“Sit down,” Minot said, rising himself, both glaring at each other.
“Or what? You going to put me in jail? Is that what happens when somebody stands up to you?” He turned to the room. “We should all watch this. What happens when you stand up to these people. Maybe you’ll be next. Any of us. Anybody in pictures.” He looked back at Minot, a beat while the room waited. Even Polly had stopped writing, looking around the room, disturbed. “What happens? Or do you think everyone will be too scared to stand up?”
Minot banged the gavel again, even though the room was quiet, mesmerized.
“You are still under oath.”
“You want to know about Convoy to Murmansk?” Lasner said, almost shouting, so worked up now that the committee seemed to draw back, out of the way. “I’ll tell you. Want to know who changed it? What Commie? Me. I asked them to change it. Want to know why? I got a phone call. From the president. We need your help. We’ve got an ally doesn’t think we’re pulling our weight. We’d like to show them we know what they’re going through. A picture would be a big help. Is there anything we can do? Asking me. I had tears in my eyes. He’s calling me. It was the proudest day of my life.” He looked around, emotional, shaking a little. “The proudest day. And this? What’s the opposite? I feel-shame here. Not of this country. I’ll never feel ashamed of this country. I’m ashamed of you in it,” he said directly to Minot. “I’m ashamed anyone listens to you. I’m going to work. You want to arrest me, do it here, because you won’t get on the lot. That’s me at the gate stopping you.” He pointed to his chest and it was then that Ben noticed the film of sweat on his forehead, a white fleck of spittle in the corner of his mouth. Lasner leaned on the table with both hands, under the heat of the camera lights, almost vibrating with emotion, the same sweat and tremor Ben remembered from the train. “You want to make fun of me, go ahead. You think I ‘strut’ around? I do. I’m proud of Continental. And I’m not letting you have it. You think I don’t know what you want?” He turned to the audience. “What he wants from all of us? He wants to take over. Tell us what to make. Who to hire. Who to fire. Well, I run the studio. Me. You don’t tell me who works there. Milt,” he said, turning to him, “you looking for a job? If he doesn’t lock you up, give me a call.” He turned back to Minot. “I run Continental, not you. Go tell Warner what to do. If he has any sense, he’ll throw you out, too. You’re finished here. If I can see it, with my- what’s it? naivete? — they can all see it. I thought this was about politics. About the good of the country. And what is it? Just another pisher wants my job. Not my studio. Not my-”
His hand went to his chest so fast that the room saw only the body slump forward, but Ben had been watching for it, waiting, so as he leaped out of his seat, pushing past the lawyers, he saw the hand clench, grabbing suit cloth, as if it could stop the pain by squeezing, then the head hitting the edge of the table as he fell over. There was a frozen moment of shock, then screams, gasps, everyone standing, beginning to surge toward him, but Ben was already there, turning Lasner over on his back, reaching into his pocket.
“Oh my god,” one of the lawyers said.
“Where are his pills?” Ben said, searching, not even aware he’d said it aloud.
“Here.” Fay, dropping to her knees next to him, clawing at her purse, behind them a roar of noise.
“Give him air! Call an ambulance,” Ben yelled to the circle around them, grabbing the pills and shoving two into Lasner’s mouth. “Water.”
A glass appeared out of the air and Ben forced water between Lasner’s lips, waiting to hear him choke, afraid the white, sweaty face was beyond responding. But there was a kind of hiccup, a faint sign of life, not yet gone. Ben undid the tie, tearing the collar open, as if the problem were air, not his heart. Lasner had cut his head in the fall, so now there was blood, too, seeping in a small stream, inching toward Fay’s nylons. She was clutching Lasner’s hand, watching Ben as he undid the collar, then massaged Lasner’s chest, the rhythm a makeshift substitute for the heart, a pretense that you could keep life going from the outside. He bent down to Lasner’s mouth, listening for air.
“Give him room.”
Behind them the crowd tried to back up without really moving, pressing against each other. Polly had wedged her way to the front.
“Oh,” she said, distressed, her hand at her mouth. “Is he dead?”
“Give him air,” Ben said.
Lasner’s eyelids fluttered open for a second, taking in Ben and Fay, the circle of faces, then closed again.
“Did you get them down?” Ben said to him. “Try one more.” He pushed the pill between Lasner’s lips. “Swallow. Try.”
Lasner opened his mouth a little, obedient, and Ben watched his throat move, his face tightening with the strain.
The committee had now reached them, Minot pushing his way through. He stood for a second looking down, appalled and confused, then stepped back when he felt the flashbulbs go off, catching him looming over Lasner, an unintended boxing ring pose.
Ben took out a handkerchief and wiped Lasner’s forehead, then held it against the cut to stanch the bleeding. “They need a minute to kick in,” he said to Fay, then grabbed a folded paper and started fanning Lasner’s face, forcing air toward him.
“Breathe,” she said to Lasner. “Sol, can you hear me? The ambulance is coming.” She tightened her hand on his.
Now that Lasner had responded, the crowd grew louder with talk. “All of the sudden, like that, ” someone said, snapping his fingers. Ben opened another button on Lasner’s shirt.
Fay glanced up at one of the studio people. “Did anybody call Rosen? Dr. Rosen. Bunny knows the number.” She turned to Ben. “You knew about the pills. What, on the train?”
He nodded. “It’s worse this time. We have to get him to the hospital.” He felt Lasner’s wrist. “It’s weak.”
“I’m not dead,” Lasner said, then winced.
The ambulance was there in a few minutes. As the crew lifted Lasner onto a stretcher, more flashbulbs went off. Fay grabbed Ben’s hand, drawing him along with her. Lasner opened his eyes, aware of the movement.
“They’re here,” Fay said. “Just hold on.”
Lasner struggled to say something, but managed only an indistinct sound.
“Don’t try to talk,” Fay said. “You’ve said enough.”
Lasner glanced at her and started to smile.
In the ambulance, Fay and Ben in the back with him, Lasner began breathing more regularly, his color better.
“That’s twice you’re there,” he said to Ben, his voice scratchy but intelligible.
“Shh. Don’t excite yourself,” Fay said.
“You see his face?” Lasner said.
“Quite a finish,” Ben said.
“I told you. He didn’t know how to play it. He’s done.”
“Don’t talk crazy,” Fay said.
“He should fucking go out and shoot himself. Like Claude Rains.”
Ben laughed. Fay shot him a look, but Lasner, pleased, smiled and closed his eyes again.
“What did you give him?” the doctor said as they brought the gurney into the emergency room.
Ben handed him the pills. “Two, three.”
The doctor nodded then said something to a nurse, ordering an IV, and after that nothing made sense, medicine its own foreign language. Ben and Fay were shunted aside into a waiting room, the air stale with smoke. Ben opened a window. Fay sat down, covering her eyes with her hand.
“Thank you,” she said, and then neither of them spoke, trying to slow things down, all the urgency of the last half hour finally wheeled away somewhere else.
Ben glanced around the room: a pastel seascape on the wall and a stack of Reader’s Digest s on a coffee table. No wonder people paced.
“How bad was it on the train?” Fay said finally.
Ben shrugged. “Not great. But he got through it.”
“How many times can you do that?” She started to cry quietly and Ben looked away, giving her room. “What am I supposed to do? A house that size?”