“Sure,” Troy shrugged. “Vanessa played fiddle in Playing for Time, Glenny sang with the choir in Paradise Road, Willem made with the fisticuffs in Triumph of the Spirit. Don’t think I haven’t scoped this out.”

Apparently he had, researching as many prison camp dramas as he could. How long had Marthe been cooking up this scheme? Since her last tax bill, I figured. I needed to slow this quickly moving train.

“Look,” I said, “first we have to actually find the film, don’t we? Before we can do anything?”

“We’ll get it,” Troy said, confidently. “We’ll be each other’s guardian angels, like Clarence in Wonderful Life. The one played by …” Here he faltered.

“Henry Travers,” I said, quickly.

This stopped Troy, and he shot me a look. He clearly had no idea who or, more to the point, what I really was.

“Henry Travers,” he said, apparently not wanting to know.

I was beginning to get the sense that Troy believed, given what Marthe may have told him, that this was going to be a slam dunk, to mention another sport I never watched. I knew more than he did.

“Look.” I sat up, the compress falling onto my chest. “A man may have died over the movie already. And I’ve nearly been done in myself—three times.”

I felt a hand smelling of almond skin cream start caressing my hair. Then Marthe’s lips pressed maternally and meaningfully onto my forehead. It worked: I shut up.

Troy rose, with more spring than I would have expected. He strode from the room. “Piece of cake, Clarence,” he shrugged, closing the subject, and was gone.

As I sat there, still seductively muffled, I saw something on the stucco wall Troy had passed. I remembered that William Devane had replaced Roy Thinnes in Hitchcock’s last picture, Family Plot.

It was a bullet hole. I’d seen enough of them by now to know.

THE NEXT NIGHT WE SAW TROY’S GREATEST HITS.

The dank basement below his kitchen was almost a parody of a screening room, with fold-up chairs, a scuffed Ping-Pong table, and bowls of Paul Newman Popcorn. Troy ran videos on a giant TV screen, and provided partly informative but mostly intrusive commentary.

“I had to arm wrestle Zanuck for that setup,” he’d say, about a complex location, or “[Some forgotten actress] and I were ships in the night. She was a great lady.”

His movies from the Seventies had been, admittedly, superb. For a brief and shining moment, he had used his savvy to complete a few classics, before drug arrests laid him low. The films still looked good, what I could stay awake to watch, through my jet lag.

He saved the best for last.

“This is my baby,” he said. “One from the Macaroon Heart.”

And that was what it was: The comedy of hustlers and grifters that had earned Thor’s ex-wife her Oscar. Playing her father figure, Gratey’s co-star was fiery German actor Graus Menzies. After two hours of machinations, she learns that Graus is her actual father.

“There’s the Lollipop,” Troy said, when Gratey’s six-year-old self came on. “Don’t believe the gossip. A dwarf didn’t dub her. I coached her every line myself.”

There was no mention of her collapse in adulthood, how she had been found wandering, stoned, clutching her award, in a low-rent neighborhood of L.A. There was no mention, either, of where she was now; no one seemed to know.

I had always thought the movie treacly and slept through most of it tonight. I was awakened by what sounded like goats mating. I turned and saw Troy and Thor crying, hoarsely and helplessly, mourning younger days, better movies, early marriages, and more money.

Sitting behind me, Marthe was conspicuously dry-eyed. During the movie, downing Bloody Marys, she had playfully tossed pieces of popcorn at my head whenever it drooped. She had also done that boot-kicking thing to the back of my chair.

“Kitsch,” she said afterward, in her Dietrich way. Then she launched into a long, quiet, cranky monologue in German, the only words of which I recognized were Gratey and sheiss. There were clearly old wounds here that I couldn’t understand.

Sniffling, Troy was soon on his feet, pacing before the now-dark TV, acting out his future plans.

“I can see it now …” He made that two-hand framing gesture. “With Thor in Day the Clown, I’ll be back in the game, the Boy-O ringing the bell …”

His future star was huddled in his chair, still bawling. Marthe now knelt beside her husband, and cradled his head on her shoulder. She whispered deeply into his ear, half in German, half in English. This time, I heard and understood a bit more.

“Don’t worry …” I picked up. “This is going to be it.… Just trust me … Trust me …”

Marthe carried a lot on her slight shoulders; she was certainly carrying this ball by herself. I felt a slight chill, thinking of how much seemed at stake.

Actually, the chill was coming from the basement door. Troy had left it open after climbing the cement steps.

A few minutes later, from upstairs, I heard the doorbell.

There was a pause. Then, above us, what I assumed were Troy’s feet walked slowly to answer it. There were muffled voices, and a barely audible cry. Then I heard the front door unmistakably slam.

I turned, concerned, to look at Marthe. Thor’s blubbering had subsided, and he had fallen asleep. She glanced up, caught my questioning look, and immediately avoided it.

“What’s going—” I started to ask, but never finished. Other, worse sounds had started to come through the floor.

Feet were pursuing other feet. There was a loud thump overhead, like someone falling, which shook the basement.

“Hey!” I said, sitting up. I got no help from Marthe. She was busy groping in her bag for a diversionary smoke.

More disturbing noises began. It sounded like someone being pushed into a cabinet. Plates fell and smashed.

I stood and ran to the staircase. Above me, the door was open but a crack. By the time I’d placed a foot on the first step, it was pushed shut and crudely locked.

Now the chill I felt had nothing to do with the weather. I flew up the stairs and started pounding on the door.

“Hey!” I said again, this time to those I couldn’t see.

I placed my ear against the wooden door. I thought I heard someone say “a warning,” and Troy’s gravelly voice reply, using the archaic phrase “moolah.” Then I heard a hand slap a face.

I started pounding on the door.

“Let us out!” I yelled, my voice cracking. I looked back down at Marthe. She was idly kicking her boot, smoking her cigarette, her husband’s sleeping head in her lap.

“What the hell is going on?” I called down to her.

She shrugged. “Troy’s business.”

“What?”

“I say, just wait,” she said, louder. “It will be over soon.”

Not soon enough. I pressed my ear again to the door and once more pounded, futilely. I perceived more muted mayhem. Troy contemptuously muttered “gat,” tough-guy for gun. Hand made contact a last time with face, this time hard. Feet walked across floor. Then the front door was opened and this time quietly closed.

My jet lag ended by dismay, I recalled that Betty Hutton had replaced Judy Garland in Annie Get Your Gun.