I was yanked down another hallway and through the kitchen. The person escorting me opened the door to the basement, pushed me inside, and then closed it over both of us.
We stood on the top step, in the dark, as the guy held the door shut with his shoulder. I couldn’t make out his face, but I suddenly realized it was the skinny, bearded guest Troy hadn’t been able to place. The one he’d called just Director.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I replied.
“I guess this is what you call a melee.”
Indeed, shouts and scrambling were increasing on the other side of the door. One more shot rang out. Both my new friend and I ducked.
“I didn’t mean to pull you along,” he said. “I just grabbed the first person I saw.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m Johnny Cooper, by the way. I think we met at the Awards.”
“Did we?”
“Yeah.”
I squinted at the guy, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. He was using the same phony line I’d used on Alan Boilerman. Should I have been flattered? There wasn’t time to decide.
“Any idea what it’s all about?” he asked.
“Beats me.”
“Is there a window in the basement? Can we get out?”
I thought for a second, recalling Troy’s screening setup. “Yeah. But it’s small, and you’ll need a chair to reach it.”
“Okay. That’s no problem.”
There was a pause, as we both stood there, breathing hard. Then, as if we were about to jump from a burning ship, he said, “Okay. Let’s go.”
He started down, feeling his way in the dark. But then he stopped, noticing that I wasn’t following.
“What’s the holdup?” he hissed. “Come on.”
Through the door, I heard the disturbance, the stumbling and shouting—and one more shot. I knew that Marthe was out there. I didn’t trust her, of course, but that didn’t mean I could abandon her, either.
“Good luck,” I said, and opened the door.
HEAD DOWN, I STARTED INTO THE FRAY, TRYING TO REACH MARTHE’S ROOM. On my way, I passed a half-opened closet. From it, two blond women peeked, afraid. I made out a third form crushed between them; it was Thor, addled as ever.
I followed a trail of olive pits, which, like bread crumbs, led me to Marthe’s door.
She was coming out at the same time I was going in. She was shaking; sweat poured down her face, and she winced from what seemed a profound sciatic twinge.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Her accent was so thick I could barely make out what she said. After a second, I realized it was: “I’m so sorry.”
Then Marthe let out a gasp. When I turned to the side, I saw the guy with the gun standing in the hall, aiming his weapon. Again, it wasn’t at me; he was pointing the pistol at the nearby staircase, leading up. Troy was on it, painfully taking two steps at a time.
“Don’t do it!” Troy cried.
The guy didn’t. He was decked by someone else, someone who flew at him and knocked him to the floor. To my shock, I recognized the bearded guy from the basement. He was a director who didn’t just shout “action” but took it.
Johnny Cooper had the thug pinned. He was whomping him in the face so brutally that I had to look away. Instinctively, I pushed Marthe back into her room. She tried to pull me in but I stayed outside.
I took off after Troy instead.
Hurtling the stairs much faster than he, I caught him halfway up. Troy didn’t resist. Instead, he pulled me to him. Only one big frame of his sunglasses remained intact, and his tanned face was more white than brown. He smelled as much of sweat as cologne. His voice was desperate.
“Help me, Clarence,” he said.
How could I? I could give him the tape. But what if it wasn’t The Day the Clown Cried? Either way, I wasn’t handing it over.
Suddenly, on the floor above us, a door creaked opened. Troy stared up, panicked, at the room that had been the source of so much sound. He looked like a parent gazing at an endangered child.
I threw him off. Then I started up the stairs myself.
“Come back!” Troy said.
I ignored him. I was too busy gawking at the woman who had come out onto the landing. I remembered that Olivia de Haviland had replaced Joan Crawford in Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte.
There were track marks all over her arms. She looked like the hidden first wife in a junkie Jane Eyre, like something from the past gone bad.
