Lasner shook his head. “Carry me out? In front of the Morris office? No.”

“What’s he talking about?” the doctor said to Ben.

“Nothing,” Ben said, not bothering. “Is he really in danger?”

“He could be.”

“Listen to me,” Lasner said, his voice steady. “I know what this is. It gets better, or it doesn’t. You ride it out. What are they going to do in a hospital? Put me in bed. I’m in bed.”

“Well, I can’t take the responsibility then,” the doctor said, sounding so exactly like George Brent that for an instant, thrown, Ben almost laughed.

“Kohler will keep an eye on me,” Lasner said.

The doctor sighed. “Anyway, you’re not in bed. Here, give me a hand, will you?”

“What do I do?” Ben said to the doctor as they undressed the head of Continental Pictures. The stork legs, just as imagined. Boxer shorts. The suit hung up neatly. Wispy gray hair laid back against the propped pillows.

“Nothing. He’s right about that. You ride it out. Just keep him quiet. I’ll check in again in the morning.” He wagged his finger at Lasner. “Stay in bed. Or they will carry you out in Kansas City.” He turned back to Ben. “I’ll leave these,” he said, handing him a small envelope with pills. “In case he can’t sleep. If it gets bad again, you know where to find me.” He picked up a cigar from the standing ashtray. “Wonderful,” he said to Lasner, “just what you need.” Another Brent line, shaking his head as he left.

“Fascist,” Lasner said when the door closed. “They’re all fascists.”

Ben looked at him for a second, then dropped into one of the chairs, drained, holding on to the armrests to calm his hands.

“What’s the matter, I give you a scare?” Lasner said, a faint smile now on his face.

“It’s not funny. You should do what he says. Get off in Kansas City.”