Free Lillian and Dash by Sam Toperoff Page B

we need a union. What sort of union should it be? And when should we get it started?”
    Hellman said, “Some of us do, some of us don’t. The question isn’t really about who needs what, it should be about whether all of us would benefit from a union now.”
    Hammett said quickly, “I find I must disagree somewhat with my esteemed friend from New York. Unions are always about need. The four of us here are fine, aren’t we? But you never know what the future holds. No, let me amend that … You can be sure as hell that somewhere down the line one of us is going to need some protection. That’s a given. So count me in. Ditto for my skeptical young friend here.”
    Lillian turned and glared at Hammett: “First of all, I’d like to know more. I’d like to know who’s doing the organizing. Secondly, I’d like to know who else is in and who’s outand why. I’d like to know what to expect from Mayer and the other studios. And finally”—here she stuck a finger into Hammett’s stomach—“I’d like to answer for myself.”
    Myra Ewbank began to outline some of the reasons why a writers’ Writers Union was a good idea.
    Lilly broke in: “Myra, Myra, I know why we have to protect ourselves, but isn’t that what we each do before we sign our contracts?”
    Hammett whistled: “Spoken like a woman with a Broadway hit in the oven …”
    “Don’t turn me into the villain here, Comrade.”
    “I think you’ve done that pretty well for yourself already.”
    Everyone felt the tension building. Myra said, “Lilly’s right in asking for some more time, more information. At this point we’re just asking people how they feel in general.”
    “And?” Hammett asked.
    “There’s a great deal of interest … and there’s a great deal of uncertainty.”
    “There usually is at this stage. It changes.” Hammett rose. “Count me in no matter what.” He yawned. He reached down for Lillian, who pulled her arm away.
    O UTSIDE, A SOFT, SWEET-SMELLING RAIN had begun to fall. Lillian, who had driven to Myra’s house because she knew the way, had the keys and insisted on driving back to Santa Monica.
    The wet road wound down toward Burbank over hilly, lightly forested land, twisting ever so slightly, almost no road lighting to guide a driver in the dark. He could sense her anger in the blue silence. The hum of the great Packard engine, accelerating and slowing by turns, was almost musical. The beat of the windshield wipers supplied the tempo. The scratch and flare of the match surprised her when Hammett lit a cigarette.
    “Want one?”
    “Why not.”
    He lit hers too. “I should not have answered for you. I have no idea why I did that.” She noticed as she always did that he would not say the word
sorry
.
    “Yes, you do.”
    “I do?”
    “Sure you do. Because you have no idea where you end and where I begin, that’s why.”
    He was silent, thinking over what she had just said.
    There was a traffic light ahead. Hammett knew Lillian had no intention of stopping if the light turned red. It did. She didn’t. He glanced to either side of the tree-lined intersection where a motorcycle cop or a police car might have been hiding. He saw none. The wet road glistened in their headlights and the humming silence began to comfort them again.
    Hammett may have seen it first, a squirrel darting across the road, stopping suddenly, looking up at them stupefied.Lillian pulled to the left and hit the brakes. The squirrel ran forward into her path. Lillian turned the steering wheel abruptly to the right and set in motion a long, unnerving skid that ended with the Packard off the road, front forward in a ditch. Amid the high pitch of brakes on wet road, Hammett’s sustained grunt, Hellman’s nasal squeal, another sound, a barely perceptible
klup
that nevertheless stood out on its own. They knew. The squirrel.
    Before he got out of the car, Hammett touched Hellman’s arm and said, “Okay?”
    She snorted. “I’ll live. He