Constantine?"

"I don't remember exactly who. It could have been anybody involved with the show, though it was most likely the man who was handling our press for us, I'm not sure."

"All you know is that somebody said something about having sent these tickets out."

"That's right."

"Which schools, to your recollection, were these mysterious tickets sent to?"

"Objection," Brackman said.

"Sustained."

"Which schools received these tickets, Mr. Constantine? Would you name them, please?"

"I named them yesterday."

"Please do it again, would you?"

"They were sent to City College, Hunter, Brooklyn College, L.I.U., Pratt Institute, and Fordham, I believe."

"You believe?"

"I believe they were sent to Fordham. I'm not sure about Fordham."

"But you are sure about Pratt Institute?"

"Yes, I am."

"Are you aware, Mr. Constantine, that in 1947 Pratt Institute was a highly specialized school teaching art, engineering, library, and home economics?"

"Architecture, I thought," Arthur said.

"Yes, as part of its art program. Were you aware of that?"

"I thought it was primarily an architectural school."

"In any case, more than half the students there at the time were taking courses like Industrial Design, or Illustration, or Food and Clothing. Would you agree that it was a highly specialized school?"

"Yes."

"And yet, in your search for 'a representative college audience'—I believe that was your exact language — you included Pratt among these other schools?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that James Driscoll was a student at Pratt Institute in 1947?"

"I didn't know that."

"You've never heard that before, Mr. Constantine?"

"I knew he was a student at Pratt Institute, but not that he was there in 1947."

"In other words, when you testified that free tickets were sent to Pratt Institute in 1947 — a highly specialized school, even though you were looking for a representative college audience — when you so testified, you were not aware that James Driscoll had been a student there at the time?"

"I was aware that Mr. Driscoll went to Pratt Institute, but I had no knowledge as to the date, I just told you that. If you want to know whether I think Mr. Driscoll could have seen my play in performance, yes, I think he could have seen it."

"That was not my question."

"It seemed to be your question."

"It was not. I'll rephrase it so that it will be perfectly clear to you. Do you not feel, Mr. Constantine, that your having sent free tickets to Pratt Institute at the very time James Driscoll was a student there is a remarkable coincidence?"

"I do not. To the best of my knowledge, we sent the tickets to Pratt. If Driscoll happened to be a student there at the time, that's a plain fact, and there's nothing coincidental about it."

"Thank you." Willow sighed and walked toward the defense table. He leafed through a batch of papers his assistant handed to him, his back to Arthur all the while. Apprehensively, Arthur waited for Willow to turn toward him again. Brackman caught his eye and nodded encouragingly.

"Mr. Constantine," Willow said, walking slowly toward him, "you have testified that you served in the United States Army during World War II."

"I did."

"Were you an officer?"

"I was a second lieutenant."

"Like the character in your play?"

"In that he was a second lieutenant also, yes."

"Were you in command of a platoon?"

"I was."

"How many men were in the platoon?"

"Forty-one."

"As in your play?"

"As in any Army platoon during World War II."

"What was the composition of this platoon?"

"What do you mean?"

"What sort of men were in it?"

"I still don't understand you."

"Where were they from, what was their education, their racial or religious background, and so on?"

"I don't remember. There were all types of men in the platoon. And there were replacements from time to time. I can't remember all the background details of each man."

"Was there a man from New York City in your platoon? Besides yourself, I mean."

"I think so."

"Was there a Southerner?"

"There might have been."

"And possibly someone from the Middle West? Or California?"

"Possibly."

"Men of high school or college education perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"Was there a Catholic?"

"Yes."

"And a Protestant, and a Jew?"

"There could have been. I don't remember."

"Was there a Negro?"

"No."

"The Army was not integrated at that time, was it?"

"No."

"Was there an Italian in your platoon?"

"Yes."

"Was this the only platoon you ever commanded, Mr. Constantine?"

"I commanded several other platoons later on. And when I made captain, I was given command of a company. This was shortly before I was discharged."

"Would you say that the composition of these other platoons you commanded was roughly the same as that of the first one? In terms of background?"

"Roughly, yes."

"There were New Yorkers possibly, or Southerners, or men from California or the Middle West. There were Catholics and Protestants and Jews. There were men of Irish descent or Italian descent. There was, if you will, a cross-section of America."

"I would say so."

"Do you suppose this was true of any platoon in the United States Army during World War II?"

"I would suppose so."

"Do you suppose it was also true of any platoon in the United States Army during the Korean conflict?"

"Possibly. But that doesn't necessarily…"

"If a man sat down to write a play or a novel about the Army, would he not be likely to include men of various backgrounds, such as those who might be found in a real platoon?"

"Yes, but…"

"Would he not be likely to include a member of a minority group?"

Arthur hesitated, and then looked out at Brackman.

"Mr. Constantine," Willow said, "would you answer the question, please?"

"I could answer that with a yes or no," Arthur said, "but the answer would be misleading."

Willow looked up in what seemed like genuine surprise. He stared at Arthur for a moment, and then said, "Please answer it any way you wish."

"A writer would include a member of a minority group only if it served a purpose," Arthur said.

"What purpose does Sergeant D'Agostino serve in your play?"

"He is a catalyst."

"For what?"

"For everything that happens on the island. He's the man who sacrifices himself for the lieutenant. He's the man who—"

"What does this have to do with his being Italian?"

"It adds to the conflict. Corporal Janus harps on this. It causes further conflict between the lieutenant and the squad."

"The fact that D'Agostino is Italian?"

"Yes. Driscoll does the same thing in his novel. Only the character is Negro."

"You mean that Mr. Driscoll uses a Negro character to further the conflict between the lieutenant and the squad, is that true?"

"That's it, yes."

"By having a scene in which the lieutenant is suspected of bigotry, is that what you're referring to? Where Sergeant Morley believes the lieutenant is a bigot?"

"Yes, that's the scene."

"And you had earlier used this same device in Catchpole, is that right? This is why you chose to put an Italian in your fictitious squad. To point up a conflict with the lieutenant along lines of possible prejudice."

"Yes."

Willow walked to the defense table. "Here's a copy of your play," he said. "Would you kindly show me the scene or scenes wherein Lieutenant Mason and Sergeant D'Agostino confront each other in such a manner?"

"What manner do you mean?"

"Show me a scene where the lieutenant is suspected of prejudice."

"It isn't a scene, there are only references."

"Show me the references."

"I'll have to look for them."

"Please take all the time you need."

Arthur accepted the manuscript. He began leafing through it. He could feel sweat running down the sides of his chest. He wiped a hand across his lip. "I don't know if this is what you're looking for…"

"I'm looking for any lines in your play that would indicate Sergeant D'Agostino suspects the lieutenant of being prejudiced against Italians. Or rather, Mr. Constantine, you are looking for them."

"May I read this?"

"Certainly."

"This is in Act II, it's Corporal Janus speaking to sergeant D'Agostino. He says, 'I understand you, Mike. You're a Wop and I'm a Pole, and we just don't fit.' "

"And this—"

"There's more."

"Please read it."

"He answers—"

"D'Agostino answers?"

"Yes. He answers, 'We're just poor little orphans, huh, Danny?' and Janus says, 'We're misfits. They'll never understand us as long as we live.' That's the reference."

"The reference to what?"

"Prejudice."

"As I understand it, Mr. Constantine, this series of speeches you have just read to us constitute the sole reference to prejudice…"

"There are others."

"Find them, please."

"Perhaps more specific," Arthur said.

"Yes, please find them."

He wiped his lip again. He knew exactly why he had made D'Agostino Italian. He had done it to point up the conflict, the very conflict Willow was harping on, and which Driscoll had stolen and amplified in his book, making the character a Negro to cash in on the burgeoning civil rights movement, where were those other scenes? "Well, here," he said, "on page 2-16 (there's another short encounter between Janus and D'Agostino that I think points up this business of racial prejudice between the lieutenant—"

"Racial prejudice?"

"No, I mean his prejudice against Italians."

"Please read it, Mr. Constantine."

"D'Agostino is talking about the feast of La Madonna di Carmela which they have every year on 115th Street in Harlem. I don't know whether or not you're familiar with it."

"No, I'm not."

"Well, he's talking about the feast — he refers to it as 'the festa' that's the Italian word for it — and he says, 'Whenever I went to the festa, Danny, I felt as if I was stepping into a world I knew inside out and backwards, you know what I mean? All the sounds and all the smells and all the people. It was where I belonged.' And Janus replies, 'Yeah, not on a goddamn island in the middle of the Pacific with a lieutenant trying to get us all killed.' "

"This is the specific reference?" Willow said.

"Yes, it links D'Agostino's Italian background with the lieutenant."

"In what way?"

"D'Agostino is talking about where he belongs, and Janus subtly implies that he does not belong here with the lieutenant."

"Are there any other references, Mr. Constantine?"

"There are several more, I'm sure. This was a thread I put into the play, a constant nagging by Janus, a constant reminder that the lieutenant is aware of D'Agostino as an Italian."

"If you can find any more references, we would be grateful," Willow said.

"Well, if you'll give me a few moments…"

"Certainly."

"Oh, yes," Arthur said, "that's right. The scene with the Jap, when they capture the Jap. Just a second now." He began turning pages. "Yes," he said, "no, wait a minute, yes, here it is, the end of Act II, just before the end of the act. They've captured a Japanese soldier, and they're trying to interrogate him, but they can't find anyone who speaks Japanese. So Meredith, he's one of the men in the squad, says, 'Do you think the Loot speaks Japanese?' and Janus says, 'Don't be silly, the Loot speaks white American Protestant.' Then he turns to D'Agostino and says, 'How about you, Mike? Japanese is just like Italian, ain't it?' That's the thread being picked up again, of course, the constant juxtaposition of D'Agostino being Italian and the lieutenant being aware of it, that's the reference here."

"I see," Willow said. "Are there any others?"

"I'm sure there must be, but those are all that I can think of at the moment." He leaned forward to hand the manuscript back to Willow.

"No, please hold on to it," Willow said. "There are several other things I'd like you to find."

"If I knew you were going to ask me for specific references…"

"That's what we're dealing with here, Mr. Constantine. Specifics."

"I thought we were dealing with plagiarism."

"That is your allegation."

"Wouldn't it be more to the point to compare the two works instead of—?"

"Mr. Constantine, it would be more to the point to allow me to conduct my own cross-examination, if that's all right with you."

"Certainly."

"Thank you. You said yesterday in testifying about thematic similarities that your hero, and I am reading from the record now, 'is a new lieutenant who feels that human life is more important than the quarrels of nations, and this theme is stated in Act I, Scene 4, pages 21 and 22 of Catchpole.' Would you please turn to those pages now?"

"Pages 21 and 22?"

"That's right."

"I have them."

"Would you read to me the line or lines that indicate the lieutenant felt human life was more important than the quarrels of nations?"

"May I look this over?" Arthur asked.

"Certainly."

Arthur slowly and carefully read the two pages, and then read them again. "I believe this is the reference," he said.

"Yes, which?"

"Lieutenant Mason is talking to the men, it's this one speech beginning on the bottom of page 21, and carrying over onto page 22. 'I know you men are wondering what we're doing on this godforsaken island,' he says, 'I know that's foremost in your minds especially when intelligence tells us there are thirty-five hundred Japs dug in on this atoll. You're all experienced soldiers and you know that even if we blast them out of their holes here, we've got the next island to take and the next one after that, so what's the use, what are we doing here? I know you're thinking that some of us may die, all of us may die, and for what? For a barren stretch of Japanese real estate in the middle of the Pacific? No. We're here because there's a job to do. It's as simple as that,' " Arthur looked up. "I believe that's the reference," he said.

"To human life being more important than the quarrels of nations?"

"Not in that specific language. I never claimed that identical language was used in the statement of this particular theme. But there are the springboard references here, the touchstones Driscoll used in shaping his theme, the references to death and dying, the references to empires and their holdings, the references to the grim realities of war, the thirty-five hundred Japs holed up on the atoll, and having to be blasted out. All of these add up to a specific similarity of theme, though not of language."

"Thank you. You also testified yesterday, and this too relates to the theme of your play, you testified that Mr. Matthew Jackson at API, in expressing his reaction to Catchpole, said — and again I quote from the record — 'I think they'd be leery of an Army theme that tries to show the stupidity and foolish waste of war.' Mr. Constantine, do you agree with Mr. Jackson's statement? Would you say that your play tries to show the stupidity and foolish waste of war?"

"Yes, it does."

"Would you say that this is also the theme of Mr. Driscoll's novel?"

"It is very definitely his theme. The themes are identical."

"Now would you mind showing me where in your play, which scene or which speech or even which line illustrates this theme, the stupidity and foolish waste of war?"

"The entire play illustrates the theme."

"In what way?"

"The antagonism of the men is stupid, the plot to kill Mason is stupid, the accidental killing of D'Agostino by the psychopathic colonel is stupid, everything that happens from the moment the lieutenant arrives is stupid. And the men finally realize this at the end."

"Where do they realize it?"

"At the very end of the play."

"Find the place for me."

"Certainly. They realize just what we've been talking about, that war is stupid and a foolish waste."

"Please show me where this realization takes place."

"It's here at the end of the play," Arthur said. "Here, it's on page 3-4-36, shortly after D'Agostino is killed and Janus is exposed. The speech is given to one of the minor characters, his name is Franklin. This is what he says: 'Lieutenant, we didn't know what we were doing. You get out here in the middle of nowhere, and you forget what reality is. You're surrounded by so much bugging killing, so much bugging blood, that you forget what's right or wrong. Now Mike is dead, and for what? The real enemy is still out there. We were wrong, lieutenant. We apologize.' This was a very moving scene, as it was done, and it clearly stated the theme of the play."

"Which was what?"

"That war is idiotic."

"Where does it say that?"

"A writer doesn't state his theme that obviously, Mr. Willow. If he did, it would become tract writing, it would become transparent and condescending. I tried to state the theme in human terms, one human expressing himself to another, one human apologizing to another. The man who apologizes for the rest of the squad is a grizzled combat veteran who kills Japanese soldiers the way you or I would brush our teeth in the morning. He comes to the lieutenant and he says in effect that war changes men, makes them lose their sense of reality, wastes their minds and their bodies. He says this in very human and believable terms, but he is nonetheless stating the theme of the play."

"You also testified that the collective reaction of those who had read the play at API was, and I quote, 'that the play was too outspoken, that the United States wasn't ready to take criticism of its armed forces, not when we had just come through a major conflict and also a minor one in Korea.' Do you feel this was a legitimate reason for the rejection of the play?"

"I don't know if it was legitimate or not. I do know that's why the play was rejected."

"Because — and again I quote — 'it was too strong for API to do.' Is that correct?"

"That's what I was told."

"This was when, Mr. Constantine?"

"What do you mean?"

"When were these reactions to the play given to you?"

"In 1952 sometime."

"Mr. Constantine, would you say that From Here to Eternity, which won the Academy Award in 1953, was a strong movie that dealt harshly with the United States Army?"

"I couldn't say. I neither saw the picture nor read the book."

"From what you know of it, Mr. Constantine, would you—?"

"Objection," Brackman said, rising. "Witness has already stated he has no personal knowledge of either the film or the book in question."

"Sustained."

"If I told you that the book and the film were both highly uncomplimentary to the United States Army, would you accept my word for it?" Willow asked.

"Yes, I would."

"Thank you. Why then do you suppose these people at API said the United States wasn't ready to take criticism of its armed forces?"

"I cannot account for the actions of API."

"Is it true, Mr. Constantine, that your play was submitted to API in September of 1947, a month before it was produced on Broadway?"

"That's true."

"Why was it submitted?"

"To try for a preproduction deal."

"Was it rejected at that time?"

"Yes."

"Is it also true that the head of API's story department in New York was invited to the opening night performance of Catchpole on October 14, 1947?"

"I think so, yes."

"Why was he invited?"

"All the movie people were invited. We were trying for a movie sale, of course. That's standard procedure."

"Was an offer made after opening night?"

"No."

"Did you see the reviews of your play Catchpole after it opened?"

"I did."

"I ask you to look at this review from the New York Times of October 15, 1947, and tell me whether it is the one that appeared after the opening of your play." Willow turned to McIntyre. "Your Honor, Mr. Brackman has already agreed that we would not have to prove publication, which would be a simple matter."

"Do you concede publication, Mr. Brackman?" McIntyre asked.

"Yes, of any material that appeared in a magazine or newspaper."

"Please answer the question then, Mr. Constantine."

"Yes, that's the New York Times review of my play," Arthur said.

"I would like to offer it in evidence," Willow said.

"I object to it as irrelevant, your Honor. Whether it praises or faults Mr. Constantine's play, it hardly pertains to the matter of plagiarism."

"Why are you offering it, Mr. Willow?"

"Your Honor, the critical appraisal of Catchpole is of enormous relevance to this case. Mr. Driscoll is said to have plagiarized the play, but the only support for this allegation is a purported similarity between the two works. I ask now why anyone would wish to steal a play that had already been rejected by each and every major motion picture studio, that had been greeted with universally bad notices, and that ran for only twelve days on Broadway."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "the law books already show that it is the relatively unknown work which most often becomes the target of the plagiarist."

"We could argue that all day, your Honor…"

"Yes, I'm sure we could," McIntyre said.

"… and still not come to an agreement," Willow continued. "Abie's Irish Rose was certainly highly successful, and I'm sure my opponent recognizes it as one of the most prominent plagiarism cases. And whereas there are examples of plagiarism from more obscure properties, I still feel that critical and popular acceptance of a work is relevant to the issue here."

"Mr. Constantine has already testified that the play ran only twelve days," McIntyre said. "This does not indicate, to me at any rate, that it was a hit. Why you would wish to offer additional evidence to that point is beyond me, Mr. Willow. I will not admit it."

"Will you allow it to be marked for identification, your Honor?"

"I will."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit A for identification,' " the clerk said.

"May we also mark for identification the review that appeared in the New York Herald Tribune on October 15, 1947?"

"Is this another review of Catchpole?"

"Yes, your Honor. Your objection is only to relevance, is it not?"

"It is not admissable."

"I made the offer first in evidence, so that the record will be clear."

"The record will note your exception."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit B for identification,' n the clerk said.

"Thank you," Willow said. "Mr. Constantine, when did you begin work on your play Catchpole?"

"When I got out of the Army. That was July of 1946."

"And when was the play completed?"

"About three or four months later. Toward the end of the year."

"November or December, would you say?"

"Yes. November, I think it was."

"When did you begin attempting to find a producer for it?"

"In January of 1947. There was no sense trying to do anything during the holidays. I had the play mimeographed shortly before Christmas, and I began sending it around after New Year's."

"Is this customary procedure?"

"Sending the play to producers, do you mean?"

"No. Having copies mimeographed."

"Some authors do, others don't. It depends on how many people you want to reach. And also whether you can afford to have the work done."

"How many people did you want to reach, Mr. Constantine?"

"As many as possible. I wanted my play to be produced."

"How many copies were mimeographed?"

"A hundred, a hundred and fifty, I don't remember the exact amount."

"And I take it the result of all this was that you succeeded in getting a producer?"

"That's right."

"So it would seem to have been a good procedure," Willow said.

"It worked for me."

"To get back, you say you began work on Catchpole shortly after you were discharged from the United States Army. Would you say that your Army experience was still fresh in your mind when you began writing?"

"I would say so, yes."

"Army routine, Army terminology, Army regulations?"

"Yes, all of it."

"As well as the language used by soldiers, of course."

"Of course."

"In your military experience, Mr. Constantine, did you meet many men who used obscene language?"

"I met some."

"Who used obscene language such as Mr. Driscoll uses in his novel, and such as you more discreetly use in your play?"

"Yes, I met some. Mostly uneducated men."

"There were some of these in the Army."

"Is that a question?"

"Yes, it's a question."

"Yes, there were uneducated men who used obscene language."

"Do you think they were rarities?"

"No."

"They were commonplace?"

"They were to be found everywhere in the Army."

"During World War II?"

"Yes, and during the Korean War also, I would imagine. That's where you're leading, isn't it?"

"Do you feel, Mr. Constantine, that the character named Franklin in your play — the man who is addicted to the use of obscene language — do you feel he is a unique creation?"

"I do."

"You feel that a soldier addicted to the use of obscene language is unique?"

"Franklin swears in a specific manner. He uses a specific word as verb, noun, adjective, adverb. I think we know the word I mean."

"Yes, I'm sure we do."

"I changed it to the word bug in my play."

"And you feel that a character who uses this word as verb, noun, adjective, and so on is a unique creation of your own, is that correct?"

"That's correct."

"And not simply a valid fictional representation of a commonplace individual who is to be found wherever there are armies or Army posts or barracks?"

"I consider him unique."

"Would it surprise you, Mr. Constantine, to learn that in a play titled The Eve of St. Mark… do you know the play?"

"Yes, I know it."

"It's by Maxwell Anderson, he's won several awards for playwriting, including the Drama Critics Circle Award and the Pulitzer Prize. I think you may know of him."

"Yes, I know of Maxwell Anderson."

"In his play The Eve of St. Mark there is a sergeant named Ruby, who is addicted to the use of the word ruttin'…"

"Rotten?"

"No, ruttin'. R-U-T-T-I-N-apostrophe, very similar to your use of the words bug or bugging. Does that surprise you, Mr. Constantine?"

"I'm not that familiar with the play."

"It opened at the Cort Theater in New York on October 7, 1942, five years before Catchpole. It ran until June 26th of the following year, and was later made into a motion picture. Do you still maintain that your character Franklin is a unique creation?"

"I do. He is unique in my play."

"But not in someone else's play? He is unique only in your play?"

"I had not seen Mr. Anderson's play, nor was I aware of the sergeant in it. Besides, the word bugging is not the word ruttin'."

"Nor are either of them the actual word Mr. Driscoll uses, isn't that so?"

"It's so, but the intent is the same."

"The same as what?"

"The same as using the word bug, which I had to use for the stage."

"But not the same as the word ruttin', which Mr. Anderson had to use for the stage?"

"I merely said the words bugging and ruttin' were not identical."

"But they are similar?"

"Yes, they are similar."

"In intent?"

"Yes, in intent, too, I suppose. But…"

"Yet you still maintain that your character's use of obscenity is unique?"

"It is unique, yes."

"Thank you. Mr. Constantine, what procedure did you follow in submitting your play for production?"

"I usually mailed it out."

"To whom?"

"To anyone I thought might be interested. This was my first play, and I was new at this sort of thing. I didn't have an agent at the time. I sent it to anyone I thought might help me in getting it produced."

"And that included?"

"What?"

"To whom exactly did you send it, Mr. Constantine?"

"Producers, agents, investors, anyone interested in the theater…" Arthur's voice trailed. It had occured to him that this was the second time Willow had brought up the matter of submission, and he wondered now where he was leading. He sensed a trap. Every intuitive power he possessed told him that Willow had picked up the scent of something the first time around, and was now tracking it down. But Arthur did not know what. He found himself suddenly alert, staring intently at Willow, leaning forward in the witness chair, waiting for the trap to make itself more evident so that he could avoid it.

"Did you send a copy to Mr. Hollis Marks?"

"I don't know any Hollis Marks."

"He is an agent. Did you send the play to him?"

"No. Oh, is he Driscoll's agent?" Arthur asked suddenly.

"Yes, that's right."

"No. I did not send a copy of the play to Driscoll's agent. But there were enough copies around the city. Driscoll could have easily seen one."

"Yes, you testified that there had been a hundred or a hundred and fifty copies mimeographed, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"Who mimeographed these copies, Mr. Constantine?"

"York Duplicating."

"Here in Manhattan?"

"Yes."

"Was the number a hundred? Or a hundred and fifty? Which?"

"A hundred and fifty, I believe."

"And you began mailing these out in January of 1947?"

"Yes."

"To producers, agents, investors, and anyone interested in the theater?"

"Yes."

"Did you deliver any of these manuscripts personally?

"Some of them. Most of them were sent through the mail."

"With covering letters?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did you ask for their return?"

"I don't remember."

"Did you enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope for their return?"

"No."

"Do you know of anyone at Mitchell-Campbell who saw a copy of the play at the time you were distributing it?"

"No, I do not."

"But there were hundreds of copies distributed, weren't there?"

"A hundred and fifty."

"All of the mimeographed copies were distributed?"

"I don't know. I assume most of them were. Let's say somewhere over a hundred copies were being sent around to various people."

"And yet you have no knowledge that either James Driscoll or anyone at Mitchell-Campbell saw a copy of your play at that time."

"No direct knowledge, no."

"Your entire allegation is based on the fact that you believe the works are similar?"

"They're virtually parallel."

"Since you have the script in your hand, Mr. Constantine, I wonder if you would mind pointing out to me the line or lines that label the Army division as the 105th."

"It was not labeled in a line."

"Then how exactly was it labeled?"

"In a stage direction."

"Would you point this out to me, please?"

"Certainly." Arthur began leafing through the manuscript. He was beginning to think he had been wrong, that no trap had been conceived or intended.

"Here it is," he said. "The top of the second act, page 2—i—1. It describes the command post, and it says, 'A battered jeep is parked just outside the headquarters shack. The division insignia hangs over the door to the shack, the number 105 in yellow on a black field.' That's the reference."

"Thank you. Did you see this play in performance, Mr. Constantine?"

"I did."

"Did you see every performance?"

"Every performance."

"Was the insignia a part of the scenery for the play?"

"It was part of the set dressing."

"By which you mean it was affixed to the wall of the headquarters shack."

"The outside wall of the shack, yes."

"The number 105 in yellow on a black field."

"Yes."

"Was this your own description of the set?"

"It was."

"Did this description appear in the mimeographed version of the play? The one you sent around for people to read?"

"It did."

"It was not later added? I mean, Mr. Constantine, was the description of the set and its dressing added after the play was actually produced?"

"No, it was in the original copies I distributed."

"And the insignia did actually appear in the play as it was produced on the New York Stage?"

"Yes, it did. If you want to call our set designer as a witness…"

"I don't think that will be necessary. When you held your preview performances in the Second Avenue loft, Mr. Constantine, the ones to which the college audiences were invited — was the play performed with scenery?"

Arthur hesitated.

"Mr. Constantine, would you answer the question?"

"No. The play was not performed with scenery."

"Is it my understanding, then, that the division insignia was not hanging on the wall of the headquarters shack during the preview performances in the Second Avenue loft?"

"It was not."

"Was there indeed a headquarters shack at all in the Second Avenue loft."

"There was not."

"The play was presented on a bare stage?"

"With furniture."

"Then anyone who had been present at those preview performances could not possibly have seen the number 105 in yellow on a black field."

"That's right," Arthur said.

"In other words, in order for Mr. Driscoll to have seen the number 105, he either had to be present at one of the Broadway performances, or else he had to have a copy of your manuscript. Those are the only two ways in which he could conceivably have known about the number, is that right?"

"Unless someone told him about it."

"Someone who had seen the play on Broadway or read the manuscript?"

"Yes."

"But you have testified that you did not send a copy of the manuscript to Mitchell-Campbell Books?"

"That's right."

"It would have been someone else then, is that it? Someone not connected with Mr. Driscoll's publishers?"

"I don't know who it might have been. Copies of the manuscript were floating all over the city. It could have been anyone who read the play, or anyone who saw it. It ran for twelve days. There were matinee performances on some of those days, so we can add…"

"Whoever saw or read the play undoubtedly attached great significance to the number 105."

"I did not say that."

"Do you attach great significance to that number, Mr. Constantine?"

"I do."

"Do you feel it is an integral part of your play?"

"I do."

"Even though it appears only briefly in one scene of the play, and then only as part of a background insignia hung to the wall of a shack?"

"It was clearly visible to the audience. Yellow on black is a particularly vibrant color combination."

"But do you feel the number added to the value of your play?"

"It was a part of the play."

"Was it of value?"

"To me it was."

"In what way?"

"It designated the division."

"Was this designation significant?"

"To me it was."

"Would it be significant to anyone else?"

"Apparently it was also significant to Mr. Driscoll."

"Was the number of any significance to the audience?"

"It told the audience what division was involved in the invasion."

"Was this of great importance?"

"I think so."

"How?"

"It was a part of my play. It came from my mind. It was a numerical designation for a division I invented. That is its significance and its importance and its value. It is mine, and not another man's."

"You began working on this play of yours in July of 1946…"

"Possibly August."

"… and completed it in November sometime, is that what you said?"

"Yes."

"You then had a hundred and fifty copies mimeographed, and in January of 1947 you began distributing those copies."

"That's right."

"And you distributed well over a hundred of them?"

"A hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty, something like that."

"Mimeographed copies?"

"Yes." Willow had returned again to the mimeographed copies, and now Arthur was certain a trap was being baited. He wondered why Brackman did not object, wondered why Brackman did not rise to give him some clue as to the nature of the trap. He looked at Brackman hopefully, but the man seemed completely unaware that Willow had again returned to the same topic. Couldn't he see that this was a persistent and recurring thread, similar to the thread in Catchpole, where Janus is constantly badgering D'Agostino about..

"… to different people?" Willow said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The question was, Mr. Constantine: Were these hundred and twenty mimeographed copies distributed to different people?"

"Yes, they were."

"Beginning in January of 1947?"

"Yes."

"And ending when?"

"When I found a producer."

"Which was when?"

"May of 1947. May 11th, to be exact, I won't forget that date. That's when the play was optioned by Mr. Frederick Gerard, who eventually produced it later that year."

"You personally arranged for or actually made delivery of one hundred and twenty mimeographed copies of your play between January and May of 1947?"

"Yes, I did."

"Do you believe Mr. Driscoll somehow came across one of these copies at that time?"

"You'll have to ask him about that."

"I am asking you."

"How would I know whether or not he saw a copy at that time?"

"Mr. Constantine, instead of engaging me in argument, would you please answer my question: Do you believe that Mr. Driscoll saw a copy of your play at that time?"

"He could have, yes."

"Do you think he did?"

"It's possible that he did."

"In addition to having seen a performance of your play?"

"Yes, in addition."

"Do you feel he could have successfully plagarized your work after having seen only one performance of the play?"

"Yes."

"That would have been sufficient?"

"Yes. Besides, it ran for twelve days. He could have seen it any number of times."

"He could have been so impressed by it the first time that he ran back to see it again and again, is that it?"

"Ignoring the sarcasm, that is not it. I don't know what goes on in Mr. Driscoll's head, either now or in 1947."

"Do you know how old Mr. Driscoll was in 1947?"

"No, I do not."

"He was eighteen."

"I was eighteen when I got drafted into the Army to fight a war," Arthur said.

"Which is commendable, but hardly to the point. Did you go into the Army as an officer, Mr. Constantine?"

"No. I was sent to O.C.S. after my basic training."

"And emerged as a second lieutenant."

"Yes."

"And you were sent to the Pacific in time for the Marshall Islands landings."

"Yes."

"Did your men ever call you 'Loot'?"

"Yes, they did."

"The way they call Mason 'Loot' in your play?"

"No. In my play, they use the word in a derogatory manner. If we're going to get into this again…"

"Into what again?"

"Into hastily trained officers, and platoons composed of cross-sections of America, and the prevalence of minority group members, and ninety-day wonders and soldiers who use obscenity, all in an attempt to show that Mr. Driscoll was only following his natural bent, he was only creating a wholly original work of fiction out of common everyday experience, I'm sorry, Mr. Willow, but I don't agree with you, and I see exactly what you're trying to do."

"I am trying to ask some questions," Willow said, "if I may be permitted, your Honor."

"Please go on, Mr. Willow. I find nothing objectionable in your line of questioning."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, rising, "Mr. Constantine is not an attorney, though perhaps he did feel Mr. Willow was badgering him."

"I am not aware of any badgering," McIntyre said. "Please go on, Mr. Willow."

"Would you not agree, Mr. Constantine, that the word 'Loot' is a common expression in the United States Army, whether it be used affectionately or derogatively?"

"I would agree," Arthur said tightly.

"Your claim, however, is that both in your play and in The Paper Dragon, the men use this expression in order to annoy the lieutenant. They use it derogatively. In fact, you pointed out an example of its use in your play, and an example of its use in the novel. Your claim is that they constitute specific similarity of language, isn't that so?"

"That's right. And they do."

"The language you referred to in your play was, and I quote, 'How about lengthening that to Lieutenant Mason?' to which Corporal Janus replies, 'Isn't that what I said, Loot?' You indicated in your testimony yesterday that the word 'Loot' was stressed, isn't that so?"

"That's absolutely correct."

"Now would you please show me the page in your play where those lines appear."

"They're in the second act," Arthur said.

"Please find the page."

Arthur was angry, and worried, and not a little confused, and very disappointed in Brackman who, he felt, had apologized again rather than objecting, and who had completely missed the point of what was happening, missed the trap that Arthur was sure Willow had baited and somehow sprung, though he still did not know what the trap was. That was supposed to be Brackman's job, god-damnit, to see a closing trap and to prevent its jaws from clamping down, what the hell kind of a lawyer was he? Angrily, he flipped through the pages, and then suddenly stopped.

"Have you found it?" Willow asked.

"It wouldn't be in this version," Arthur said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Those two lines were not in the original mimeographed version of the play."

"Am I to understand that there is yet another version of Catchpole?"

"Not another version, actually. But certain line changes were made in rehearsal and appeared in the play as it was produced. These would not be in any of the original mimeographed copies."

"In what copy can these line changes be found?"

"I imagine in the actors' scripts, or the stage manager's. The ones that were used during the actual rehearsal of the play."

"Do you have any of these copies, Mr. Constantine?"

"No, I haven't."

"Does anyone?"

"Not to my knowledge. The members of the company may have retained them, I wouldn't know about that. This was almost twenty years ago."

"In other words, these two lines to which you refer are not to be found in the copy of the play now before this Court."

"That's correct. But the lines were spoken on the stage."

"And you heard them spoken?"

"I did. At every performance."

"Am I to understand, then, Mr. Constantine, that with respect to these two lines — which you claim have their counterpart in the book titled The Paper Dragon and also the film of the same name — with respect to these particular lines, unless James Driscoll actually saw a rehearsal script of the play, he could not possibly possess any knowledge of these lines, is that correct?"

"No. He could have seen the play in performance."

"We have got down to the point, have we not, where in order to show access, we must also show that Mr. Driscoll saw the play during its twelve-day Broadway run. Otherwise he would not have known of these lines inserted during rehearsal, nor would he have known of the division insignia bearing the number 105. Isn't that correct?"

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "I would like to remind Mr. Willow that it is not our burden to prove that James Driscoll actually attended a performance of the play, no more than it is the burden of a plaintiff to prove, for example, that a defendant actually read a novel he is said to have plagiarized. It is sufficient to show that the opportunity for copying existed. The play Catchpole was there to be seen in New York City, and I think we are very very safe in assuming James Driscoll was also here in New York City at the time and perfectly capable of visiting the Fulton Theatre to take a look at the play. I would not like Mr. Willow to lead us into believing it is our burden to supply witnesses who actually saw James Driscoll entering the theater and taking notes on the play."

"I believe Mr. Willow is sufficiently aware of the meaning of access," McIntyre said. "Please go on, Mr. Willow."

"I have no further questions," Willow said.

"Thank you," McIntyre said. "Mr. Genitori, I know you would like to begin your cross, but I see it's ten minutes to twelve, and I think we had better take a recess for lunch."

"Certainly," Genitori said.

"This Court is recessed until two p.m.," the clerk said.

6

The snow on the ground before the federal courthouse seemed an extension of the white steps themselves, blanketing sidewalk and street, blurring the denning lines of the five concrete islands that formed Foley Square. The largest of these islands was directly opposite the courthouse, across a narrow stretch of pavement that seemed more like an expanded footpath. Duane Street on the left of the courthouse, and Pearl Street on its right bracketed the building and pierced the square which was not a square, Duane continuing west toward Broadway, Pearl abruptly ending against a long green fence behind which construction was in progress, the fence surrounding a barren lot where pile drivers, tractors, and trucks were inactive during the lunch hour. The benches on the island opposite the courthouse were lightly dusted with snow, as were the green shrubs backing them. The steps leading down to the BMT subway were similarly covered with snow, and a man coming up from underground looked skyward as though surprised to find it was still snowing, and then hesitated at the top of the steps to adjust his muffler and to put on his gloves. The area from Reade Street north was dismally gray except for the bright orange sign of the Nedick's on the corner of Duane. There was another touch of color looking south, where a tall building on Centre Street rose out of the swirling snow, its red brick and green trim lending a festive look to the area.

There were two good restaurants on Duane near Broadway, both of which were habitually frequented by the men whose business was the law — Gasner's, and slightly further west, Calate's. In addition, there were dozens of small coffee shops and cafeterias, delicatessens and hamburger joints, a Schrafft's on Park Place, and a Long-champs on Murray Street across from the statue of Nathan Hale. The restaurant Sidney chose was on Reade Street, closer to the courthouse but not as popular as Gasner's. Mother Sauce's featured an authentic Jewish cuisine and a proprietress named Martha Schwartz, who had earned her nickname, or so the legend went, the afternoon she drank three off-duty detectives from the D.A.'s office clear under the table and almost through the floor. Sidney could not vouch for the authenticity of the legend but he recounted it nonetheless to Arthur as they entered the place and waited for Mother Sauce to seat them.

She was a woman in her late sixties, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, wearing a white apron over a severe black dress, and moving around her small crowded restaurant with uncanny speed. The place had been designed with total architectural disregard, its low ceiling supported by a myriad of wood-paneled columns and partitions, tables and booths shoved into niches and nooks or built around posts and into crannies and cul-de-sacs, jutting from behind paneled walls, angled against sealed doors, nestled against windows. In the midst of this monumental disorder, Mother Sauce moved swiftly from table to table, around column and post, into paneled alley and byway, along a labyrinthine route to the kitchen, haranguing and harassing her waiters, circuitously back to the cash register, carrying a menu to a hidden booth, rushing toward the paneled bar, coming again to the door, where she greeted Sidney by name, beaming a smile, and then leading them to a booth at the rear of the restaurant, partitioned on each side to conceal the booths flanking it. Sidney excused himself at once — "A courtroom is bad on a man's kidneys," he explained — and left Arthur alone at the table. A waiter appeared immediately and took his order for a Dewar's on the rocks. Mother Sauce handed him a menu and then hurried away. The booth was small and cozy, upholstered in rich green leather like the table-tops in the courtroom. A pair of small shaded lamps hung on the wall over the booth. The tablecloth was spotlessly white, and the drink when it came was more than generous. Arthur felt himself relaxing for the first time that day. Grateful for Sidney's absence, he studied the menu in silence and with increasing appetite, only vaguely aware at first of the voices coming from behind the paneled partition on his left.

"… in command of the situation, I would say," a man's voice said.

"Are we?" a woman asked.

"Yes, I would say so."

Arthur glanced at the partition, and then studied the menu again. He was ravenously hungry, and everything looked good, the consommé with noodles and matzoh balls, the borscht.

"I don't think we have anything to worry about," another man's voice said. "We're not going to let them get away with anything."

"Except maybe Dris's reputation," the woman said.

"No, not that either," the first man answered, and Arthur suddenly recognized the voice as belonging to Jonah Willow.

"We won't let them get his reputation, either, don't worry," the other man said. "Only a miracle could convince McIntyre there was any plagiarism here."

"That's right," Willow agreed. "In fact, this case should never have come to trial."

"Then why did it?" the woman asked. She had been speaking with a Southern inflection that suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a voice honed razor-sharp.

"An offer to settle would have been an admission of guilt," Willow said.

"Even a token settlement?" the woman asked.

"Any settlement. Besides, these people aren't looking for tokens. They've asked for damages and an accounting of profits."

"Will they get it?"

"I've never met a Harvard lawyer I couldn't beat," Willow said.

"I'm a Harvard lawyer," the other man said.

"Yes, but unfortunately you're on my side."

Arthur started to rise. He knew for certain now that one of the men in the adjacent booth was Jonah Willow, and he was fairly confident that the other man was his assistant. In which case, the woman was undoubtedly Mrs. James Driscoll, and Arthur had no right sitting there listening to them talk about the trial. As he rose he wondered whether Driscoll himself was at the table, maintaining a discreet silence, and he suddenly wanted to hear whatever Driscoll might say. Abruptly, he sat, telling himself again that he really should leave, he really should move out of the booth and away from this conversation, but remaining where he was, fascinated, compelled to listen, and actively hoping they would reveal a piece of information that would prove helpful to his case.

"What if they win?" the woman asked. She had to be Driscoll's wife, she couldn't be anyone else. Her Southern inflection had returned, her tone was again calm and reasonable, her voice softly resonant.

"They won't," Willow said.

"But if they do."

"We appeal."

"And if we lose the appeal?"

"We pay the two dollars."

"Yes, and then API and Mitchell-Campbell will turn right around and sue my husband for their losses. Isn't that so, Mr. Willow?"

"Your husband made certain warranties and indemnities in the contracts he signed, Mrs. Driscoll. One of those was that the work was entirely original with him and did not infringe on the rights of any other individual. If we lose this case, yes, API and Mitchell-Campbell would have the right to counterclaim over and4o recover against him, yes."

"Whom would you represent in such a case, Mr. Willow?"

"I'm not sure I understand you."

"My husband? Or Mitchell-Campbell Books?"

"Such a case is an impossibility," the other man said. "We're going to win this suit, Mrs. Driscoll."

"I'm only asking Mr. Willow suppose. Whom would you represent, Mr. Willow?"

"I would have to represent Mitchell-Campbell," Willow said. "My firm works for them on a retainer basis."

"And would you then claim, for Mitchell-Campbell, that my husband did indeed steal Mr. Constantine's play?"

"If this court decides…"

"Would you?"

"Mrs. Driscoll, if this court decides against us, we would most certainly appeal to a higher court."

"You're evading my question, Mr. Willow."

"I think I've got another Harvard lawyer on my hands," Willow said, and laughed.

"What I want to know, Mr. Willow, is whether you really believe my husband is an honest man."

There was a slight hesitation.

"Yes," Willow said. "I do."

"You don't think he stole that play?"

"I do not," Willow said. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Do you think he stole it?"

There was another hesitation. Then Mrs. Driscoll said, "Of course he didn't steal it."

"Then we have no problem," Willow said.

Arthur rose suddenly and left the booth, his back to the partitioning wall, his heart pounding. He should not have eavesdropped, he should.have warned them, he should have said Stop, I don't want to hear this, his father and mother in the room next to his, the wind outside and the sound of an occasional automobile in the street below, his father whispering in Italian, whispering, don't let me hear, he thought, don't you know Julie's in the room with you? I do not want to hear. Blankly, he moved away from the booth and into the restaurant, circling the columns, moving between the tables, trapped in a forest of furniture and glistening white tablecloths, the hum of conversation, the brittle sound of laughter and the clink of silverware, where should he go, should he find Mother Sauce and ask her to change their table, where was Sidney, where the hell was the men's room, where behind these columns and walls had Mother Sauce hidden the men's room? He saw the telephone booth and hurried toward it, entering it and swiftly closing the door behind him, hiding, I should not have listened. He dried the palms of his hands on his trousers. His face was flushed and he felt feverish and weak. He sat silently expectant, certain that the phone would ring and expose his hiding place. He caught his breath and looked at the dial. Selig, he thought. He dried his palms again, and searched for a dime, and then he dialed Selig's office number slowly and carefully. Selig answered on the fourth ring.

"Did you reach Mitzi?" Arthur asked. His heart was still pounding. He looked through the glass door of the booth furtively, fearful he would be discovered by Willow, exposed by Willow who would reconstruct the eavesdropping and berate him for it, scold him the way McIntyre had yesterday, make him feel foolish and guilty and afraid.

"Not only did I reach Mitzi," Selig said, "but I also asked her to ask Hester to call me at the office, which Hester did not ten minutes ago. I've been on the phone with her all this time."

"What did she say?"

"She likes the play."

"Good, will she—"

"But she has some questions about it."

"About the play?"

"Well, about the character."

"About Carol?"

"Yes, that's the part we want her to play, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, that's the part she's got questions about."

"What kind of questions?"

"I don't know, she wants to talk to you," Selig said. "She won't talk to anyone but you."

"When?"

"Tonight?"

"Where?"

"It'll have to be late, Arthur. She has a perform…"

"I don't care how late…"

"… ance at Lincoln Center, you know. She probably won't be free until eleven-thirty or thereabouts."

"Fine. What shall I do, pick her up at the theater?"

"No, she said she'd rather meet…"

"Where?"

"The Brasserie. She doesn't eat until after performance, so she can grab a bite there, if that's all right with you."

"That's fine."

"Eleven-thirty at the Brasserie."

"Right," Arthur said.

"You know what she looks like, don't you?"

"Yes." Arthur paused. "She didn't tell you what's bothering her, huh?"

"She didn't say anything was bothering her, Arthur. She said it was a charming play, and she loved the character, she loved the girl Carol, but before she did anything or said anything or instructed her agent to do anything, there were some things in the character she wanted to clarify, so that she would understand the character more fully and be able to approach it more intelligently."

"Did she say that? That she wanted to approach it more intelligently?"

"I'm repeating word for word what she told me, Arthur."

"Well, that sounds pretty encouraging, doesn't it to you?"

"Actresses are strange people," Selig said.

"Granted, but—"

"She may simply want to have an intelligent approach for the next time she reads it, Arthur. It could mean nothing more than that."

"Still, she wouldn't—"

"She's a very talented and high-strung girl who is afraid of her own shadow because she's so lovely, and talented, and insecure," Selig said. "She likes the play, she likes the part, but she's afraid to make a move from Lincoln Center where she's got only a little role in a Restoration comedy, but at least she's got respect and she's working steady and she doesn't have to rely on her own judgment, God forbid your play should be a flop. So she says she wants to talk to you about the character. What she really wants, Arthur, is for you to convince her she'll be doing the right thing by kissing off Lincoln Center and taking a chance on an unknown quantity. That's what this is all about."

"Okay," Arthur said.

"So explain the character to her."

"I will."

"You're a good talker."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"How's the trial going?"

"Okay."

"Call me tonight no matter how late it is," Selig said. "I want to know what she says."

"All right, I will. The Brasserie at eleven-thirty, right?"

"Right. Good luck, Arthur."

"Thank you," Arthur said, and hung up.

He sat in the booth for several moments, silent. Then he opened the door and looked for Mother Sauce. When he found her, he said, "I wonder if you could change our table."

"Something's wrong?" she asked.

"No, but I think Mr. Brackman and I would prefer another table."

"You're in litigation?"

"Yes."

"I understand," she said knowingly, and led him swiftly to the other side of the room.

European posters covered the walls of the small travel agency, brightly printed in yellows and whites and tans and greens, blatantly selling sunshine and sand while outside the plate-glass window the snow continued to fall. From where Chickie sat behind one of the two desks in the office, she could look out at street level onto Madison Avenue where lunch-hour pedestrians were battling the strong wind and wildly swirling flakes. She shivered involuntarily and looked up at the wall clock. It was ten minutes to one, and Ruth was not due back until the hour, but Chickie was very hungry and hoped the snow would drive her back sooner. She sat with her legs crossed, her skirt above the knee, amused whenever a male passerby stopped to peer through the front window of the agency, and then embarrassed and flushed if the scrutiny persisted, wanting to giggle.

The poster to the left of her desk, cluttered with travel folders and carbon copies of letters to hotels and auto-rental establishments, advertised Positano, the white and pastel houses climbing the hillside, the beach below, the rowboats hovering on the water. She glanced at it idly and then reread a letter from the Dorchester in London, confirming a room for Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Tannings, beginning January 10th. She wondered why anyone would want to go to England in January, and then immediately thought of Italy and Greece, and then of course remembered Sidney's proposal.

As she saw it, life was merely a matter of making the right decision at the right time; she should have known that long ago, when she was seventeen, but she hadn't. Well, she knew it now. Sidney had asked her to marry him, this is so unexpected, she had said, I'll have to think it over, meanwhile thinking that two million dollars was a lot of money, if he won his case he would get two million dollars. If he won, but how could he possibly win, a jerk like Sidney? Still, the possibility had to be considered. She could manage to live with anyone for two million dollars, and besides, Sidney wasn't all that bad, even though she didn't love him. There was a lot to be said for Sidney, but at the moment she couldn't think of a thing.

The decision, anyway, had nothing to do with Sidney. It had only to do with two million dollars, which he might or might not get, that was the trouble, too uncertain. Decisions were never easy for a girl to make even if she knew all the facts, but sometimes the damn facts came in too late or not at all, that was it. How could she possibly second-guess this idiotic trial? No jury, isn't that what he'd said? Two million dollars riding on an Irishman's heartburn. Or lack of it. How could you decide? Better to take the bird in the hand. Still, two million dollars.

(Take it, no, take it, no, no, and then his hand under her skirt, and she slapped him without wanting to, without thinking, forgetting for the moment, completely forgetting he was from the college. "Go out with the college boys, Duck," her mother advised. "Get yourself a rich boy from New York who'll be a doctor or a lawyer one day.")

Well, here it was, a rich (if he won the case) New York boy (forty-eight years old) who was a lawyer (but not a very good one) and he had made an honest old-fashioned proposal: I am forty-eight years old, harumph, harumph, and I know that you are only twenty-seven, but I think you know I love you, I think you truly know that. Yes, I know you love me, baby, I can wrap you around my finger, I can make you jump through hoops, I can get you to run naked in the snow on Madison Avenue, you little shmuck, of course I know you love me. Come sing for me, baby, sing your little heart out and then come on down on Northeast Airlines, brother do I know you love me!

But what to do?

Use your instinct, sweetie, use that famous woman's intuition they're always talking about, where was it in the winter of 1957? Or maybe it was operating full blast, maybe I knew exactly what would happen if I slapped him, who knows? And maybe the flushed, no, the, the almost I don't know, that tight hot embarrassed feeling (I always see myself as a frightened young girl standing alone on a station platform, a suitcase in my hand) that feeling of, heavy eyes, and almost smarting, tears about to come if something doesn't happen, frightened for two weeks after that night in his car when I slapped him, was it really fear? Or was I waiting for what was about to come, not knowing what, the way I feel embarrassed and hot and try not to giggle when a man stops at the front window to look at my legs, and want to touch myself, who the hell knows?

So he asks last night, naturally. Knows me six months but asks last night when I'm on my way to Ruth's apartment to meet Jerry Courtlandt and his brother there, to go over the European trip with them. I should have said no immediately (Take it, no, I don't want to!) I should have said Look Sidney, this is a lot of fun and all, you know, I mean I kind of enjoy having you around, you dear man, to play with, you know, you're a very nice playmate to kick around the block, but marry you? Now, really, Sidney, let's not get ridiculous. I'm twenty-seven years old, I am a beautiful young girl! Please don't make me laugh, Sidney.

Touching, though.

Really touching that he should ask.

Really.

And two million dollars, if he gets it, well, with two million dollars, who knows, Sidney? Maybe I could learn to love you, who knows, baby? Italy and Greece. Hot sand under me. Stretch, mmmm, relax.

Come on, Chickie, just relax, will you? No, I want to go home.

Home was a two-family clapboard house in a town called Ramsey, four miles from the university. The houses were semidetached, each with a small backyard and a peaked attic, identical except for the paint jobs. Their own house was further distinguished by the aspidistra her mother kept in the window, even the college boys had to ask what aspidistra meant. Her grandmother had kept one in the window of their tenement flat in London, when Agnes Brown nee Mercer was a child. And so now Agnes kept one in the window of the small house in Ramsey, Pennsylvania; it was important to maintain one's heritage, keep the bloody aspidistra flying, the man had written. Pennsylvania was Fourth Street in Ramsey, and an occasional trip into Philadelphia, and it was also the high school on Buchanan Street, and later on — even before it happened — trips to the college, the road straight as an arrow along the railroad tracks and past the power plant and then out into the beautiful rolling Pennsylvania countryside.

Her father owned the drugstore in Ramsey, an aging pharmacist who had also come from London in his youth (the sign outside his shop read "Chemist"). His name was Edwin Brown, but Mother called him Luv or Duck and Chickie called him Dads, and all of his customers called him Mr. Brown. She doubted if he even knew his first name, for all the use it got. For that matter, she herself had been called Chickie ever since a cousin from Philadelphia spent the summer with them (coming out of the slums on the city's south side to breathe a little country air) and had trouble pronouncing the name Charlotte, being only three years old and barely able to pronounce her own name, which was Mary. She liked the name Chickie because her mother made it sound like a synonym for Duck, which was her favorite term of affection, and also because when she got to be thirteen and developed a good bosom, the name seemed to apply somehow, seemed to impart a mysterious sort of womanly glamor to her, or so she thought. Chickie Brown, Chickie Brown, Chickie Brown, she would practice writing it in a broad developing hand, using a thick pen point, heavily capitalizing the C and the B.

She was kissed for the first time at her sixteenth birthday party by a boy named Frank Simms, whose father worked out at the gun factory. She blushed furiously, and then quickly raised her eyes to where her father stood in the doorway gently smiling, and hastily lowered them again. The university boys discovered her when she was seventeen, as inevitably they had to, but her mother approved of her dating, and in fact encouraged it. She knew that Chickie was a good clean girl who would probably marry young and raise a houseful of kids, so why not someone with a college education? Chickie, in her seventeenth year, was proud of her appearance, not a little annoyed whenever she asked her father how old she looked, and he smilingly replied, "Why, seventeen, luv," when she knew damn well she looked much older. She was taller than most of the girls at school, with very good breasts she had had from thirteen, and wide hips that everyone said were excellent for the bearing of children, and a narrow waist, and shapely legs — you were supposed to have good legs if the ankles were slender, which hers were. Agnes had taught her to carry herself as tall as she was, and not to slouch the way some big girls do, so she wore high heels with authority even when dating shorter boys. Her walk was rapid and direct; she never pranced or paraded the way a lot of the other kids did, as if they practiced wiggling their behinds when they were home in their own rooms. Chickie thought of herself almost as her mother did; she was good and clean and wholesome, and she was sure her innocence accounted for her fresh good looks, the shining green eyes and fine complexion, the full mouth touched with just a bit of lipstick, the red-gold hair trailing halfway down her back because it had never been cut, or sometimes swinging across her mounded sweater front in twin braids, tiny green bows picking up the color of her eyes. She thought of herself as an English girl or something. A healthy English country girl. She did not know she was just a townie.

They taught her that in the first six months of 1957, after she had dated the president of one of the most powerful fraternities on campus, or so she had been told. In fact, one of the reasons she began dating Buddy was because she knew he was the president of a big fraternity, and knew it was powerful. She could not imagine what kind of power a fraternity could wield, but the notion was intriguing nonetheless, and a little frightening. Perhaps nothing would have happened were she not both frightened and intrigued, perhaps that was all a part of it. Even now, when she thought back upon it, she could feel a tremor of fear, and she quickly pulled her skirt down over her knees, very flustered all at once — the image of a frightened girl on a station platform, that girl on the empty platform.

They had parked after the movie, and Buddy was kissing her — she let most of the boys kiss her, but never on the first date — when he gently tugged her hand toward him, and she realized he had opened his zipper, and he said, "Take it, go ahead." She said no, she didn't want to, but he kept insisting and pulling her hand toward him while she kept saying No, No, and suddenly he let her go and thrust his own hand up under her skirt, and she slapped him. The automobile was very still for perhaps a minute, it seemed like a year, and then Buddy said, very softly, "You shouldn't have done that, miss," and started the car and took her home.

She did not know why she was so frightened in the two weeks that followed, unless it was remembering the tone of his voice and the word "miss," which seemed to be promising something terrible. She had no idea that they were carefully mapping out their campaign in those two weeks, or that she would assume the importance of a military target in the patient months that followed. She did not know that men could be that way, or would want to be that way. She only knew that she was frightened. And yet, oddly, she kept waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for Buddy to call.

The campaign started on a Saturday afternoon two weeks after she had slapped Buddy. It started in her father's drugstore, and it started with an apology from Buddy, who was all smiles and embarrassment and who told her he had behaved very badly and wished she would forgive him. He was with another boy, a good-looking blond boy named Paul, whom Buddy introduced as a brother and one of his closest friends. Paul nodded shyly, and they all chatted for a few more minutes, and then left Chickie. She felt very happy about the chance encounter with Buddy, and not a little relieved that she had misread the tone of his voice that night two weeks ago. The next morning her telephone rang, and she was surprised when her caller identified himself as Paul, "You know, we met yesterday in the drugstore."

"Oh, sure, Paul," she said. "Hi."

"Hi. Listen, I hope this isn't out of line."

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Well, Buddy is a fraternity brother, you know, and

"Yes, I know that."

"I didn't want to ask him whether you were, you know, whether you had any kind of an understanding or not. But if you have…"

"No, we haven't," Chickie said.

"Well, in that case," Paul said, and he sighed in relief, "I was wondering if you'd like to go see a movie tonight. I know this is sort of short notice, and tomorrow's school and all, but I promise I'll get you home early, that is if you'd like to."

"Well, it is short notice," Chickie said.

"Yeah, I know that."

"And I'd have to ask my mother."

"Well, would you want to?"

"Well, if she says it's all right, I guess I would."

"Well, fine." He paused. "Would you ask her?"

"Sure, can you hang on?"

She asked her mother, who said it was all right, as long as they didn't get home too late. Paul picked her up at seven that night, and they went to a movie in town and then stopped for hamburgers, where they met a few other fellows from the frat, all of whom were formally introduced by Paul, who seemed very proud of her, and who watched with a sort of quiet glow while they offered their hands and very gentlemenly said, "Pleased to meet you, Chickie." He took her home early, as he had promised, and did not even try to kiss her good night. She learned later, only much later when they told her all about it, that the meeting in the drugstore had been no accident, that Paul had made his first call from the frat house, with the other fellows standing around him, and that the subsequent introduction to the boys in the hamburger joint had all been carefully planned and synchronized because they were out to get her. But she did not know it at the time, and she felt only flattered and not at all suspicious when Paul called again on Monday to ask if she'd like to have a soda or something Wednesday night, and she said Yes, she'd love to. He took her home at ten-thirty, and again did not try to kiss her good night. She wondered about that a little, somewhat puzzled, but figured he was just a shy boy. On Thursday, a boy named John called to say he had met her Sunday in the hamburger joint, "Remember me, I'm one of Paul's brothers, I've got straight brown hair?"

"Oh sure," she said.

"I know this might seem a little forward," he said, "calling when we hardly know each other, but there's going to be a party at the house tomorrow night and look, I'll be honest with you. A girl who was supposed to be coming down from Bryn Mawr for the weekend got a bad cold and she can't make it, and I'm really up the creek. I thought maybe, well… I know I'm not putting this right, and I wouldn't blame you for saying no. But it's just that I really am hung up, and I honestly would like to take you to the party. If you think you'd like to come with me. Though I know this is all very sudden."

Chickie agreed that it was very sudden, but she saw nothing wrong in helping out a fellow whose girl had come down with a cold, especially since he was one of Paul's brothers. The party that Friday night was a nice gathering with some girls from town and some girls from colleges in Pennsylvania and here and there. Everyone was very nice to her, even Buddy and Paul who were with others girls but who each danced with her once and told her what a really nice person she was. John, the fellow who was her date, was a very good-looking boy who resembled Tony Perkins and who had cultivated the same sort of shy smile. He drove her home to Ramsey at two o'clock in the morning in a red MG convertible, and thanked her profusely at the door, telling her she had saved his life and wondering if he could see her again maybe next weekend. She said she would love to, and they made a date for the coming Saturday. But before then, she received calls from two other frat boys she had danced with, and before she knew it the weekend was booked solid. Then Paul called and asked if she'd like to hack around with him again this Wednesday the way they had last, have a soda or something, and she said yes, she'd love to. Buddy called that same day to tell her they were showing some old monster movies over at the school gym on Tuesday, and would she like to go with him?

The scheme had been devised in the reading room at the frat house, Buddy telling the others what had happened and then enlisting their aid in teaching this kid a lesson she would never forget, that you don't go around slapping the president of their frat, or anybody in their frat for that matter. The boys all agreed that this was a horrible offense and if permitted to gain circulation, if permitted to spread to all the other townies, could lessen their stature and their ability to get into townie pants every now and then.

These were all nice boys, Chickie was later made to understand, who really had nothing against her and who perhaps, for all any of them knew, simply wanted an activity to carry them through the long winter months and into the spring. Chickie was unfortunate to have been chosen as their extracurricular project for that semester, but then she shouldn't have slapped old Buddy, nor should she have been so obviously intrigued nor so obviously frightened. The boys knew she was frightened, and they also knew she was intrigued. In addition, they were all much older than she, being nineteen or twenty or thereabouts, worldly-wise in the ways of townie maids, and bolstered by the solidarity of brotherhood and the knowledge that they would not have to score this one alone. This one was to be a joint effort without a chance of failure, a little cooperative project which, if they played their cards right, could provide something steady for the rest of their college days.

The plan was rather clever, if they said so themselves, and once it proved effective against Chickie, they tried it often and with varying results against several other girls — until a supposed virgin named Violet Plimpton discouraged any further joint efforts by causing twelve boys in the frat to come down with cases of the clap. Chickie, though, was a clean girl, and a nice girl, and in fact a very sweet girl against whom they harbored no ill feelings, if only she hadn't slapped a fraternity brother. They modestly admitted that not a single one of them working unassisted would have had a prayer of getting her, but neither were they about to attempt an assault without first manipulating the odds and insuring the outcome. Permutations and combinations, said Richard Longstreet, who was a very bright and ugly boy from Palm Beach, Florida, the frat genius, peering through his black rimmed spectacles and grinning at his brothers who listened attentively as he outlined his plan.

The assault, as Longstreet explained it, had to be slow and patient because first of all she wouldn't be eighteen until May and they didn't want to take any chances with jail bait (hear, hear, the brothers chanted) and secondly because it just wouldn't work unless they played it cool and easy. She had to believe that each of the seven hand-picked frat brothers were independently competing for her favors, and she had to believe that they did not exchange notes and, as a point of honor, never never discussed a girl they were simultaneously dating. (They established this without question in the third week of the campaign, when four of the frat boys separately called to ask for a Saturday night date, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she had already made a date with another of their brothers.) To further allay any of her suspicions, Longstreet said, they would evolve a system of staggered advances that could not possibly seem like the result of collusion, but would seem instead' random and erratic. Paul would be the first to touch her breast, for example, but Mitch would only later soul-kiss her, a seeming regression, and David would then try to get his hand under her skirt. We will even, Longstreet said, make provision for a villain in the group of seven, an expendable man who will try to go too far with her, unclasping her bra and going for her naked breasts, knowing the move is premature and hoping Chickie will stop dating him. He will subsequently be replaced by a more civilized fellow, selected right now, who will participate up to the time of the final assault. Paul, until then, and as part of the overall scheme, will never try to get further with her than his first grab.

Longstreet admitted that this would all be very unfair to poor Chickie because what they were going to do was drive her out of her mind (hear, hear, the brothers chanted) without her ever once realizing she was being led down the garden. What we're going to do, Long-street said, is manipulate and control her psychological and emotional responses so that by a process of gradual conditioning she will be ready for whatever we choose to put before her next. Her responses will all be calculated beforehand, we will decide when to give her a surfeit of affection and understanding, we will decide when to deprive her or when to resume the attack. In short, we will destroy her defenses one by one, creating a permissive climate that will make it simpler for the next man to take her yet a step further in persuasion, until she is conditioned to expect a certain amount of stimulation, until she is indeed looking forward to it. And by the time we have brought her to the point of highest expectation, why then we'll see who's gonna pluck her. After that, Long-street said, it's anybody's.

The plan in practice worked almost the way Long-street outlined it, not because it was foolproof, but only because Chickie contributed a certain amount of confused eagerness to its execution. Whatever she told herself later, whatever eventual surprise she professed to the boys when they explained to her in a very friendly and open manner how the plan had worked, she really suspected something from the very beginning, and her suspicions were all but confirmed by the end of the second month. To begin with, she knew without doubt that all girls exchanged notes, and it must have entered her mind almost at once (whatever protestations they made to the contrary) that seven boys from the same frat might just conceivably say a word or two about her in passing. So she never really bought the "independent dating" routine or the "point of honor" nonsense, nor did she believe it accidental that she was being rushed by the seven best-looking and most popular boys in the frat. She was somewhat thrown off stride when Freddie Holtz took off her bra and began fumbling around with her breasts, big clumsy football player, especially when all the others were so tiptoey apologetic if they for God's sake accidentally brushed against her or anything. But even then she had the feeling she was supposed to stop dating him, which was exactly what she did. And, of course, he was immediately replaced by another of the frat boys, so that there were always seven of them (in the final week they were dating her every night, dating her in sequence and getting her so completely confused and excited that she was ready for anything) but hadn't she been aware from the very beginning? Frightened, yes, when Mitch thrust his tongue into her mouth and tightened his arms around her; surprised, yes, when she found her own tongue eagerly searching the soft inner lining of his mouth; surprised, too, when she felt so suddenly wet, and idiotically thought her period had come, and then pulled away from him breathlessly, terrified, yes, but aware, aware. And later when David provisionally touched her leg, and immediately pulled back his hand, she knew without question that one or another of them would go further the next time, and was not at all surprised when Mark worked his hand up under her bra and onto her naked breast the following Saturday. She had begun to detect a pattern by then, however erratic and hidden it was, and she was aware of a steady progression, a series of escalating liberties that were infallibly calculated to lead to greater liberties. She knew. But she permitted it.

She permitted it with a feeling of rising suspense, curious to discover what they had planned for her next, gradually more and more anxious to participate. She did not think beyond the ultimate and inevitable act, knowing only that by the time it finally happened, two weeks after her eighteenth birthday, she was eagerly seeking the relief it brought. Beyond it, she vaguely visualized a continuing though certainly unpromiscuous sort of girlish sexual activity. She did not know that nothing but complete and utter subjugation would satisfy her captors.

She was finally made to understand this on the weekend the frat boys rented a Philadelphia hotel room and repeatedly used her, all twenty-six of them, one after the other throughout the night and the next long day. They had prepared for the event by purchasing condoms at the drugstore owned by Chickie's father (a brilliant touch thought up by Richard Longstreet) and then had come to Chickie with a ready-made alibi. She was to say a girl from Penn had invited her up for the weekend. They even supplied her with the girl's name, Alice Malloy. Chickie had no doubt she was a real girl the boys knew. She was too frightened to refuse the invitation, and besides she didn't know what was in store for her, or perhaps she did, it was all very confusing. All through the night, they kept saying, "You love it, don't you, Chickie?" to which she kept answering, "No, I don't, no," the next boy asking the same question, "You love it, don't you, Chickie?" and always she answered no, and thought of escape, and was terrified, and finally on the afternoon of the second day, she shrieked, "Yes, I love it, I love it, I love it!" and began giggling uncontrollably, and knew at last she was only what they said she was, a townie piece of twat.

In later years, when these nice fraternity boys got married to girls from Radcliffe and Smith and Sarah Lawrence and Vassar, and settled down to raise families, and went to work in business suits, they separately felt a pang of guilt when they recalled what they had done to Chickie in the winter and spring of 1957. But their guilt was dissipated by memory of the strange excitement they had known at the time, the knowledge that they (or rather Richard Longstreet, the frat genius) had inadvertently stumbled upon the key to Chickie Brown: she was a terrified little girl wanting to be victimized. This was exactly what they did to her, repeatedly, until finally their own lust seemed inspired by Chickie's appetite, and they could absolve themselves of any blame they may have felt at the time; they were obviously in the company of an insatiable nymphomaniac with masochistic tendencies, or so she was described by Richard Longstreet, who was a genius.

And in later years, when Chickie thought back upon that winter and spring, as she was doing now in her office while the snow swirled against the plate-glass window, she felt again the same surge of excitement, the same flushed embarrassment, the same tremor of fear she had known then and ever since with a variety of men including the Indian who had beat her until she ached and had given her a Persian cat in remorse. So Sidney Brackman, the dear silly man, wanted to marry her. She thought again of Italy and Greece, and the warm sand beneath her. She would be wearing a bikini, they would stare at her breasts and her legs, she would experience that familiar feeling of terrified lust engorging her, rising into her throat and her head until she wanted to scream aloud, or giggle, or die.

Will you win your stupid case, Sidney Brackman? she wondered.

If I were only sure you would.

Samuel Genitori, the chief counsel for API, was a rotund little man with a balding head and mild blue eyes. He was wearing a blue pinstripe suit with a light blue shirt and a dark blue tie. He carried a pair of eyeglasses in his hand as he approached the stand, but he did not put them on. To the court clerk, he said, "Plaintiff's Exhibit Number 8, please," and when he received the chart he put on the glasses briefly, studied the chart for a moment, took the glasses off again, and looked up at Arthur.

"Mr. Constantine," he said, "yesterday afternoon a chart was submitted to this court, and marked Plaintiff's Exhibit Number 8. It listed the alleged similarities between the movie The Paper Dragon and your play Catchpole. I show this to you now, and ask if this list was prepared by you."

"By me and my attorneys, yes."

"And it purports to show, does it not, the alleged similarities that were not present in Mr. Driscoll's book?"

"Yes, it does."

"It contains only those that appear in the play and in the film, is that correct?"

"That is correct."

"In your examination before trial, Mr. Constantine, you testified to some other alleged similarities between the play and the film, did you not?"

"That was a long time ago," Arthur said.

"Please answer the question."

"I don't remember whether I did or not."

"Perhaps I can refresh your memory."

"Please do," Arthur said.

"Did you not testify that there is a scene in the movie where a man is shown with his foot wrapped in bandages? Did you not claim that this man with his foot wrapped in bandages was stolen directly from your play?"

"I don't remember making that claim."

"Then let's try to be a bit more precise, shall we? This is the transcript of your pretrial examination, and I'm going to read now from page 198, this is you talking, Mr. Constantine: Tn the motion picture, there's a scene between the lieutenant and his commanding officer, and in the background we can see a line of men returning from the front. One of these men has his foot wrapped in bandages. This man was not described anywhere in the novel, but there's a scene in my play where a group of men are waiting for a stretcher, and one of the men has his foot wrapped in bandages.' Did you say that, Mr. Constantine?"

"If it's there, I said it."

"Then I take it you also said, because it's here on page 199, you also said, 'This man is a minor character, and his appearance in the movie can only be explained as an unconscious copying from the play.' Did you say that?"

"I did."

"Do you still feel this similarity indicates copying?"

"It's a minor point," Arthur said, "and I believe it was later withdrawn. That's why it doesn't appear on the chart."

"You no longer claim the man with his foot in bandages as a similarity?"

"That's right."

"Did you also testify during your pretrial examination that marksmanship was discussed in both your play and in the movie?"

"Possibly."

"Well, let's—"

"Probably, as a matter of fact."

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Constantine, I would like to read now from page 211 of the transcript, so that we can see whether it was possibly or probably or just what it was, shall we do that?"

"I'm willing to concede that…"

"On page 211, and I'm quoting from the transcript now, we have the following exchange:

"That's the end of the testimony, Mr. Constantine. Do you remember it now?"

"I remember it."

"Do you still feel a similarity exists here?"

"No, I do not, and again I must say that this claim has already been withdrawn, which is why it does not appear on the chart. If the evidence were all as flimsy as these two examples, the entire case would be absurd. You've picked on two points which have already—"

"These two points are flimsy and absurd?"

"That's why they were withdrawn."

"Mr. Constantine, didn't you also say that another similarity between the play and the movie was the fact that both Private Colman and Corporal Janus wear eyeglasses?"

"I did."

"And that this is another malevolent example of—"

"Did I say malevolent?"

"No, that's my word, Mr. Constantine. But you do feel this similarity indicates copying by Ralph Knowles, who wrote the screenplay based on the novel."

"My character Corporal Janus wears eyeglasses. Driscoll's character Private Colman does not wear eyeglasses. Yet in the movie, we have Private Colman wearing eyeglasses. Now if that doesn't indicate…"

"Do you still claim…"

"The similarity exists."

"It's not one of the flimsy and absurd ones?"

"It is an indication of either deliberate or unconscious copying. Alone, it might not be significant. But when we look at the other similarities, the fact that both men are troublemakers, and the homosexual references, and when we add the eyeglasses to that…"

"You're not suggesting that Private Colman is homosexual."

"In the book he is."

"But not in the film?"

"The film has taken my homosexual colonel and used him instead. I believe I've already explained the blending of two characters to form one in the book, and the subsequent separation in the film."

"And you still wish to claim this matter of the eyeglasses as a similarity?"

"I wish it to remain, yes."

"Remain where, Mr. Constantine? It does not appear on your chart, which you said earlier was a complete list. Do you now wish to add it to that list?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Would you like to add any others, Mr. Constantine. We'd like to be perfectly clear as to what you've alleged."

"No, that's all."

"You do not wish to add any other similarities to this list?"

"I do not."

"I wonder if I might now ask you, Mr. Constantine, why you chose to include in your list several similarities which you regarded as flimsy and absurd?"

"I don't know why. The examination had been going on for a long time. I was tired and…"

"Mr. Constantine, do you remember asking for time to go over your charts and lists in an attempt to determine whether or not you had covered everything?"

"When do you mean?"

"During the pretrial examination."

"I don't remember."

"And after you had studied your charts and lists — I believe you were gone for close to an hour, Mr. Constantine — you came back and said, and these are your exact words which I'm reading from the transcript, 'There are several other similarities I'd like to mention.' One of those similarities was the man in bandages, isn't that so?"

"Perhaps. You and Mr. Willow seemed determined at that point to get me to say this was a complete list, so I…"

"Yes, you said you wanted a chance to study it. Which you did, Mr. Constantine. For close to an hour, isn't that correct?"

"I suppose so, but…"

"Without any pressure from Mr. Willow, or me, or anyone. Isn't that so?"

'It was a very hot day, and everyone seemed to be—"

"Please, Mr. Constantine, I will have my question answered. Were you under any pressure when you reviewed your charts and came back to add the man in the bandages?"

"I've already answered the question."

"You've answered it by saying it was hot and you were tired and Mr. Willow and I were pressuring you."

"I said you seemed determined to have me say it was a complete list. I did not mention anything about being pressured."

"Were you being pressured?"

"I was being interrogated."

"Mr. Constantine, I am suggesting that you were not being interrogated when you left the room and spent an hour alone with your charts."

"That was merely an extension of the interrogation. I knew the interrogation would be waiting for me when I returned, and you and Mr. Willow had made it clear that if I didn't list each and every similarity at that time, the opportunity—"

"Can you tell me, Mr. Constantine, who decided to withdraw these similarities which you now consider flimsy and absurd?"

"Your Honor," Brackman said, rising, "I fail to see the purpose of this line of questioning. These similarities have been withdrawn. Does Mr. Genitori wish them to be claimed again? The witness has testified that he no longer considers them valid. Why, then, does Mr. Genitori—"

"He is examining as to the witness's credibility," McIntyre said. "I will allow it."

"If your Honor please," Genitori said. "Mr. Constantine, I repeat my question. Who decided to withdraw these similarities which you now consider flimsy and absurd?"

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "those were not the witness's words. He said something about…"

"I said if all the evidence were as flimsy as those two examples—"

"Yes, you did say the examples were flimsy," Genitori interrupted, "and absurd."

"I said the case would be absurd, the case"

"If all the examples were as flimsy as these two which have now been withdrawn," Brackman said. "That is what the witness said."

"The record will show exactly what he said, Mr. Brackman."

"In any case," Arthur said, "Mr. Brackman and I decided after deliberation to withdraw these specific claims. I think that answers your question."

"Yes, it does," Genitori said. "Now, if I understand this correctly, Mr. Constantine, there are five alleged similarities on Plaintiff's Exhibit Number 8, to which you now wish to add Private Colman and his eyeglasses, which makes a total of six alleged similarities between your" play and the movie."

"Yes. Plus those that appear in the book as well, of course."

"We are talking now only of those that were not in the book, but which you claim are only in the movie and the play."

"That's right, there are six."

"And do you base your claim upon these six similarities alone?"

"I don't think I understand your question."

"It's perfectly clear, Mr. Constantine. Do you base your claim upon these six similarities alone?"

"No, sir."

"You do not?"

"My claims based on all the similarities that appear in the play, the book, and the film."

"It is our contention, your Honor," Brackman said, "that both James Driscoll and API copied freely from the plaintiff's play. Mr. Genitori's concern at the moment would seem to be API's right to counterclaim should—"

Mr. Brackman," McIntyre said, "I do not see where API's right to counterclaim is a matter for discussion right now."

"The plaintiff is suing for an accounting. API's right to counterclaim later is most certainly before your Honor, if we are to be realistic."

"Your Honor," Genitori said, "my question does not go to the matter of counterclaim, though I would agree this is a consideration. It deals instead with the specific allegations against API."

"You will answer the question, Mr. Constantine."

"What is the question?"

"Do you base your claim against API on these six similarities?" Genitori said.

"I base it on all the similarities," Arthur answered.

"That concludes my cross-examination, your Honor."

"I have no redirect," Brackman said.

"Very well. Thank you, Mr. Constantine, you may—"

"Your Honor, I have one further question."

"Forgive me, Mr. Willow."

Willow walked to the witness chair and, without looking at Arthur, said, "Mr. Constantine, you said yesterday morning that you worked on a film titled Area Seven, is that correct?"

"That's correct."

"In what capacity did you work on that film?"

"I worked on the screenplay."

"You wrote the screenplay?"

"I worked on it together with Matthew Jackson."

Willow suddenly looked up. "Mr. Constantine," he said, "did you receive screen credit for Area Seven?"

"I did."

"As co-author of the screenplay?"

"We worked on it together."

"Did the screen credit state 'Screenplay by Matthew Jackson and Arthur Nelson Constantine'?"

"Screen credits are determined by the Writers Guild. They very often—"

"Please answer the question."

"No, that's not what the credit stated."

"Did it not, in fact, state 'Adaptation by Arthur Nelson Constantine, Screenplay by Matthew Jackson'?"

"Yes, that's what it stated. But 'adaptation' is a word—"

"Thank you, Mr. Constantine."

"Mr. Brackman?" McIntyre asked.

"That is the plaintiff's case, if your Honor please."

"You may step down, Mr. Constantine."

"Thank you," Arthur said. Bewildered for a moment, he began walking toward the jury box on the left of the courtroom, saw James Driscoll and his wife sitting there, started for the benches at the rear, and then responded to Brackman's signal to join him at the plaintiff's table.

Willow was still standing before the bench.

He took off his glasses, pressed his fingers into his eyes, head bent for a moment, and then put the glasses on again, and looked up at the judge.

"May I at this time," he said, "move to dismiss the action on the ground that this court has no jurisdiction with respect to the play Catchpole."

He delivered the words calmly and emotionlessly, startling even Genitori, who looked up in surprise. Arthur immediately turned to Brackman, puzzled, but Brackman rested a reassuring hand on his arm, leaned forward, his attention focused on Willow, and then patted Arthur's arm twice in further reassurance. Arthur did not know why Willow was suggesting that a federal court had no jurisdiction in a copyright case. He sensed intuitively, though, that the motion had been conceived as a result of the trap Willow had set and sprung in his earlier circuitous questioning. Apprehensively, he leaned forward and waited for Willow to continue. The courtroom was silent.

"Section 13 of the Copyright Law," Willow said, "clearly states that no action for infringement may be maintained if copies of the work in question have not been deposited with the Library of Congress."

Brackman was on his feet instantly. "Mr. Willow knows very well that the play Catchpole was copyrighted in August of 1947," he said. "Point of fact, he conceded before trial that it would not be necessary to produce a certificate of copyright, and that…"

"That's on the record, Mr. Willow," McIntyre said. "I'm not sure I understand your motion."

"Your Honor," Willow said, "I believe it was proved today that this work was published a full seven months before any copyright protection was sought."

"May I ask. " Brackman started.

"Publication, your Honor," Willow interrupted, "may be defined as the earliest date of unrestricted sale or distribution of copies. In this case, the first authorized edition of Catchpole was the play Arthur Constantine had mimeographed in December of 1946."

"Your Honor…"

"He distributed copies of that play starting in January of 1947, and continuing through May of that year, when the play was optioned. This mimeographed version was not copyrighted, nor was the play registered with the Copyright Office until August of 1947, seven months after the general distribution."

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "we are engaged in a matter of semantics here. The distribution made by Mr. Constantine was not a general distribution, as my learned friend claims, but rather a limited one to theatrical producers and investors, for the sole purpose of securing production of the play."

"The fact remains, your Honor, that one hundred and twenty copies were, in the witness's own words, 'floating all over the city,' distributed without copyright notice, placing them in the public domain. I cite Section 10 of the Code, which specifies that publication or distribution without the statutory copyright notice constitutes dedication to the public."

"This was neither a publication nor a general distribution," Brackman said. "Under Section 12 of the Code, the common-law protection of a work is perpetual so long as the work remains unpublished. Catchpole, which was a dramatic composition, was 'published,' if you will, on the night the play opened in New York City to paid performances. Until that time…"

"A hundred and twenty copies were printed, your Honor."

"Were mimeographed," Brackman said.

"And generally distributed."

"It was a limited distribution."

"We can argue this forever," McIntyre said. "I will reserve judgment on the motion, Mr. Willow."

"May I then, your Honor, for the defendants Mitchell-Campbell Books and Camelot Books move for dismissal of the complaint under Rule 41, on the ground that on the facts and on the law the plaintiff has not made out a cause for action."

"I will deny that motion," McIntyre said.

"If your Honor please," Willow said, "I have no desire to waste the Court's time, but may I point out that our grounds are set forth in our main brief and in our reply brief?"

"I know that."

"Thank you, your Honor," Willow said.

Genitori rose from behind the API table and walked toward the bench. "May it please your Honor," he said, "Mr. Willow has made a motion to dismiss under Rule 41, and I would now like to join that motion as it refers to the first claim against API. But in addition, I would like to make another motion directed to the second cause of action, which charges independent infringement by API.

"For the purpose of this motion, your Honor, I must assume arguendo that Ralph Knowles, the man who wrote the screenplay and directed the film, had access to the play Catchpole, and that the five similarities listed in Plaintiff's Exhibit Number 8, together with the 'eyeglasses' incident which was added today — these six items were copied by Mr. Knowles directly from the play. I submit to your Honor that even assuming access and copying — and access alone means nothing, as your Honor well knows — even assuming both, these six incidents alone do not form the basis for copyright infringement.

"Let us examine them for a moment, if we may, your Honor. They are all as flimsy and as absurd as the man with his foot in bandages, or the far-fetched allusion to marksmanship, both of which claims have already been withdrawn. They are as meaningless, your Honor, as the incident of the eyeglasses, which was added to the list in this courtroom today.

"We are asked to accept as a unique idea, for example, the use of a bayonet as a weapon, your Honor — the use of a bayonet as a weapon — merely because the plaintiff's psychopathic colonel uses one. Never mind the fact that bayonet charges were prevalent during the Korean conflict, and that whereas none were mentioned in the novel, Mr. Knowles made pictorial use of them in the film. Or for example, your Honor, the plaintiff insists that because some soldiers are drinking coffee at one point in his play, and some soldiers in the film also drink coffee, this is another indication of access and direct copying from the play. I don't think I need bring up the other three points which are just as meaningless, and upon which the plaintiff bases his charge of independent infringement by API.

"I submit that the plaintiff's case is lacking in any evidence of infringement of copyrightable material. I call your attention to one of the more prominent plagiarism cases — Morris versus Wilson, cited on page 24 of our brief — in which Judge Weinfeld said, In order to suppose that these authors should have found in the plaintiff's play cues for the farfetched similarities which she discovers, one must be obsessed — as apparently unsuccessful playwrights are commonly obsessed — with the inalterable conviction that no situation, no character, no detail of construction in their own plays can find even a remote analogue except as the result of piracy.' The judge later quoted, poetically, Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proof of holy writ.'

"Your Honor, that's exactly what these six isolated incidents are, trifles light as air. Let us examine the rest of them a moment, if your Honor will allow. There is an enemy soldier being shot at and falling out of a tree, a supposedly unique event in time of war. There is an American soldier bursting into tears when his buddy is killed. And finally, there is a nurse putting on lipstick and using the back of a mess kit for a mirror. Your Honor, I submit that the first two of these alleged similarities are stock incidents to be found in any war film ever made, and that the incident with the nurse and her lipstick is non-copyrightable.

"If you will refer to page 31 of our brief — the case of Rush versus Oursler — Judge Thacher of this court observed, 'When two authors portray the same occurrence in the same setting; presupposing the presence of the same people in the same environment; similarities of incident unaccompanied by similarities in plot are not persuasive evidence of copying. The authors having worked with the same material to construct the environment or setting in which the action is laid, such similarities are inevitable; and the products of such labor are comparable to the paintings of the same scene made by different artists.'

"And a little later on, your Honor, he remarked, Tt may usually be said that such material is so unimportant and so trivial that its appropriation by copying, even if shown, would not be a substantial taking of copyrighted material.' Your Honor, the six incidents upon which plaintiff bases his second cause of action — the enemy shot from a tree, the eyeglasses, and so forth — are likewise not susceptible of copyright.

"I now respectfully submit that there is no evidence at all to support this second claim against API, and I beg your Honor to dismiss it from the case."

"Mr. Brackman?"

"I did not realize, your Honor, that Mr. Genitori was going to read us his entire brief," Brackman said dryly. He rose and walked slowly toward the bench. "Needless to say, I do not agree with him concerning the basis of our complaint, which he seems to have completely misunderstood. We are not claiming that these six incidents alone constitute our claim of infringement. Our complaint is quite clear on that. Our action against API is based on these six incidents plus all of the other similarities of theme, plot, and character which Mr. Constantine enumerated yesterday. It is a simple matter, of course, to label these similarities 'flimsy and absurd,' as Mr. Genitori has done, it is certainly much simpler than trying to explain them. But, your Honor, I feel defendant should and must explain them, especially when we consider Mr. Constan-tine's testimony, which indicates that in 1952 he worked with a man named Matthew Jackson, to whom he submitted a copy of his play Catchpole. This man Jackson…"

"Your Honor," Genitori said, "I only assumed access for the purpose of my motion."

"Yes, we understand that."

"API had access," Brackman said firmly. "There is no question about that. The play was submitted to five people at the studio in 1952, including Mr. Matthew Jackson, who later worked with Ralph Knowles on The Paper Dragon. Carl, may I see that brief a moment, please?" he said, turning to his partner. Arthur, watching him, saw that he was getting angry, and he immediately thought, Good, it's about time. Give it to the bastards.

"I don't like to waste this Court's time reading from cases. There are hundreds and hundreds of cases, as your Honor well knows, and it seems we have already heard a goodly percentage of them from my learned friend." Arthur saw Genitori smile, in spite of the withering glance Brackman directed at him. "But our brief is not exactly destitute of examples, your Honor, and if I may I would like to quote from it at this time."

"Please," McIntyre said.

"I thank your Honor for his indulgence," Brackman said. "In the case of West Publishing Company versus Edward Thompson Company, it was pointed out, and I quote, To constitute an invasion of copyright it is not necessary that the whole of a work should be copied, nor even a large portion of it in form or substance, but that, if so much is taken that the value of the original is sensibly diminished, or the labors of the original author are substantially, to an injurious extent, appropriated by another, that is sufficient to constitute an infringement."

"So you see, your Honor, it does not matter whether we are dealing here with six incidents, or ten incidents, or twelve, or twenty — so long as these similarities have indeed sensibly diminished the value of the original. I'm sure your Honor is familiar with the now famous Teton versus Caddo case, this circuit, Judge Madison presiding, wherein it was claimed — as both Mr. Willow and Mr. Genitori are claiming — that the similarities were insignificant, even though there were a great many of them, a substantial number of seemingly unimportant similarities. There was, however, in the midst of these so-called insignificant similarities, one that was indeed significant, your Honor. I refer, and I'm sure you're ahead of me, to the misspelling of a place name in the original work, and the identical misspelling of that place name in the alleged piracy. This was, your Honor, the misspelling of a town in Michigan, Chippewa, which was spelled with an H at the end of it in both books, C-H-I-P-P-E-W-A-H, Chippewah — the identical error in both books, your Honor. The thief had left behind his fingerprints."

Brackman turned to look at the empty jury box where Driscoll and his wife sat, and then turned to the judge again.

"Your Honor, the thief has left behind his fingerprints in this case as well. I refer now to the numerical designation of the 105th Division, which is identical in both the play Catchpole and the novel The Paper Dragon, and which has been carried over to the film produced by—"

"Your Honor, this does not pertain to my motion," Genitori said. "I made no reference to the 105th Division."

"I appreciate that, Mr. Genitori," McIntyre said, "but if I understand Mr. Brackman correctly, he's saying there is a cause of action and that it goes beyond the six incidents and includes all of the other similarities as well."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"I'll continue to hear argument on the point."

"I was saying, your Honor, that the thief's fingerprints are clearly visible without the need of a magnifying glass, they are able to be seen with the naked eye, the 105th Division. If I may, your Honor, I would like to point out once again that there were only sixty-seven actual infantry divisions in existence during the time of the Eniwe-tok campaign, and that when we come to the divisions beyond the designation '100' we have the 101st, 102nd, 103rd, 104th, and 106th. There is no 105th division. Nor was there a 105th division in 1950. There were only seven actual infantry divisions at that time, the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 7th, 24th, 25th, and the 1st Cavalry. Today, there are twelve infantry divisions and, needless to say, none of them is the 105th, either.

"Perhaps Mr. Driscoll can adequately explain to this Court how he happened to hit upon those three digits in sequence. Until he can do that, I will continue to be amazed by the remarkable use of this designation, appearing again and again and again, first in the play, then in the novel, and again in the motion picture. Out of all the possible numbers Mr. Driscoll could have used to label his infantry division, he chose the identical number that appears in Mr. Constantine's work. This is an amazing coincidence, your Honor, it is almost an impossible coincidence."

"Now, your Honor, in much the same way that there are laws governing our society, there are also laws governing chance, and these are called the laws of probability, and it is against these that we must examine this use of an identical division number. If we were to take all the digits from zero to nine and try to figure out all the possible different combinations for any three of those digits, we would have to raise ten to the third power, which means we would have to multiply ten times ten times ten, and that would give us an answer of one thousand possible combinations. In other words, the odds would be a thousand to one that any man would choose a specific combination over any other possible combination. A thousand to one, your Honor. And those odds, as impressive as they may sound, are only the odds for a single event. When we come to two mutually independent events, the odds are overwhelming.

"What exactly is the probability that both these men, given the same ten digits, would then arrange three of them in identical order? I will tell you, your Honor. The laws of probability state that in the case of two mutually independent events, we must multiply the odds against Event One happening by the odds against Event Two happening. In other words, we must multiply a thousand-to-one by a thousand-to-one, and we then discover that the odds against Driscoll hitting on this same combination were a million to one. He had one chance in a million, your Honor, a deplorable cliché to use in a case dealing with literary matters, but those are the true odds nonetheless, a million to one, the figures do not lie. And even if we wish to give both men the benefit of the doubt, and say that neither of them would have designated an Army division with the number zero-zero-zero — although stranger things have happened in fiction, as we well know — even if we were to exclude this possibility, the odds for both men would be 999 to one, and when we multiply that by itself, the odds against Driscoll hitting on the same combination would be 998,001 to one. A million-to-one is a neater figure, your Honor, and will serve our purposes here, I believe.

"And I believe, too, that with odds such as these, we are justified in demanding an explanation, beyond the labeling of such similarities as flimsy and absurd. Thank you, your Honor."

"Do you now wish to reply, Mr. Genitori?"

"Only to say, your Honor, that my motion did not concern the 105th Division or any other similarities common to both the novel and the film."

"Yes, I understand that. Well, I want to reserve decision on your motion, and on Mr. Willow's as well."

"Your Honor?"

"Yes, Mr. Willow?"

"I understood you earlier to say you were denying my motion."

"If that's what I indicated… no, Mr. Willow, I meant that I'm reserving judgment on it."

"Thank you, your Honor."

McIntyre looked up at the wall clock. "It seems to be the end of another day," he said. "So unless there's anything further, we'll recess until tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."

7

Thick white snowflakes were swirling in the air when Sam Genitori and his assistant came out of the courtroom. A cover of white clung to rooftop and pavement, hushing the city, and snow shovels scraped on courthouse steps and sidewalk, a rasping steady counterpoint to the metallic jingle of skid chains on distant streets. Genitori put on his hat, ducked his head against the fierce wind, and stepped into the vortex of flying flakes. Beside him, Michael Kahn sucked in a draught of cold air and shouted over the wind, "I love snow, I love snow." Sam lost his footing on the slippery steps at that moment and would have gone tumbling to the sidewalk below were it not for Kahn's suddenly supporting arm. The assistance annoyed Sam more than Kahn's redundant confession had — "I love snow, I love snow" — an emotional involvement Sam could neither share nor understand. Sam detested snow. It was cold and wet and damned uncomfortable, and besides it caused accidents and traffic jams. Leo Kessler was waiting for him uptown, and he didn't need a snowstorm to delay his arrival. He looked up, squinting into the wind, and saw the chauffeured limousine across the street, on Duane. "There it is," he said to Kahn, and walked swiftly toward the big car, its roof and hood covered with snow, its sides a wet shining black. The chauffeur was reading a copy of Mad Magazine; he barely looked up when Sam opened the back door. Kahn climbed in, and the chauffeur reluctantly put aside the magazine. Then, with the unerring instinct of all servants everywhere, he lunged straight for the jugular.

"This snow'll make us late," he said.

"Just get there as fast as you can."

"580 Fifth?" the chauffeur asked.

"No, Malibu Beach," Sam said dryly.

"By way of Santa Monica or the freeway?" the chauffeur asked, deadpan.

"580 Fifth," Sam answered, demolished by superior wit. He stretched his legs, took off his hat, patted his thinning hair into place, and then tilted his head back against the cushioned seat.

"Were you impressed?" Kahn asked.

"By whom?"

"The witness."

The car was in motion. Sam always felt a bit queasy in a moving vehicle, a reaction he attributed to his ulcer, or perhaps only to his proximity to Kahn, who seemed to be occupying a great many moving vehicles with him of late. He was constantly amazed by the fact that Kahn was not related to someone in the company. He could not imagine how anyone as imbecilic as this young man had ever managed to get through law school, no less become an employee of the firm, all without being someone's nephew. "The witness left me cold," he said, and belched.

"Excuse me" Kahn supplied.

"Do me a favor," Sam said. "When we get to Leo's office, shut up."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean shut up. Don't talk about the witness, don't talk about the case, just shut up and listen. You'll learn a great deal about law and high finance and tits."

"I know all about those already," Kahn said, offended.

"You can never know all about tits," Sam answered. "There's always something new to learn. The subject is inexhaustible."

"And I don't happen to like that expression," Kahn said. "I don't happen to like that expression," he repeated.

"Tits?"

"Yes, that."

"Did the witness impress you?" Sam asked, shrugging.

"Yes."

"In what manner?"

"I think he was telling the truth," Kahn said. "I think Driscoll did steal the play. Why else would Willow have moved for dismissal on a jurisdictional technicality? I'll tell you why. He knows his man stole the play, and he's afraid to put him on the stand."

"That's ridiculous," Sam said. "Willow was only trying to save time, energy, and money. If he could have got the case kicked out of court today, that would have been the end of it forever."

"I still think Driscoll's guilty. And I wouldn't be surprised if Ralph Knowles dipped into the company files, too, when he was writing the movie."

"My young friend," Sam said, "have you ever been thrown out of a seventh-floor window?"

"What?"

"All you have to do in the presence of Leo Kessler is suggest — suggest, mind you — that API was in any way a party to this plagiarism, and I can guarantee he will hurl you seven stories to the street below, where you will be crushed by oncoming traffic."

"Then you do think it was plagiarism?"

"Who said so?"

"You just called it plagiarism, didn't you?"

"I should have said alleged plagiarism," Sam amended, and then shrugged again.

"Well, what is your position?" Kahn asked.

"My position is the position Artists-Producers-Interna-tional pays me to maintain. There was no plagiarism involved here, neither on the part of James Driscoll nor on the part of any person or persons employed by API. That is my position."

"That's your official position."

"That's my only position."

"But how do you feel personally?"

"I feel fine, thanks, except for my ulcer."

"You know what I mean."

"Sure, I know what you mean."

"Well?"

"There was no plagiarism," Sam said flatly.

They had come uptown past Canal Street, where the big black limousine had nosed its way silently through the truck traffic heading for the bridge, making a sharp left turn onto Third Avenue. The Chinese banks and groceries had given way to the wholesale clothing and lighting fixture stores, the fleabag hotels and flophouses only sparsely represented until just now, when they suddenly appeared like dim gray specters in the blinding snow. Derelicts shuffled along the sidewalks here and lay in gutters and doorways, making Sam sick just to look at them. His most vicious nightmare was one in which he suddenly woke up divested of his law degree and his position with API, his house in Massapequa gone, his boat scuttled, everything he had fought for in the past twenty years vanished with the night to leave only a trembling immigrant Italian struggling with the language, selling chestnuts on a Bronx street corner for five cents a bag. He awoke from this dream each time in a cold sweat, the smell of roasting chestnuts in his nostrils, and each time he held his hands out in front of his face, peering at them in the dark, certain that the fingers would be stained brown from the juice of the nuts. His wife would say, "Go to sleep, Sam, you had a bad dream," but he would lie awake trembling in the dark, terrified by his near miss — they had almost taken it all away from him, they had almost closed the jaws of the trap before he'd had a chance to scurry out of it. He could not account for the basis of this dream, since he had never in his life sold chestnuts in the Bronx. Nor, for that matter, had he ever even lived in the Bronx. Moreover, neither of his parents were immigrants, and they had never been really poor. The dream-trap was more like a race memory that could be traced back to a grandfather he had never known — and yet his grandfather hadn't sold chestnuts, either, so what the hell could it be? His grandfather had come to this country when he was twenty-one years old, after studying economics at the university in Milan. When he arrived here, he had been given a job immediately in a bank on the Bowery, where he dealt mostly with Italian-speaking immigrants. The job paid a good salary each week, and he had managed to save enough for the purchase of the house in Massapequa, which had since been passed down to Sam's father and recently to Sam himself. So what was this business with the chestnuts? And why did the sight of all these ragged bums all over the sidewalk trouble Sam so badly?

He was grateful when Cooper Union appeared on the left of the limousine. In the small park outside the school, a coed in a black hooded parka, her legs crossed, leaned forward eagerly to divulge some secret of the universe to a budding young artist or engineer, and another girl, wearing a paint smeared smock and lighting a cigarette, came through the glass-paneled doors of the building, looked up at the sky, and sniffed the snow, ahh, to be young again.

Sam took in a deep breath. The Bowery and its dregs were falling behind the car, the hock shops appeared now like glittering toadstools. Beside him, he could smell the always-present slightly sour smell of Michael Kahn, as though someone had recently burped him but neglected to wipe his lips afterwards. Sam closed his eyes, and remained silent for the rest of the trip uptown.

There were wags in the industry, as there will be wags in any industry, who were of the opinion that the initials API did not really stand for Artists-Producers-International but stood instead for Asses, Pricks, and Imbeciles. If such was truly the case, the facade of the organization revealed neither ineptitude nor villainy, but seemed instead to echo a benign and somewhat informal attitude toward crass commercialism. The New York API offices covered the entire sixth, seventh, and eighth floors of the Longines-Wittnauer Building at 580 Fifth Avenue, just next door to Brentano's. The decorating scheme of the offices had been carefully calculated to disarm by none other than Mrs. Leo Kessler herself, better known in the industry as Katie Kessler, whose credit card — SET DRESSER: KATRINA L. KESSLER — had flashed from a hundred or more silver screens in the past two decades. To her further credit, the offices seemed to relax all visitors immediately, setting the tone for businesslike discussions in an atmosphere as informal as the living room of a Bel Air ranch. There were some who preferred the mid-Victorian decor of MCA's offices, with its old English prints in the elevators, and its green leather furniture, but Sam Genitori never failed to experience a slight lessening of tension the moment he stepped off the elevators here, and he silently thanked Katie each time.

"He's waiting for you," the seventh-floor receptionist said.

"What time is it?" Sam asked.

"Almost five. He said to send you right in."

"Is he alone?"

"Myrna's taking dictation."

"You'd better buzz him," Sam said.

The receptionist made no comment. She lifted the phone at her elbow, dialed a number, and waited. "Mr. Genitori is here," she said, and paused. "Yes, sir, right away." She hung up, nodded, and said, "You can go right in."

"Thank you."

"How's the trial going?" she asked.

"Nicely," Kahn replied.

"Mr. Genitori?" she asked, ignoring Kahn.

"Nicely," Genitori said, and walked immediately down the long corridor, followed by Kahn, who was beginning to sulk. Halfway down the hall, they passed a harried-looking brunette with a steno pad.

"He's waiting for you," she said.

"We know, Myrna."

"How's the trial going?"

"Nicely," Sam said, and glanced at Kahn, who said nothing. Kressler's office was at the end of the hall. Sam knocked on the door before opening it, and waited for Leo to shout his customary "Enter!" to which he customarily replied, "All ye who abandon hope here," and which customarily went clear over Leo's head, as it did now.

"What the hell does that mean?" Kessler asked.

"It's an old Milanese adage," Sam said, and started to close the door behind him.

"Michael, get lost someplace, will you?" Kessler said.

"Me?"

"Yes, I have something to discuss with Sam personally, okay? That's a good boy."

"If this relates to the trial," Kahn said, "I think…"

"Go get a cup of coffee, huh?" Kessler said, and waved him out impatiently. The sulking look on Kahn's face gave way to one of crumbling petulance. Sam was certain he would begin crying before he reached the corridor. He ushered Kahn out and closed the door behind him.

"Lock it," Kessler said.

Sam locked it. "Mr. President," he said, "I wish to report that the Russians have just bombed San Francisco."

"Very funny," Kessler said. "Someday you'll learn that the motion picture business is not funny."

"What is the motion picture business, Leo, if not funny?"

"The motion picture business is a vast fantasy surrounded by twat," Kessler said, "but not funny, not funny at all. How's the trial going?"

"All right."

"Will we win it?"

"I hope so."

Kessler rose from his desk suddenly. He was sixty-two years old, a tall slim man who wore a black suit each and every day of the week, augmented by black shoes and socks, black tie, white shirt, and generally a vest of either red or yellow corduroy with brass buttons. He was partially bald, and his nose was either naturally hooked or had once been badly broken, so that his profile had the curvilinear beauty of a modern piece of sculpture, rounded flesh sweeping into the arc of nose and jutting jaw, fierce eyes glinting from beneath black bushy eyebrows. He paced the office with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, the thumbs overhanging, his shoulders hunched as though he were balancing an invisible load, his step springy and disjointed. He neither looked at Sam nor acknowledged his presence, speaking as though dictating a memo to a recording machine or explaining a particularly difficult dream to an unresponsive analyst.

"Scimitar," he said, "I wish I'd never heard of it. Thirty million dollars to make, plus all the trouble later with that bastard Nasser and his filthy Arabs, they should all drop dead from constipation. Thirty million dollars, and it's playing hard-ticket in twelve American cities, and with the business we're doing we won't get back that thirty million for the next thirty years, is it any wonder the stockholders are a little nervous? A little nervous, who's kidding who? There's a stockholders' meeting next month, January the 18th, to be exact, and I know just what's going to be proposed at that meeting because it was proposed at last year's meeting while we were still pouring money into that lousy Scimitar, even before Mr. Nasser started up with us, that bastard should rot in his grave. It was proposed at last year's meeting, January the 12th, to be exact, that Leo Kessler, whose father happened to found Kessler's Inc. — before we got so cockamamie fancy with all the tax dodges and the Artists-Producers-Inter-national — it was proposed at last year's meeting that Leo Kessler step down as head of studio operations, mind you this was before the movie opened, before it started losing money even in Los Angeles, where they'll go see anything.

"So this year, on January 18th, the stockholders of this fine company are going to sit back and look at the figures and they're going to learn that Scimitar has earned back only ten million dollars in a six-month showing, and that's a far cry from the thirty million dollars it cost to make, and an even farther cry from the two and a half times we have to earn back because that rotten director talked me into doing it in color, seventy-five million dollars before we're even off the hook. The stockholders are going to jump on that the way Moses jumped on the water, seventy-five million dollars. Will anyone remind them that I've earned ten times seventy-five million dollars for this company since my father died, God rest his soul? Will anyone remind them of Dust, which earned twelve million at a time when twelve million was equal to thirty-five million today? Will anyone remind them of The Peddlers at ten-and-a-half million profit, or Marcia Steele at six million profit, or The Paper Dragon at fourteen million, which book we bought for thirty-five thousand dollars, and which entire picture cost us only eight-fifty to make, will anyone remind them of what Leo Kessler has done, or only of what Leo Kessler has failed to do?

"Oh, let me tell you they are going to remind us of The Paper Dragon if we lose this trial. They are going to remind us that in the past three years we have had only one film that really made any kind of money, and that film was The Paper Dragon, which only enabled us to get rolling on Scimitar. Without Driscoll's book, we'd never have got involved in that lousy desert out there with that Swedish bitch screwing everything in sight, including the Moslem camel boys, and maybe the camels, too, what a production, I wish I'd never heard of it! They are going to remind us that here was a winner, The Paper Dragon, a profit of fourteen million dollars, and due to Mr. Leo Kessler's expert handling of the company, it turns out that this winner, ha! was plagiarized from something that was offered to API back in 1947 and again in 1952, something that is right there in our studio files for Ralph Knowles to look at while he's doing his screenplay. And when we add that to Scimitar and the money that's going down the drain with that one, you can rest assured that Mr. Leo Kessler will be out on the street selling pencils, look what happened to Griffith."

"What happened to Griffith?" Sam asked.

"Birth of a Nation, the biggest movie ever to be made in the history of the business, he dies a pauper in a Hollywood fleabag. Who'll remember Dust when Mr. Leo Kessler is kicked out on his ass?"

"Nobody," Sam said.

"You said it."

"We'll win the case," Sam said. "Don't worry."

"That's good," Kessler said, "but that's not why I sent young snotnose Kahn out to ogle the office girls, and it's not why I asked you to lock the door, either. If we win the case, we don't need locked doors. We'll have the stockholders down on us anyway, but at least I can then say 'What the hell are you yelling about? Who was it who made the money for us to later invest in Scimitar, Sam Goldwyn maybe? It was me, it was me who saw possibilities in The Paper Dragon, it was me who brought it to the screen, it was me who made fourteen million dollars with it, so who has a better right to be daring with a picture that could still maybe earn out the cost once we're through with two-a-days and can go into general release, the Swedish bitch is big box office, and don't forget it.' That's what I can say." He paused. "If we win the case."

"We'll win it," Sam said. "Willow's a good lawyer."

"Is he Jewish?"

"I don't know."

"Brackman is," Kessler said. "Never sell a Jew short."

"With all due respect, Leo, he's made a few mistakes already."

"Good, he should only make a hundred of them. I'm not worried about what happens if we win this case. I'm worried… about what happens if it looks like we're losing it."

"I don't get you," Sam said.

"You don't get me?" Kessler paused. "Did he steal that play or not, Sam?"

"I don't think so."

"But will the judge think so?"

Sam shrugged. "That's why we're having a trial, Leo."

"What do you think the judge will think?"

"I think the judge will decide against Constantine."

"You think we'll win?"

"Yes. I think we'll win."

"But when will we know?"

"When the judge gives his opinion."

"Which will be when?"

"He can give it immediately after our summation, or it can take as long as two months. Who knows?"

"Two months after the trial ends, do you mean?"

"That's right, it could take that long."

Kessler nodded. He walked to the leather chair behind his desk, slumped into it, and laced his thin fingers across his chest. "You know, of course, that Ralph Knowles is flying in from the Coast, don't you? To testify."

"Yes, I know that."

"I want protection," Kessler said.

"Against what?"

"Against being kicked out of this company, what the hell do you think I've been talking about here for the past ten minutes?"

"How can I give you that?"

"By making sure that Ralph Knowles is very carefully prepared before he goes on that witness stand."

"All witnesses are prepared, Leo. Knowles will—"

"We had nothing to do with this," Kessler said.

"What do you mean?"

"Neither API nor Mr. Leo Kessler had anything to do with this."

"With what?"

"I bought a book. I paid thirty-five thousand dollars for it in good honest American money. I bought it from galleys even before it became a bestseller. It was a good book, I thought it would make a great movie. I had no way of knowing it was stolen from a play written back in 1946."

"Who says it was stolen?"

"If we lose," Kessler said.

"I'm having trouble following you," Sam answered.

"If we lose — and don't tell me this can't happen, Sam, don't tell me innocent men haven't been sent to the electric chair or the gas chamber for crimes they never committed — if we lose this case, I want it to be clear in the record that James Driscoll was the crook. We had nothing to do with it, Sam, we had no way of knowing."

"Granted. But, Leo, I think he's innocent. I think he really did write the damn book all by himself, without ever having heard of Arthur Constantine or his play."

"Sam," Kessler said, "I respect your opinion highly, but I must tell you that your opinion isn't worth two cents. It's the judge's opinion that matters. And if the judge says James Driscoll stole that play, then James Driscoll did steal that play, and that's all there is to it."

"Well, that's not quite all there is to it. We can still appeal."

"Fine, we'll appeal. And by the time we appeal, I'll be out on my ass in the street selling pencils."

"Or chestnuts," Sam said.

"Everything is funny to you," Kessler replied. "I'm a man gasping for breath, and you make jokes. When I want comedians, I'll hire Charles DeGaulle."

"Okay, what do you want?"

"Ralph Knowles is the biggest horse's ass I know, and there are some very big horse's asses in this industry. I want you to make sure he understands exactly what's he's going to say before he testifies, and that he doesn't say a word that would lead anyone to think he even suspected there was a copy of Catchpole in our files out there on the Coast."

"Did he know there was a copy of the play in our files?"

"I don't know what he knew or didn't know. Directors are to me traffic cops, and worse than actors. The only good director I ever met was the one who dropped dead on the sound stage of a picture we were making, causing us to abandon it. He saved us a half-million dollars."

"All right, I'll see that Knowles is carefully prepared."

"See that he's more than carefully prepared. Put the words in his mouth, let him memorize them. He wrote his screenplay from Driscoll's book, he consulted only Driscoll's book, he followed Driscoll's book to the letter, making only those changes necessary to adapt it to the screen. Like everyone else at API, he had no idea Driscoll was a crook."

"Leo," Sam said, "do you want to win this case, or simply lose it with honor?"

"I want to keep my job," Kessler said.

"Un-huh."

"Win it, lose it, I don't give a damn — so long as API comes out clean. And if that means throwing Driscoll to the wolves or the lions or whoever, then throw him and good riddance. I'm not married to him."

"Well," Sam said, and paused. "If it's any consolation, I think we'll win it, anyway. In fact, I don't see how we can lose."

"So win it. Am I telling you to lose the damn thing? What do you think this is, a club fight in New Jersey? I saw that picture, thank you. It was with Robert Ryan."

"Julie Garfield."

"That was another one."

The office went silent. Sam looked at his watch. "What time does Knowles get in?" he asked.

"Late tonight. He'll be ready for you tomorrow morning."

"We'll be starting with Chester Danton tomorrow morning."

"Well, when will Knowles go on the stand?"

"In the afternoon, most likely. That's up to Willow. He's running the case, we agreed to that."

"Then you've got plenty of time to talk to him."

"Yes."

"What's the matter?" Kessler asked.

"Nothing."

"What's the look on your face?"

"I was thinking of Driscoll."

"What about him?"

"All the poor bastard did was write a book."

By six-thirty that evening, the three men had each consumed four martinis, and the atmosphere at their table was convivial and relaxed, to say the least. Even James Driscoll, whom Jonah usually found rather reserved, seemed cheerful and optimistic, and it was he who suggested they have another drink before parting. Jonah was not ready to part just yet, not until he had fully discussed what was on his mind. He readily agreed to the fifth drink, and Norman Sheppard raised his arm to signal the waiter.

"What we're asking you to do," Jonah said, "is to reconstruct the events that led to your calling your division the 105th. That's all we're really trying to do."

"The hell with it," Driscoll said.

"No, we can't say the hell with it," Jonah said.

"We're having a good time here," Driscoll said. "The hell with it."

"We won't have such a good time if we lose this case," Norman said. "That's why we're asking you to try to remember, Jimmy. Try to remember how you hit upon those three digits."

"I just did," Driscoll said.

"But how?"

"I don't remember."

"Well, think about it."

"I am thinking about it."

"Maybe you've got some notes on it," Norman said. "You've supplied us with a lot of other material, so perhaps…"

"No, I wouldn't have kept notes on anything like that."

"All we're trying to do is trace the origin, that's all."

"It's a coincidence, plain and simple," Driscoll said.

"I think I'm getting drunk," Jonah said suddenly.

"I know I'm getting drunk," Driscoll said, and laughed. "That's good. Relax from the trial."

"We can't relax," Norman said.

"I can relax," Driscoll answered.

"I wish I could relax," Jonah said, and removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. His eyes were a pale blue. He pressed them with thumb and forefinger and then replaced his glasses.

"Brackman is going to harp on that 105th Division," Norman said, "and unless you can come up with a reasonable explanation, I feel we're going to be in trouble. I think those are Jonah's feelings as well, aren't they, Jonah?"

"Let me say that the coincidence unless explained will seem extraordinary."

"Well, it is extraordinary," Driscoll said. "I think a great many of the similarities between my book and the play are extraordinary."

"On Monday afternoon, I drove up to Vassar," Jonah said. "To see a friend of mine who teaches World History there. Now, I know your novel takes place during October and November of 1950, and that the action you describe was against the Chinese — but is it possible you also ran into some North Korean troops?"

"No."

"You did not?"

"I did not."

"Is it possible you overheard talk about engagements with North Korean troops?"

"It's possible, I suppose. Most of the talk was about Chinese intervention, though. We kept wondering when it would happen — even after it did happen."

"Would you recall anyone mentioning the North Korean 105th?"

"No. Should I?"

"Well," Jonah said, and shrugged. "You never heard it mentioned, huh?"

"Not to my knowledge. Was it an infantry division?"

"No, it was an armored brigade."

"Then that lets it out, doesn't it?"

"Not necessarily," Norman said. "If we could show it was involved in—"

"It wasn't," Driscoll said. "The major battle in the book is against Chinese troops. And even the patrol is into territory held by the Chinese."

"Well, that's the end of that possibility," Norman said.

"That's what I thought on Monday," Jonah answered. "But I was hoping Jimmy would say, 'Why, yes, of course! I had a long discussion with some veterans of the June-July fighting, and they told me all about the 105th Armored Brigade and their Russian-built T-34 tanks."

"Why, yes, of course!" Driscoll said, grinning. "I did have a long discussion with some veterans of the June-July fighting, and they told me all about the 105th Armored Brigade and their Russian-built T-34 tanks."

"Chicane," Jonah said, "for which I could be disbarred." He shook his head. "You'll just have to remember where the 105th really came from."

"How can I? I don't know where it came from."

"Did you steal that play?" Jonah asked suddenly.

"I never stole anything in my life," Driscoll answered.

"Good," Jonah said.

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

"That's nice, because I don't give a damn whether you do or not," Driscoll said, and burst out laughing. "Here're our drinks. Let's forget the trial for a minute, can't we?"

"Brackman has already brought up this matter of the thief leaving his fingerprints," Norman said, "and I can assure you…"

"I'm not a thief," Driscoll said.

"Nobody said you were."

"Brackman said I was. And Constantine said I was. I didn't steal his play."

"Well, we know you didn't steal it," Norman said.

"How does it feel to be colored?" Driscoll asked.

"Fine," Norman said. "How does it feel to be white?"

"I only asked because Sergeant Morley in my book is colored, and I often wondered while I was writing it how it feels to be colored, how it really feels to be colored."

"Listen, Jimmy," Jonah said suddenly, "you'd better start thinking about this because I'll tell you the truth I'm very concerned about it, very very concerned."

"So am I," Norman said.

"So am I," Driscoll said.

"So start thinking about it," Jonah said.

"About what?"

"The 105th."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"I have been thinking about it."

"What was your serial number?"

"What?"

"Your Army serial number."

"714-5632."

"Where did you live before you went into the Army?"

"On Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn."

"The address?"

"61 Myrtle."

"What was your telephone number?"

"Main 2-9970."

"Were you married at the time?"

"I got married two months before I was drafted."

"What was your wife's address?"

"Well, the apartment on Myrtle was hers, you see. I moved in with her after we got married."

"Where were you living before then?"

"With my parents."

"Where?"

"West End Avenue. 2426 West End."

"What floor, what apartment?"

"Apartment 12C."

"And on Myrtle Avenue?"

"Apartment 37."

"Your life seems singularly devoid of the number 105," Jonah said sourly, and lifted his drink.

"Did you have a car?" Norman asked.

"Yes."

"What was your license plate number?"

"Who the hell remembers?"

"Have you ever been to 105th Street?" Jonah asked.

"No."

"What high school did you go to?" Norman asked.

"Music and Art."

"Did you have a locker?"

"What?"

"A locker. For the gym."

"Oh. Yes, I had a locker."

"With a combination lock?"

"Yes."

"What was the combination?"

"24 right, 17 left, 14 right."

"How can you possibly remember that, but not your license plate number?"

"I didn't have to open my license plate every day of the week," Driscoll said.

"You will have to think harder," Jonah said.

"I don't have to think harder if I don't want to," Driscoll answered. "I don't have to think at all, if I don't want to." He picked up his glass and drank from it, and then put the glass down and stared into it, aware of the sudden silence at the table. Well, the hell with you, he thought. You sit here and throw questions at me, don't you think any of this means anything to me, Ebie's apartment on Myrtle Avenue, and the telephone number I called maybe ten thousand times, or the old Buick I used to drive when I first started at Pratt, and my locker at Music and Art, or the apartment on West End Avenue?

I can remember every inch of that apartment the way it used to look when Pop was still alive and before my mother sold all the furniture and brought in that Danish modern crap which my father would have thrown out of the house in a minute. But her new husband Mr. Gerald Furst is in the furniture business, so what else do you do but throw out all the old mahogany stuff and bring in a sleek new line to go with your sleek new husband? The piano, too, getting rid of that. Well, nobody played it but Pop, and he's been dead for five years, so I suppose she was right in giving it away. Christ, the way he used to sit at the piano with a tumbler of whiskey resting on the arm, banging out those Irish songs while Uncle Benny stood there singing at the top of his lungs. Pink shirts. Uncle Benny always used to wear pink shirts. And Pop would offer me a sip of booze, and I'd turn my head away, pulling a face, things sure change. Here I am getting squiffed in a bar, thirty-seven years old, things sure change. Everything changes. Even Uncle Benny finally got married and moved off to Fort Lauderdale.

He could draw like an angel, that man. I would have given my soul to be able to draw like him when I was a kid, or even, for that matter, after I'd had more training than he'd ever had in his life. You stuck a pencil in Uncle Benny's hand, and he would conjure a world for you, name it and Uncle Benny would draw it. It was he who first got me hooked, the sweet old pusher whispering to the innocent kid, Hey, Jimbo, want to try this? Guiding my hand along the page at first, showing me how to copy things from the newspaper comic strips, easy stuff at first like Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, all clear sharp heavy lines, and then into the more complicated stuff from Abby an' Slats, or Prince Valiant. I did a marvelous copy of the Viking with the red beard who used to be in Prince Valiant, what was his name? I colored his beard the same color it was in the paper, and I also did one of Val himself swinging that mighty singing sword of his against a man with a helmet that looked something like an upended garbage pail. Uncle Benny said the perspective was off, but he praised the drawing anyway. I used to have a terrible handwriting in those days, so I would ask Uncle Benny to sign all my work for me, J. R. Driscoll, which was James Randolph Driscoll, the Randolph being in honor of my grandfather, who died when I was only four months old. Uncle Benny would sign each of my drawings in the lower right-hand corner, J. R. Driscoll, and then outline the signature with a narrow box that had a very heavy line on the bottom and on the right-hand side, so that it looked as if it were throwing a shadow on the page. I colored that guy's beard with crayon, what the hell was his name?

Pop wasn't much help in the art department, except in terms of criticism, You made his nose too long, or Whoever saw a dog with a tail like that? But he was very proud of the work I did, and always asked me to bring it out whenever any of his cronies from Gimbel's stopped by. He was an upholsterer, my father, and he used to work for Gimbel's, an uneducated man who nonetheless taught himself to play the piano and who studied the dictionary night after night, taking it a page at a time and learning new words which he would spring on all of us while we sat at dinner in the big dining room overlooking the Hudson. "Do you know what a dimissory letter is?" or "What is the meaning of equitation?" or "What is the difference between geminate and germinate?" I remember one night especially because he gave us a word which became the basis for a game we later played. He said, "Use the word caruncle in a sentence," and I said, "Caruncle Benny have some more mashed potatoes?" and Pop almost died laughing, though my mother didn't think it was funny at all. In fact, I doubt if she even got it. But Pop invented the game called Caruncle, and we used to play it two or three nights a week, the three of us sitting on the brown sofa near the old Chickering, while my mother sat in the wing chair tatting; she used to make these antimacassars which she gave to everyone at Christmas, and which always looked faded and dirty when you put them on the furniture. The game Caruncle had no real rules and we played it by ear each time, the way my father played the piano. The idea was to give a word which the next person would then define incorrectly. For example, if my father used the word "disseminate," my uncle might have defined it by saying, "When you disseminate, it means you make a distinction," and then I would say, "No, that's discriminate," and my father would say, "No, discriminate is when you burn your garbage," and Uncle Benny would say, "No, that's incinerate," and I would say, "No, incinerate is when you hint at something," and Pop would say, "No, that's insinuate," and Uncle Benny would say, "No, insinuate is meat on Friday," and we would always end up laughing. Another word game we — played was called Progression and was a variation of Ghost, except that the idea here was to make a new word on each turn by adding a letter to the word we already had. Pop might start with the word "man," and Uncle Benny would add a letter and change it to "mane," and then I would make it "mange," and Pop would make it "manger" and Uncle Benny would make it "manager," and so on. Or I might start with "rid" and Pop would make it "dire," and Uncle Benny would make it "rived" and I would make it "divers" and Pop would make it "diverse," the idea being to reach ten letters which was the highest score and which hardly anyone ever got. My mother never played any of these word games with us. She had an Irish brogue and was ashamed of it.

When I was about twelve years old, I made up the comic strip called The Cat. It was a direct steal from Batman. My character was a very wealthy socialite named Jim Dirkson, which name I arrived at by transposing the letters of my own name and substituting a letter here and there. The Cat was dedicated to fighting crime and evil. He wore a black costume just like Batman's, except that his face mask had whiskers on it. Uncle Benny helped me lay out the panels, and he also did all the lettering in the balloons. It was in full color, though I used Mongol pencils instead of ink. I did forty-eight panels, which I figured was enough for about twelve days, and I asked Pop if he thought I should try sending it around to the newspapers. He said, "Sure, why not? It's an excellent comic," but I never did submit it because I didn't think it was good enough. Besides, I felt funny about Uncle Benny having done all the lettering. I didn't know at the time that a lot of comic strip artists hire people just to do their lettering for them. After I saw Pinocchio, I decided I would make an animated movie, even though I didn't have either a camera or the faintest understanding of single-frame photography. I created all these characters freely stolen from the film, including one called Swat Fly, who was based on Jiminy Cricket and who even carried an umbrella the way he did. But I also had a two-headed giant named Galoppo, whom Walt Disney had never even dreamt of. The two heads were constantly arguing with each other. I borrowed Pop's old Remington and began typing up the outline of the movie, starting in this tiny star-washed village (like the village in Pinocchio) and showing Swat Fly walking down the cobblestoned street and searching for the shop of a poor-but-honest butcher named Ham. Well. I got through six pages of it, single-spaced, but nothing seemed to be happening, so I gave it up. Uncle Benny liked the sketches I'd made of the characters, however, and only casually hinted that they were somewhat derivative. "That's when you make fun of something," I said, and Pop immediately said, "No, that's derisive," and Uncle Benny said, "No, derisive are on either side of Manhattan Island."

Uncle Benny drank a lot. My mother used to call him "a disgosting drunk." He was Pop's brother, and he slept in the end bedroom, next to my room. He worked in a pool parlor, and once, he took me there and ran off a whole rack for me, and then taught me how to hold the cue and how to put English on a ball, and he taught me a trick shot with which I later won a lot of money, making bets in the Army; I never forgot that shot he taught me. He also taught me geometry when I was flunking it at Music and Art. Numbers always threw me, I never was good at arithmetic. When I started geometry, there was suddenly more than numbers to cope with; there were angles and curves and Given this, Prove that, and I got hopelessly lost in the first three weeks. Uncle Benny stepped in, telling me he had once won a medal in math, and then proceeding to drill me every night, going over each formula again and again, "There, now wasn't that easy, Jimbo?" painstakingly working through every problem until he was certain I understood completely. I used to wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and see triangles and circles floating in the air, equilateral has three sixty-degree angles and three equal sides, isosceles has two equal sides, circumference equals πr². I ended up with a 90 on the Regents exam, thanks to Uncle Benny's persistence. He gave me a Bulova watch when I graduated from Music and Art. Engraved on the case was the inscription "To a geometrid genus," which was an inside joke based on Caruncle, "from your loving Uncle Benny."

My best friend at Music and Art was a colored fellow named Andrew Christopher, who was an art major like myself but who also played trombone in the school band. Andy lived on Lenox Avenue and 123rd Street, and I would meet him each morning on the 125th Street platform of the Broadway-7th Avenue Line, which I took up from 96th Street, and which we rode together to 137th Street. We would walk up past City College and then to the school, talking about everything under the sun, but mostly about his girl friend whose name was Eunice and who went to Washington Irving High School where she was studying fashion design. Eunice was a light-skinned girl and her parents objected to Andy simply because he was darker than she. He told me this very openly, and neither of us felt any embarrassment talking about it. It was just one of the facts of life. I never went to Andy's house, though, and he never came to mine. My mother used to call Negroes "boogies."

Andy and I both won scholarships to the Art Students League in January of 1957, after we got out of Music and Art. We had submitted samples of our work in a city-wide competition, and I think only Andy and me, and a girl from Evander Childs and another girl from a school in Brooklyn were chosen, though I still can't figure why. We really weren't that good. The first day we went to the school, they showed us around the various classes so that we could decide which courses we wanted to take — we were allowed to take two courses — and at the front of one of the classrooms there was what we thought was a white plaster statue of a naked woman until she moved. We both signed up for that course, which was Life Drawing, and we also signed up for Oil Painting. I was lousy with oils. The thing I hated most about them was cleaning up afterwards. The girl from Brooklyn had red hair, and we called her Flatbush. She was always speculating about why a girl would take off her clothes and pose naked. Both Andy and I got the impression that Flatbush would have very much enjoyed taking off her clothes and posing naked. The scholarship ended in June, by Which time Andy and I were both jaded by the sight of all those naked women draped on the posing stand, and by which time I had taken the entrance exam for Pratt Institute. I was notified in July that I had been accepted. And in that same month, when Andy insisted that I pay him the dime I'd bet him on the Yankee-White Sox game, I said, "Come on, don't be so niggardly," and he got upset and refused to believe there was such a word and that it meant stingy or cheap or miserly or parsimonious. He said to me, "I knew it would come sooner or later, Jimmy, and you're a son of a bitch." Andy said that to me. Maybe I did mean niggardly, maybe I really meant niggardly. Or maybe, accustomed to playing word games almost every night of the week, twisting meanings and spellings and generally slaughtering the language, maybe I was making another pun, and maybe Andy was right to get sore, I don't know.

He went to Cooper Union in September, to study art there, and I never saw him again.

"I think I smell wood burning," Jonah said.

"Yes, indeed," Norman said. "He is thinking very hard, Jonah."

"My brother always used to say he smelled wood burning," Jonah said.

"Can you remember where the 105th came from?" Norman asked.

"No," Driscoll said.

"You've got to remember," Jonah said.

"Why? I'm not even being sued. I think I ought to remind you gentlemen of that fact."

"Not serving you was a little gambit Mr. Brackman will come to regret," Jonah said.

"Why wasn't I served?"

"I asked that very same question in a Georgia restaurant once," Norman said, and laughed.

"What did they say?" Driscoll asked.

"They said the cook had gone home."

"Had he gone home?"

"Certainly not. The cook was my cousin," Norman said, and laughed again.

"My wife is a Southerner, you know," Driscoll said.

"Yes, I know."

"I don't think she's consciously prejudiced, however," he said, and finished his drink. "Would anyone care for another martini?"

"Only unconsciously?" Norman asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Prejudiced?"

"No, I don't think so. She's a very nice girl, Ebie. Yes. Do you know how she got to be named Ebie?"

"No, how?"

"Edna Belle," Driscoll said.

"Huh?"

"Edna."

"Yes?"

"Belle."

"Yes."

"E and B."

"I don't get it."

"E. B. Ebie."

"That's very clever," Norman said. "Let's have another drink."

"I think we ought to work out this 105th Division," Jonah said.

"The hell with the 105th Division," Driscoll said. "Let Brackman work it out. Why didn't he serve me?"

"He was hoping you'd wash your hands of the whole thing."

"I almost did."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I knew Mitchell-Campbell would have brought me in, anyway."

"It's best you joined the action voluntarily," Jonah said.

"Best for whom?"

"For all of us."

"If we win this case, you know. " Driscoll started, and then shook his head.

"Yes."

"No, never mind."

"What were you about to say?"

"Nothing. Let's have another drink."

"That's a good idea," Norman said.

"Don't you have to get home?" Jonah asked.

"What's the hurry? You think the rats'll get lonely?"

"Have you got rats?" Driscoll asked.

"Very large rats."

"What are their names?" Driscoll asked, and Norman burst out laughing.

"Have you really got rats?" Jonah asked.

"Absolutely."

"You ought to get out of Harlem."

"I can't."

"Why not? You make enough money."

"My mother likes it there."

"My mother likes it on West End Avenue," Driscoll said.

"West End Avenue ain't Lenox Avenue," Norman said.

"That's for sure. Hey, waiter, we want another round."

"Listen, we've got to get back to this," Jonah said. "The 105th Division appears in The Catchpole, and it also…"

"Catchpole," Norman corrected. "There is no article. You have been told that several times already, Mr. Willow, and I'll thank you to refer to the play by its proper name."

"Yes, but nonetheless," Jonah said, laughing, "if we can discover how you hit upon that number when you were contemplating your novel, we could—"

"When I was contemplating my navel, you mean," Driscoll said.

"That's very clever," Norman said, laughing. "Have you ever tried writing?"

"Too serious a business," Driscoll said.

"Law is a very serious business, too," Norman said. "Let's open a whore house."

"I wish you gentlemen would try to be properly serious," Jonah said. "There's a great deal of stakes here. At stakes. Stake."

"Jonah is drunk," Norman said.

"I will concede that, your Honor," Jonah said.

"Thank you," Driscoll said to the waiter, and then lifted his glass. "Gentlemen, I give you the play named Maypole and the novel named The Paper Asshole, and I defy you — I defy you, gentlemen — to find any real difference between these two oeuvres, which is French for eggs. In the play we have a degenerate leper who writes to Dr. Schweitzer, asking 'how he can cure his vile leching after twelve-year-olds. This same pervert is present in the novel, only this time he writes to Graham Greene for advice, and Greene being an expert only on leprosy advises him to write to Vladimir Nabokov, who is an expert on lechery. The similarity stands. In the novel, on page seventy-four, the girl enters, and she has two breasts — two breasts, gentlemen — exactly as in the play. I submit that a girl with two breasts is a unique invention, and I defy you to explain this remarkable coincidence, these footprints left in the sand by the thief. Now, I am not an expert on such matters, but I am willing to bet that the possibility of finding two young girls in the same room, both of whom have two breasts — gentlemen, this staggers the imagination. That is the plaintiff's case, your Honor, and I drink to it."

"All right, what about this 105th Precinct?" Jonah asked briskly.

"Division."

"Yes, what about it?"

"It's there," Driscoll said.

"Where?"

"In my book."

"It's also in the play," Jonah said. "So how about it?"

"How about it? It's there, and we're here, so the hell with it."

"I wish you could explain it," Jonah said. "I seriously wish you could explain it."

"I won't."

"What?"

"I said I can't."

"You said you won't."

"I meant I can't."

"Jimmy," Norman said, "do you know why you labeled your division the 105th?"

Driscoll looked across the table and said, "No, I do not. And that's the God's honest truth."

As the big jet orbited Kennedy in a holding pattern, Ralph Knowles wondered if the field were still open, and once again conjured an image of the giant airliner skidding around on the runway as it braked to a stop. The forecasters early that afternoon had reported heavy snowstorms all along the Eastern seaboard, and he had called Kessler collect from the Coast to ask whether it was still imperative that he come east today.

"Can't it wait till tomorrow?" he had asked. "I don't want to die in a goddamn airplane skidding around in the snow."

"That's not funny," Kessler had said, even though Knowles hadn't been trying to make a joke. "You will probably be called to testify tomorrow afternoon, so you get on that plane and come east like a good boy, and stop worrying about a little snow."

"It's a lot of snow, from what I hear," Ralph said.

"They always exaggerate out there," Kessler answered. "It's to make you appreciate California."

"But is it still snowing?"

"Just a little."

"Well then maybe…"

"Ralph, this trial is important," Kessler said. "Now you just get on that plane — what plane are you getting on?"

"The four-thirty flight."

"You just get on it, and let me worry about the snow."

"I knew you could move mountains," Ralph said, "but I didn't know you could also stop snow."

"That's not funny, either," Kessler had said. "Do me a favor, and don't ever direct a comedy for us."

He could see lights below. It was never like Los Angeles, where the approach to the city was beautiful, truly beautiful, reds and greens and whites spilled across the landscape, he sometimes felt like weeping as the plane banked in over the airport, not the same here at all. He had never liked New York City, too damn big and dirty, noisy people rushing around all the time, business deals over breakfast and lunch and cocktails and dinner, no nice backyard barbecues, never any sunshine, rotten place New York, he hated it.

He shouldn't be coming here now, either, should be going in the opposite direction to meet Matt Jackson in Japan where they'd be shooting the new picture, not coming east to testify at a stupid trial, as if the trial meant anything anyway. Specious case according to what he'd heard at the studio, absolutely groundless, should have kicked it out of court, bring a man all the way east for something as dumb as this, waste of time. Only reason he was bothering was because Kessler seemed to be making an important thing of it, couldn't antagonize Kessler, not now, not when the Samurai picture was going to cost so much. Had to hold hands with the old man, six million dollars wasn't cornflakes.

The stewardess was walking up the aisle checking seat-belts, nice knockers on her, Ralph thought, how would you like me to film those beauties, honey, in wide-screen Technicolor, she doesn't even know who I am. It disturbed him that nobody ever knew who the hell he was. He always got the choice seat on a plane only because API's transportation department made sure of it, but every time he boarded the plane he could see the disappointed look on the face of the stewardess. Since API had reserved the seat, the airlines people always expected a movie star or a director they could recognize, like Hitchcock or Huston or Preminger. He knew he was a better director than any of them, but who ever recognized his face, nobody. Or, for that matter, did anyone outside the industry even recognize his name, seventeen movies to his credit, all of them hits, well, most of them. Anyway, ten of them. Ten resounding box-office successes, shattering spectacle Variety had called one of them, and this Samurai thing would undoubtedly be another big blockbuster, provided Kessler didn't balk at the six million price tag, well why should he? He wanted a hit, didn't he? Everybody in America, everybody in the world wanted a hit. I know how to deliver hits, Ralph thought, ten of them in a row, twelve if you count the critical but not box-office bonanzas, you have to spend money to make money, Kessler knows that, he'll be very sweet about the whole thing, he's a sweet old Jew bastard. God, this trial is a pain in the ass, should be heading for Tokyo, wonder if Matt has set everything up, those Japanese do good work, even Kurosawa has his face in the magazines more than I do. Open any magazine, there's Huston grinning up at you, it makes me want to puke. Hitchcock? don't even mention him. Supposed to begin shooting next week, can't be wasting all this time in New York, still I'll talk to Kessler about the money, getting the money is important.

"Why aren't we landing?" he asked the stewardess. "Is there snow on the field?"

"No, sir."

"There's snow on the field, isn't there?" he whispered. "You can tell me."

"No, sir, there are just several airplanes ahead of us, that's all."

"That's all, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, sir."

"That's a good age."

"For what?"

"For anything."

"Are you going to put me in pictures?" she asked, and then smiled and went up the aisle to talk to the other stewardess.

Bet she knows who I am, Ralph thought. What the hell, I'm not that anonymous. Maybe she saw the article they did on me in the Saturday Evening Post, the one that had that good shot of me when we were on location down there near Juarez, man it gets hot as hell down there in Mexico, those mules, what a stink. Must have seen that piece on me, the shot wearing the white ducks, bare-chested, all brown, the gray hair, that was a good picture of me. Have to ask her what her name is, look her up maybe, show her a good time. Must know who I am, otherwise why the crack about putting her in pictures, I'll put you someplace all right, baby.

They were coming down.

Ralph caught his breath, certain the field would be covered with snow, no matter what anybody said. The descent seemed very rapid, they never did it this way in Los Angeles. The stewardess was hurrying down the aisle again, he wondered what her name was, too fast, this damn plane was coming down too fast.

"Miss?" he said.

"I'm sorry, sir, I have to take a seat now," the stewardess answered.

"Aren't we coming down too fast?"

"No, sir."

"What's your name?"

"I have to take a seat now."

"I'll talk to you when we land."

"All right."

"You've got great knockers," he whispered.

"I know," she whispered back, and then walked forward to take a seat in the lounge.

This was the worst part of any flight, it scared him senseless. Closer and closer to the ground, he could see buildings capped with thick snow now, were they sure none of it was on the field, everything blurring as the plane leveled, the bump of the wheels, and then the noise of the jets as the engines were reversed, the sudden lurch of the plane slowing, "We have landed at Kennedy International Airport," the stewardess said, "please remain seated until we have taxied to the terminal building and all engines are stopped. The temperature in New York is thirty-seven degrees, and the local time is twelve-seventeen a.m. Thank you for flying with us. We hope to serve you again in the future."

I hope to serve you in the very near future, Ralph thought, and kept watching her as the plane taxied. Before he left the aircraft, he asked her what her name was and where she stayed in New York. She told him her name was Sylvia Mott, and she was engaged to a boy in Pasadena, and she never dated anyone else, but it had been a pleasure flying with him, nonetheless, and she really hoped she could serve him again in the future.

"Thanks a lot," Ralph said, and went down the steps and walked to the baggage pickup area.

Sam Genitori was waiting there for him, small consolation.

By one o'clock that morning, the snow had stopped completely, and Hester Miers took off her shoes and went walking barefoot in the plaza outside the Seagram Building, parading past the pools and the small lighted Christmas trees. Arthur was not terribly surprised.

He was not surprised because she had been exhibiting all through supper this same phony joie de vivre, the single identifying characteristic of any actress he had ever met. The quality was deceptive at first. He had recognized it only belatedly in Eileen Curtis, the young lady who had played Lieutenant Diane Foster in Catchpole. There had been a curiosity about Eileen, a vitality, an intense concern that was contagious and inspiring. He could never be in her presence without feeling a pang of envy — God, if only he could be as concerned with life and living, if only he could bring such minute scrutiny to matters large and small, finding everyone interesting and alive, glowing with excitement at each suggested idea or phrase or isolated word, taking up the banner for any worthy cause, burning with energy, searching and working and learning and living, secure in the knowledge that this was the chosen profession, humbly grateful for the opportunity to be allowed to carry on this illuminating, sacrificing, enriching, and dedicated work.

He learned later on the Coast — where he was surrounded day and night by an intolerable army of actors and actresses — that Eileen Curtis's seeming love affair with life had merely been a love affair with herself. The same enormous ego and delicately executed phoniness were evident in Hester Miers, who squealed in delight over the crispness of the seeded rolls and smacked her lips over the "summer sweetness" of the butter, and then secretly asked him to observe the magnificent topaz brooch on the old lady at the next table, and then flirted with the waitress (the waitress!), using her humble and ingratiating Famous Actress smile, and then cooed over the marvelous glowing green of the Heineken bottle, and then asked Arthur if he believed in astrology, and then put five lumps of sugar in her coffee ("I adore it sweet, but I never stir it") and then asked the doorman outside whether it was still snowing, and to his respectful, "It stopped a half-hour ago, miss," replied in mystic meaningfulness, "Good, because it's only fair, you know," and then of course took off her shoes and hiked up her skirts and went running barefoot in the snow, "Oh, Arthur, it's deliciously cold."

This is the girl, he thought, who is supposed to play Carol, the simple daughter of an honest Bronx mailman. This is the girl.

He would have said good night to her then and there — oh, perhaps he would have helped her dry her feet, he was after all a gentleman — were it not for the fact that the presence of Hester Miers in his play would insure the capitalization. Had not Oscar Stern himself, cigar compressed between his lips, shivering in the alley of the Helen Hayes, replied only yesterday in answer to a foolish question, "Because if we can get Hester Miers to take this part, we'll raise all the money for the play immediately," had not the unquestionable Oscar said those very words only yesterday?

Yesterday was yesterday, of course, dead and gone. Yesterday the trial had begun, and by Thursday or Friday it would be concluded — but who knew when the judge would give his decision? If the judge said, "Why, yes, my son, you have been wronged, good Arthur Constantine," then he could tell Selig and Stern and even Hester Miers — who was romping in the snow now with her skirts up, fully aware that her legs were long and excellently shaped but trying to give the impression nonetheless of a six-year-old abandoning herself to her first wintry experience — he could tell all of them to go straight to hell because he would be in actual possession of, or at least in loan-acquiring promise of, ten million dollars or more. His hands began trembling.

Don't think about it, he told himself. You may lose this damn trial, stranger things have happened, don't even think about it. If you get Hester Miers, you get the money for the play, the play goes on, that's all you have to know. Don't think about the other, there's no fairness in this world, you learned that the night the critics killed Catchpole and Freddie Gerard began crying like a baby, "Why can't I bring in a winner, Arthur, why can't I ever bring in a winner?" Don't think about winning the trial, think only about getting Hester for the part. Think only about getting Hester.

She had admitted to being twenty-five years old, but Arthur suspected she was something closer to thirty. She was a tall, slender girl (she claimed she ate only one meal a day) with blond hair cut very close to her head in a haphazard coiffure, deliberately unkempt, and lending a look of overall unpredictability to her face. She was not a beautiful girl, nor could he even find anything terribly attractive about her, except perhaps her coltish legs. Her face was an elongated oval, her eyes brown and highlighted with black liner, her lipstick a pale orange on a mouth too generous for the rest of her features. A nose job had apparently been performed on her some time ago, but it was beginning to fall out of shape, and it gave her face a faintly lopsided look. She was definitely not pretty, and he was disappointed by her looks, but he kept reminding himself that she possessed a vibrant, almost luminous quality on stage, even though she looked like some kind of a jackass now, galloping around in the snow that way.

When she finally came over to him again, out of breath and flushed, he said, "What seems to be troubling you about the part?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Well, something is."

"Oh, sure, something is."

"Well, what?"

"I don't know." Hester sat on the edge of the pool. The lighted Christmas trees behind her put a high gloss on her blond hair. She took a small lace-edged handkerchief from her bag, crossed her legs, and ineffectually began drying them.

"I think it's a perfect part for you," Arthur said.

"You do?"

"Certainly."

"I don't know."

"Really, Hester."

"Well, I don't know. You still haven't explained it to me. I wish you'd explain it to me," she said, and in the same breath added, "How tall are you?"

"Five-ten," Arthur said. "Seriously, Hester, I don't think Lincoln Center would object to your leaving. Not for a part like this one."

"I'm not sure about that," she answered. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

"Yes." He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't think Kazan liked me very much, but things are different now. I'm not sure they'd let me go just like that."

"It's a matter of how much you want the part, I guess," Arthur ventured.

"Yes, of course."

"So if there are any problems about it, I wish you'd tell me what they are."

"Oh, I don't know," Hester said, and rose suddenly, picking up her shoes in one hand, returning Arthur's handkerchief with the other, and then walking down the steps and onto Park Avenue barefooted, the shoes swinging at the end of her arm. Arthur took a deep breath, hesitated alongside the pool for a moment, and then followed her.

"This is the greatest street in the world," Hester said. "Tell me about Carol."

"Where do you want me to begin?"

"Where is she from?"

"The Bronx. That's pretty clear in the—"

"Do you know where I'm from?"

"No."

"Originally?"

"No, where?"

"You won't believe it."

"Try me," he said.

"Seattle, Washington. How about that?"

"Really?"

"Yes. My father was a lumberjack. Do you know you can get mugged on this street at this hour of the night, and your body dumped in the river?"

"No, I didn't know that. Carol…"

"A boy I know got mugged on Fifth Avenue, would you believe it?"

"… is a girl who feels—"

"He was one of the gypsies in Hello, Dolly. This was after the show broke. He lived, I don't know, on 48th Street, I guess, and he was walking down Fifth Avenue, and these hoods jumped him. This city…"

"The Bronx is different, you know. Carol grew up in a neighborhood…"

"It's not too different really. You read about Bronx muggings all the time, don't you just love these reminders, 'Just a Drop in the Basket,' they really gas me."

The hell with it, Arthur thought, the goddamn rotten hell with it.

"You know what?" he said.

"What?"

"Actresses give me a severe pain in the ass," he said.

"Oh, really?" Hester said, and shrugged, and ran up the street to the corner, her arms raised winglike, the shoes dangling from one hand. "Oh, it's marrr-velous!" she shrieked. "Snow is marrrrvelous!"

Arthur walked slowly to the corner. There were lighted Christmas trees on the islands dividing the avenue, lighted trees perched on the marquee of the Sheraton-East, enormous wreaths hanging from the buildings, blues and greens reflecting on the snow. There was no wind, and the city was hushed. He felt like weeping.

"Would you like to know why actresses give me a severe pain?" he said angrily.

"In the ass," Hester amended. "You forgot in the ass."

"A severe pain in the ass, thank you. Would you like to know why?"

"No," Hester said. "I'll bet you always got the prettiest girl in the class, didn't you?"

"What?"

"You. Did you always get the prettiest girl?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"In your class."

"No, I always got the ugliest one," Arthur said.

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

"Not particularly."

"I have beautiful legs."

"Hester, do you want this goddamn part or not?"

"I know I have beautiful legs."

"Who cares about your legs?"

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know. In fact, you're boring me. Do you want to discuss your play, or do you want to go home?"

"I want to go home," Arthur said.

"Good night," she answered, and turned left on 52nd Street.

"No, wait a minute," he said.

"No, go home," she said. "Really, I'm bored to death. I was offered a part in a play by William Inge, did you know that? Just two weeks ago."

"No, I didn't know that."

"I could have had After the Fall, too, in spite of Kazan. I just didn't think it was right for me. But I could have had it."

"You'd have been terrible," Arthur said.

"That's beside the point. I could have had it if I wanted it. They think very highly of me at the Rep."

"I think very highly of you right here."

"Cut it out," she said.

"Cut what out?"

"When I was a struggling young actress, longer ago than I care to remember, a wise old lady said to me, 'Hester baby, don't ever ball a writer, a director, or a producer. It won't get you the part.' I followed her advice, and now I don't have to ball writers, directors, or producers."

"Who do you have to ball now?" Arthur asked.

"Don't get smart."

"I'm sorry, but I think I'm missing your point."

"My point is don't come on with me."

"I didn't know I was."

"You were," Hester said, "and the answer is no. Give me your arm, I want to put on my shoes." She caught his arm at the elbow and, leaning against him, put on first one shoe and then the other. "What are you smiling about?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"I don't like people who get dumb smiles on their face. How tall did you say you were?"

"Five-ten."

"That's short."

"It's not so short."

"It's short. I'm five-eight."

"Where do you live, Hester?"

"Over there someplace," she said, and gestured vaguely uptown. "In my stocking feet. I'm a very tall girl."

"I live on Fifty-fourth and Third," Arthur said.

"So?"

"Why don't we go there?"

"What for?"

"I'm cold."

"I'm not."

"We can discuss the play there."

"We can discuss it right here."

"Anyway, I'd like a drink."

"I know what you'd like."

"What would I like?"

"You'd like to jump right into bed with me."

"No, I only…"

"Forget it."

"… want to discuss the play someplace where it's warm."

"If you want to discuss it, discuss it here."

"Okay."

"And stop smiling like that."

"Okay."

"Do you want me to play the part?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you. I don't believe your character, and I don't believe you, either."

"Okay."

"Stop smiling. I don't even know if it's such a good play."

"It's a good play, believe me."

"Sure, you wrote it."

"It's still a good play, no matter who wrote it."

"I think it's a confusing play."

"It's real."

"My part is confusing."

"Your part?"

"The girl. Carol."

"She's honest."

"That's what's confusing."

"That's what's real."

"I don't know anybody like her."

"I do."

"She's impossible to play. I don't even understand her."

"I understand everything about her."

"Then you play her."

"No, you play her, Hester."

"I wouldn't know where to begin. Besides, why should I? Your last play was a flop."

"So was yours."

"That was before Lincoln Center."

"It was still a flop."

"I got rave notices."

"The critics hated the play."

"That doesn't mean it was bad."

"It closed, didn't it?"

"That wasn't my fault."

"Of course not, Hester. In New York, it's never the actor's fault."

"You're talking like a writer."

"What should I talk like?"

"You're being defensive and hostile…"

"But honest."

"Besides, the critics loved me."

"The hell with the critics."

"Oh, sure, the hell with them, I agree. But they loved me. Did you see the play?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you love me?"

"I loved you."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm being honest."

"Whenever I meet anybody who claims he's honest, I run and hide the family jewels. You just want me in your play, that's all."

"Is that all?"

"What else?"

"You're right, Hester."

"What?"

"About what else I want."

I'm always right about what men want."

"I'd like to…"

"Stop working so hard," she said. She looked at him steadily. "You turned me on at least ten minutes ago."

… knew then I wanted to be an actress, and that nothing else would ever satisfy me, no wait here, I want to check. I have a woman sleeping in, you know, I think it's all right, yes, her door is closed. I put a television set in her room, one of those little GE's, do you know them? If she's awake I can hear the set going. I'll put the light on when we get upstairs, watch the flowerpot on the bottom step. Do you really like my legs, you never did say you liked them, you know. My bedroom is at the other end of the hall, there's a little wrought iron balcony that overlooks the backyard, there are dozens of daffodils in bloom in the spring, I go out every morning to say hello to them. I put them in myself last year, the bulbs. A boy dying of leukemia sent them to me, he wrote the nicest letter. His parents had taken him to see me downtown, knowing he was going to die and all, they own a seed order business upstate. He sent me the daffodil bulbs later, with his marvelous letter telling me what a dazzling actress he thought I was, and how beautiful, do you think I'm beautiful? I planted them myself last fall. I bought one of those tools, it's a hollow circle you press into the earth, it makes the hole just the right depth, and I planted them all one afternoon, there were four dozen of them. They came in a specially protected bag, you should see them now, they're gorgeous. I go out to look at them each morning in the spring, and I feel the world is coming alive, even though that poor lovely little boy is probably dead by now, leukemia, what a terrible thing. I wrote him a nice thank-you note, I hope he died happy, give me your hand, it's this way.

I don't want to put the light on, do you mind? Let's just sit here by the window. I bought this loveseat in London at the Portobello market, do you like it, it's red velvet, you can't see the color in the dark, I know, but it's the most brilliant red, and really in excellent condition. It's a genuine antique, you know, the man gave me papers for it and everything, sit here, are you comfortable? I sometimes sit here by the window and look out at the city and try to superimpose London on it, those marvelous little slate roofs, and the chimney pots, and the London sounds. I try to transport them here. I knew a very wonderful man in London, he was a correspondent for the B.B.C., they came to interview the cast one day. This was two summers ago, the weather was so marvelously sunny and bright, so rare for London, so rare. I was there with The Alchemist, which was like carrying coals to Newcastle, I suppose, but they seemed to love it. The critics said I was radiant, I adore the English, don't you adore the English? He had a mustache, this man in London, a big bristling cavalry mustache, and very blue English eyes, and that florid complexion all Englishmen seem to have, that fine aquiline nose, very much like your nose, Arthur, your're not English, are you? We had tea at the Stafford, and I told him all about myself, I am Hester Miers, I said, I've been acting since the time I was sixteen and won a high school contest sponsored by KJR in Seattle, well not quite all about myself, I've never told anyone everything about myself, do you mind the dark? I love to make the room dark. When the drapes are closed, the blackness, try to see my eyes in the dark, Arthur. Put your face very close to mine, can you see my eyes? Kiss me.

In Clovelly, you can walk miles down to the sea, a cobbled path goes down the side of the cliff, it's teeming with Englishmen on holiday.

He took me there one weekend and bought me a dish of ice cream from an old man in one of the shops, Bed and Breakfast the signs all say. He got stung by a bee while we lay in the grass on the side of the hill, the weather still so beautifully mild and bright, we lay in the high grass, and the bee flew into his open collar and stung him on the back of his neck. Oh, you should have seen him fuss, the big baby, ranting and shouting, you'd think he was about to die, I couldn't stop laughing, Arthur, it was so funny. On the way to Dorset, we drove up Porlock Hill, do you know what heather looks like? The hill was covered with heather, and sheep grazing, and we got out of the car and looked out over the sea, with the wind howling, I hugged my sweater around me. I was wearing a blue cashmere I'd bought in Birmingham in the Ring, have you ever been there, it's a science-fiction city, you must touch me, Arthur. George Bernard Shaw had one of his plays done there for the first time, at the Birmingham Rep, that was before the bombings, touch me everywhere.

Is it really a good part, Arthur? I read a play nowadays, and I can't tell anymore, it used to be so easy. When I was hungry, every part was a good part, and I wanted them all, I wanted to play every woman ever invented. And now I can't tell anymore, do you know how old I am? I'm twenty-five years old, did I tell you that? How old is Carol supposed to be, she's younger than that, isn't she? Are you really sure you want me to take the part? Arthur, I hope you don't think, Oh God, you're so warm, I hope you don't think there's a connection, I hope you haven't got it in your mind that this has anything to do with whether I play the part or not, because it doesn't. It Wouldn't matter, it doesn't matter, oooh, what are you doing, I love it, there's no connection between this and the play, don't you see, this is something else. She's so young, how could I play a girl so young, is she supposed to be a virgin? He said I had no breasts, in Ohio this was, do you like my breasts? I was playing summer stock there, I was only seventeen. The moment he said it my nipples began to show through my sweater, and he knew, oh boy did he know, he was a very wise old bastard, he knew from the first day the summer began. He made love to me on the floor of the theater, upstairs where we used to paint the flats, we could hear them rehearsing down below, they were doing Winterset, the girl playing Mariamne was having trouble with her lines, she kept repeating them over and over again while he made love to me, oh God I was so excited, I was only a girl, Arthur, I was only seventeen, I really don't know about this play of yours or the confused girl in it, it's driving me crazy, I mean it, she is really a very confused person. Oh, I admit it would be a challenge, don't misunderstand me, the smell of the paint and Mariamne's lines, And I came back because I must see you again. And we danced together and my heart hurt me, I learned the part that afternoon, what a long afternoon, but I can't remember his name, isn't that funny? I'd just hate to accept your play and then disappoint you, I couldn't bear that, Arthur, disappointing anyone. I can't bear failing anyone. If I thought my note to that poor lovely boy, do I excite you, that poor lovely boy with leukemia, do I excite you very much, had failed him, well I just couldn't bear the thought, give me your cock. You have a big beautiful cock.