"Fun's enough for me." "Why don't you grow up, Sam!" Lennox said impatiently. "You talk about immies. You're the kid. Playing games with cap pistols. Soon as somebody pulls a real gun on you, you turn chicken." "All right. I'm a kid playing games. Leave me alone. Don't protect me. Don't sponsor me. Don't try to shove a loaded gun into my hand." Cooper jumped down off the piano. "What's that line you use on the agency kibitzers when they try to make you rewrite a script their way? What do you always say? Go ahead ... tell me." "If you have to hang, hang on your own rope." "Q.E.D.," Cooper said. "You want to keep things going the way they always have?" "You know that." "Then lay off. Let me go to hell my own way." Lennox turned away angrily. The hidden crevice in his mind opened and Fink's dreadful hint shot up to the surface and burst like a bubble in acid. "Who wrote those letters?" he asked abruptly. "What? What letters?" "You know damned well what letters. I told you yesterday I found out they're written to me. They're written by somebody named Knott. That's the writing you recognized. Who's Knott?" "Nobody I know." "But you know the writing?" "I thought so." "Changed your mind recently?" "What's eating you out all of a sudden?" "I don't play games. Neither does Blinky. He found out I'm getting the letters and I'm off the show. If there's any kind of trouble, he'll murder me with a lawsuit. So it's coming up to the clutch. Two days to Sunday. I'm in so deep, if anybody makes waves I'm dead. This is fun. Yak it up." "I'm not laughing." "If you've got anything besides immies to contribute, now's the time. Who wrote the letters?" "Lay off, Jake. Don't badger me." "You can't tell or you won't tell. Which is it?" "I don't know. I can't remember." "I think you're lying." "That's a hell of a thing to say." "It hurts to say it. I think you're lying." "Why lying all of a sudden?" "Not all of a sudden. It's a slow take. You recognize the writing, but you don't know whose. When I tell you the name, it doesn't ring a bell. Who the hell are you kidding, Judas?" "Jake!" "I'm fighting to hold on to what's between us, too. I don't think it can live through a lie. Not now. Not when I'm on the cross yelling for help. Is it a lie?" Cooper shook his head. "All of a sudden it's sour between us. Nothing I do is right. I try to plug your tune. No good. I try to hold the chiselers off. I stink. I try to fight my way out of a jam. You object. I suppose when I tell you I've set it up for you and one of the dancers to do a duet of 'We're The Most' in next Sunday's show you'll--" "Damn you, Jake!" Cooper gestured angrily. "I stink again. But by God you'll do it. What's got into you? What are you trying to do ... slug me when I come around the corner? I don't think you're trying to pull out of the rat-race. I think you're trying to pull me down into the grave!"