The Chelsea Girls(43)

He was probably more than eager to keep the rooftop episode from his employer. This was the only hand she had, and she had to play it. “Are you sure? You seem quite familiar.”

Charlie looked as if he was about to have another fit. He blinked a couple of times at her and she knew exactly what he was trying to convey, a desperate plea not to tell his boss about his illness. “No, I don’t think so.”

For now, she relented. “I guess not. Although, as a writer, it’s my job to notice things, observe people. I rarely forget a face.”

Mr. Hartnett shrugged and made the introductions. “Miss Ripley, this is Charlie Butterfield. Why don’t you join us, Charlie? Miss Ripley is interested in getting cleared.”

Butterfield. He shared the same name as the supermarket monster. Hazel took a deep breath, absorbing the news.

Charlie Butterfield took the seat next to her, carefully, as though the room were a minefield, as Mr. Hartnett read off the list of Hazel’s so-called offenses. When he was finished, he closed the booklet and stared hard at her. “What do you have to say about this?”

“Almost all of those occurred before the war, when it was a very different time.” She paused. “My older brother was quite active in political causes and I followed his lead.”

“Your brother, you say?” Mr. Hartnett picked up a pen. “What is his name?”

“Ben Ripley.” She let Mr. Hartnett scribble it down before adding, “He died in the war.”

“I see. A soldier?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Mr. Hartnett, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you compile the information in Red Channels? Some of it is incorrect, you see.”

Given Hazel’s assumed status, the man was surprisingly willing to share his methods. “We study old photos of May Day parades and peace marches, see who we recognize and who comes up over and over. Or we look at people who have signed petitions fighting the good work of the HUAC, and unveil their hidden agendas.”

“But what if what you gather is incorrect? For example, I never even heard of the World Federation of Democratic Youth, and it says I ‘sponsored’ activities for them, whatever that means.”

“No, no. Nothing is incorrect. I served in the naval intelligence, I know how to tell facts from fiction. Besides, we have staff”—he looked over at Charlie Butterfield—“who do reconnaissance out in the field.”

Right. What a pigheaded dolt Mr. Hartnett was. “You have to give those you’re accusing the chance to defend themselves before you publish, I would think.”

“We do, we do. The more-well-known ones, we’ll send a letter and ask if they have changed their views. If they have, I give them an opportunity to clear their name.” He cleared his throat. “Have you changed your views, Miss Ripley?”

“That fascism is bad and that refugees should have coats to keep them warm? No. I haven’t. And also, that American democracy is the best form of government there is? Again, no.”

He gave an irritated sigh. “You clearly don’t get it. I’ll spell it out for you, how to exonerate yourself. Do you want to know? Or do you want to quibble with me?”

She made herself sit back in her chair, as if this was just any other business negotiation. “I want to know how.”

A pomaded strand of hair had fallen across his forehead. He licked one finger and smoothed the lock back into place. “I’ll review your file again, and we will have a conversation. Once you convince me that you are not a member of the Communist Party and have never been, I will pass your file on to the FBI. They’ll interview you, and you’ll tell them anyone else you think might be a communist sympathizer. Once we’re all on the same page, I’ll take your name off and give the green light that you’re hirable.” He paused. “It costs two hundred dollars.”

She sat quiet, stunned. The fury built back up, unstoppable. “You’re telling me that you created this list of names of people who can’t get work because of rumors and innuendo you disseminate, who then have to come to you and pay you”—she raised her voice—“pay you, to get cleared off the list? This is a racket. A moneymaking scam, plain and simple.”

“How dare you, Miss Ripley. We aren’t playing games here. There are subversives out there in the entertainment industry tainting the minds of innocent, God-fearing Americans. People like Uta Hagen, Judy Holliday, Dorothy Parker.”

His list consisted only of women, a warning if ever she’d heard one. She should never have come. This was a labyrinthine trap and she’d fallen right into it. But this scheme was outrageous. Someone had to say something.

Hazel addressed Charlie, hardly concealing the threat in her voice. “You’ve been awfully silent. I’m surprised you don’t have anything to say about this.”

Charlie avoided her gaze, but turned to his boss. “Mr. Hartnett, I’m sure there’s another way to approach this. Miss Ripley seems to be on the up-and-up. After all, she came here of her own volition.”

Mr. Hartnett looked from Hazel to Charlie, curious. “I’m surprised at how easily you’re swayed, Charlie.”

“I have nothing to hide, nothing to defend,” said Hazel.

“I have an idea.” Charlie broke through the icy silence and stared hard at Hazel, as if he were trying to send a signal, some kind of warning. “If you truly have nothing to hide, if your production isn’t a cover for subversive behaviors, then perhaps you wouldn’t mind allowing it to be monitored.”