The Chelsea Girls(44)

“Monitored?”

He nodded. “Observed, if you like. I’ll drop into rehearsals and production meetings, and report back any untoward behavior, any suspicious contacts. Or the lack of same.”

“What? No. Absolutely not.” Hazel wanted to slap him. After practically saving his life, this was how he repaid her?

“Yes. Brilliant.” Mr. Hartnett jumped on the idea. “Why would you say no if you have nothing to hide?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“You may think so, but I’m sure Mr. Canby would be happy to reach a compromise.”

Mr. Hartnett was right on that count. Mr. Canby would agree in a heartbeat. Anything to take care of this threat and get into the good graces of Daddy Butterfield and his minions. She had to get something out of it, though. “If Mr. Canby and I consent to being observed, then you tell Laurence Butterfield to back off, and take me out of Red Channels.”

Mr. Hartnett considered the idea, taking his time before answering. “If you agree to our plan, I’ll request that Laurence Butterfield ease up and consider taking you out of Red Channels, depending on what sort of feedback we get.”

With that, he stood and dismissed them both. The meeting was over.



* * *





Hazel had hoped to lose herself in the mob of office workers churning along the sidewalk, but Charlie Butterfield caught up with her before she crossed Sixth Avenue.

“Look at you, still unable to trail someone without tipping your hand.” Her words came out with a caustic edge.

“I’m not following you. I’m attempting to walk with you. Please, slow down.”

She did so, only because she didn’t want him to have another fit in front of her. Hazel made a sharp right and he followed suit, as if a magnet joined them together. “Why did you make that ridiculous suggestion?”

“I don’t know if you’re just completely out of it or deliberately chose to ignore the facts, but Hartnett was ready to throw you to the wolves. What on earth were you thinking, talking back to him like that? That’s not the way it’s done.”

“I thought I’d be clearing up a misunderstanding. I didn’t expect to be shaken down for two hundred dollars.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No? How is it not?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “I could have told him everything, by the way. About your epilepsy, that we’d met before. I should have.”

“I just did you a huge favor, Miss Ripley.”

“You really think so? You’ve got to be kidding, Mr. Butterfield.” She ground to a halt as a crowd gathered outside a theater at intermission stymied her progress.

“You can call me Charlie. And I just bought you a huge amount of leeway.”

“First off, I’m not calling you anything. Second, rehearsals are closed, for a reason. We don’t need the actors worrying about what they’re saying or doing. It’s a free space, a creative space. Having a minder will get in the way of that.” She peered into his face. “How are you related to the supermarket guy?”

Charlie swallowed. “I’m his son.”

“Great. Just great.”

A dinging sound echoed from inside the theater, the signal that the intermission was over. Hazel changed direction, joining the theatergoers inching their way inside.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you.”

“No, you’re not.”

The crowd crammed though the front doors, like a squirrel squeezing through a tight opening in a fence and miraculously emerging out the other side intact.

“But we don’t have tickets,” whispered Charlie from behind her.

Hazel didn’t answer. She needed time to think and figure out her next steps, and the cool interior of the theater beckoned. Luckily, her brother had showed her how to “second act” a play when they were young. They’d wait until the lights went down, and then grab any empty seat. It didn’t matter that they’d missed the first act. As struggling actors in New York City, they took what they could get. She dashed up to the mezzanine level and scanned the rows of seats as an usher walked by.

Hazel turned to face Charlie, as if they were a couple of ticket-holding audience members just stretching their legs. “Your father is making serious trouble,” she whispered. “I don’t see how you can be part of that.”

“Make no mistake, there are people out there trying to forward the Communist Party’s agenda. They may not be official members, but they’re most certainly fellow travelers.”

“Fellow travelers. That’s a ridiculous term. Same with friends. You have all this code-speak for treason. No more euphemisms. Why not just call all us artistic types ‘traitors’ and be done with it? Here’s why: Because then we could fight back. Instead, you throw out insinuations, get the rest of America good and paranoid, and watch as the country turns on itself.”

“You’ve got your head in the sand. There’s a giant network, a conspiracy forming out there. Heck, it’s already formed. Open your eyes before it’s too late.”

“If you’re so sure about that, why aren’t you with the FBI instead of slumming it with the likes of Hartnett?”

“Actually, I’ve already applied and am waiting to hear back.”