“Rumor has it,” said Jack Warner, cracking a goofy grin, halfway between amusement and bafflement, “the liquor industry is raising some fuss over your new picture, Janie. Odds are 50/50 Paramount never releases it.”

 

Ronnie narrowed his eyes like a cowboy facing off with a distant threat, as Janie, visibly distressed, fluttered her hands over the tablecloth. The merriment of other guests filled their collective silence. The restaurant’s host, Michael Romanoff, floated from booth to booth in jacket and tie, hair fastidiously parted, long mustache clinging to his upper lip and shaved everywhere above it.
 

“Apparently,” Ann Warner said quietly, her green eyes alight with excitement, “they have offered Paramount millions for the negative. They want to pay Barney Balaban not to release the picture. It’s almost like a backwards sort of poetry.”

 

“Ain’t that rich?” said Jack, juddering his filet mignon with a steak knife and fork. “Imagine running a profit on all the films you don’t release.”

 

“Well,” Janie said, “if they succeed at keeping The Lost Weekend out of theaters, I hope the liquor industry’ll at the very least consider a pay-off in kind to me as well. I’ll need the consolation booze has to offer.”

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