Where else but in America could a little Italian boy from the slums of Harlem (Well, you see, there are three Harlems) sit at the same table with John Wayne and listen to a very inside story about the shooting of The Quiet Man in Ireland? Where else, I ask you, indeed. Oh man, I played the Slum Kid bit to the hilt, everybody likes to hear how you can make it in the face of adversity. The mouse that almost bit my mother became over the years a foraging bloodthirsty sea monster with matted hair dripping seaweed and coming up out of the water with its jaws wide ready to swallow her bottom and everything else besides. The apartment on 118th Street became the Black Hole of Calcutta, it's a wonder the swarms of flies did not eat the eyes out of my head as I lay helpless and squirming in the squalor of my pitiful crib, it's a wonder the rats did not tear the flesh from my bones and leave me whimpering helplessly for an undernourished mother to hobble into the room and flail at them ineffectually. I was born and raised in Harlem, you hear that, Duke? Not only was I born and raised in Harlem, but I managed to get out of Harlem, which is no small feat in itself. Moreover, I was educated at Columbia University, which is a pretty snazzy school you will admit, and I managed to become an officer in the Army, came out as a captain don't forget, and then went on to become a very highly paid screen and television writer who this very minute is negotiating, or at least hoping to negotiate, with one Hester Miers, you've got it, mister, the very same, for the starring role in my new play which will be coming to Broadway shortly. (I'll stand in that lobby on opening night, Virginia Kelly, and when you walk in and recognize me and come over to wish me luck, I'll tell you to go bounce a ball on the sidewalk, one-two-three-a-nation. I'll tell you I've got an apartment of my own now in a very fancy building on East 54th Street, with a doorman and an elevator operator, and I'll tell you I date the prettiest girls in New York almost every night of the week and I've been sucked off by more black-haired Irish girls than there are in your entire family or perhaps in the entire city of Dublin. And then I'll ask the usher or perhaps the porter to please show you out of the goddamn theater as you are disturbing my equilibrium.) I was born and raised in Harlem, so look at me. Something, huh? You don't have to be colored to be underprivileged, you know. Look at me, and have pity on the poor skinny slum kid, man, did I play that into the ground.
So here stands the poor skinny slum kid (not so poor, not so skinny, never having come from a slum anyway because it sure as hell wasn't a slum to me, it was the happiest place I've ever known in my life) standing alone in an Anglo-Saxon world being represented by a Jew (Where else but in America can a wop, etc.) and going up against a man named Jonah Willow, who sounds like a Eurasian philosopher, and I'm scared. I'm scared not because there were rats in Harlem, I'm scared not because there were pushers lurking on every street corner, I'm scared not because teenage hoods came at me with tire chains and switch blades, I'm scared because I'm alone.
"I'm scared because I've been making it alone ever since I was eighteen and got drafted into the United States Army, I'm scared and I'm tired, and I would like to rest.
He took a last drag on his cigarette, searched for an ash tray in the corridor, and found four of them fastened to the wall. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Willow and his assistant were coming back — the hell with them, let them be late — and then walked swiftly toward the courtroom. He pulled open one of the bronze-flowered doors and immediately saw Brackman and his partner at one of the long tables, Genitori and his assistant at the other. He saw Driscoll and his wife sitting in the empty jury box, just as before. He saw the court clerk hovering near the door to the judge's chamber, waiting to call, "All rise!" No one seemed to realize that beyond that paneled door the judge might be reading his newspaper or blowing his nose or laughing on the telephone or tying his shoelaces — or perhaps pondering the decision that would mean the difference between a sweet, staggering success and… what?
What you have now, Arthur thought.
Exactly what you have now.
Unnoticed, he took his seat at the plaintiff's table, and waited for the trial to resume.
"Mr. Constantine, would you please continue where you left off before the recess?" Brackman said.
"I was just about to begin with specific character similarities," Arthur said. "I was going to start with the character of Lieutenant Roger Mason in my play Catchpole and the character called Alex Cooper in The Paper Dragon. There are similarities there that go beyond the realm of coincidence, and I'd like to enumerate them."
"Please do."
"To begin with, the hero of my play is twenty-one years old, and fresh out of college. He goes into the Army as a private, is sent to O.C.S., and is shipped to the Pacific to fight the enemy. The man who played him on the New York stage was at least six feet tall, and he had dark hair and blue eyes — did I say he was a second lieutenant?"
"Your Honor, could the clerk—"
"Yes, certainly."
"Witness has referred to him only as 'a new lieutenant,' " the clerk said.
"Would you like to amend that in some way?" McIntyre asked.
"Yes, your Honor, if I may. I'd like to say that he was a second lieutenant. That's very important. Especially since the hero of The Paper Dragon is a second lieutenant, too. He is described in the book, in fact, as being twenty-one years old, fresh out of Pratt Institute, and drafted into the Army. He goes to O.C.S. and then is shipped off to the Pacific to fight the enemy. The enemy is a different one this time, admittedly, and the setting is Korea, not Eniwetok — but the similarity stands. In addition, the hero of the book is described as being six feet tall, and having dark hair and blue eyes. Physically, these two different men in two so-called separate works look exactly alike. You could almost say they were twins.
"Now the second similarity of character is the fact that there is a nurse in my play, and also a nurse in the book. In my play she is called Diane Foster, and in the book she is called Jan Reardon. Both girls are blond, both are young, both are from New York City. In fairness, I must say that the girl in the book is not a native New Yorker, whereas the girl in my play is. But in both the play and the book, there's a romantic attachment formed between the hero and the nurse."
"You're getting into plot again, aren't you?" Brackman asked.
"Only as it illuminates character."
"Go on, please."
"There is in my play a sergeant who is a member of a minority group, his name is Sergeant D'Agostino and he is an Italian. In the book there is also a sergeant who is a member of a minority group. His name is Sergeant Morley, and he is a Negro. Both these men play important parts in plot development, as I explained earlier."
"Yes, let's just stick to character similarities right now."
"There is a man killed in my play, right at the outset. His name is Private Hapsberg. There is also a man killed in The Paper Dragon, even before the hero arrives on the scene. His name is Major Randolph. I don't think the rank makes much difference, it's the idea of a sniper killing each of these men that—"
"Your Honor," Willow said, "it would appear to me that we are simply going over ground already covered. Unless this testimony regarding character similarities can demonstrably add to what we earlier heard, I must object to the witness continuing along these lines."