“He’s just covering his ass. If I’m going to peg out, I’ll do it at Cedars. Here’s what we do. Kansas City, that’s two twenty-two.” Ben looked over at him, impressed again. On schedule. “We get five minutes there, not enough to call and get through. Anyway, that hour she’s asleep. So send an overnight. Are you getting this? There’s some paper over there. Tell Fay to meet the train in Pasadena. Not downtown. Pasadena’s eight thirty-five. She always forgets. And tell her to bring Rosen. Then another wire to Jenkins at the studio, tell him not to meet the train. Tell him Fay’s meeting me. Otherwise, he’ll start calling people.”

“Anything else?” Ben said, playing secretary. “You’re not supposed to be talking, you know.”

“I’m not supposed to be breathing, either,” he said, but his voice was softer, winding down. “Don’t forget the wires, okay? The address is in my wallet.”

“I’d better go. Let you get some rest.”

“No, sit. Sit. Stick around,” Lasner said, trying to sound casual.

Ben turned off the overhead, leaving just a small side lamp and the faint light from the sky outside. The land below was already dark, anonymous.

“At least till Kansas City. Make sure they don’t take me off. Okay?” he said, asking something else.

“Okay,” Ben said, taking a chair and turning it so that he was facing both Lasner and the window. A clean horizon line, flat, the dark beginning to take over the sky, too. He lit a cigarette, watching the red tip glow in the window reflection.

“You want something to eat? We can have something brought.”

“No, I’m fine. Go to sleep.”

“Who could sleep now. You just wonder if you’ll wake up.” But he half closed his eyes.

Ben said nothing, listening to the wheels.

“Talk to me,” Lasner said after a while, still there.

“What did you mean about the porters? Who tips them?”

“The columns. Hedda. Polly Marks. All of them.” Polly, not Paulette.