The type of tome Hedda Hopper always calls a “lie-ography.”

Around the chess pavilion, a breeze moves through the maple trees, making a billion leaves applaud. A withered version of Will Rogers reaches his old Phil Silvers hand to nudge a white king forward one square. Near us, an aged Jack Willis touches a black knight and says, “J’adoube.”

“That’s French,” Miss Kathie says, “for tout de suite.”

Shaking her head over the manuscript, she says, “I wasn’t snooping. I was only looking for some cigarettes.” My Miss Kathie shrugs and says, “What can we do?”

It’s not libel until the book is published, and Webb has no intention of doing that until she’s dead. After that, it will be his word against hers-but by then, my Miss Kathie will be packed away, burned to ash and interred with Loverboy and Oliver “Red” Drake, Esq., and all the empty champagne bottles, the dead soldiers, within her crypt.

The solution is simple, I tell her. All Miss Kathie needs to do is live a long, long life. The answer is… to simply not die.

And pushing the manuscript pages across the chessboard, shoving them at me, Miss Kathie says, “Oh, Hazie, I wish it were that simple.”

Printed, centered across the title page, it says:

Love Slave: A Very Intimate Memoir of

My Life with Kate Kenton

Copyright and author,

Webster Carlton Westward III

This is no partial story, says Miss Kathie. This draft already includes a final chapter. Pulling the ream of paper back to her side of the table, she flips over the stack of pages and turns the last few faceup. Near the ending, her voice lowered to a faint whisper, only then does she begin to read aloud, saying, “ ‘On the final day of Katherine Kenton’s life, she dressed with particular care…’ ”

As old men slap clocks to make them stop.

My Miss Kathie whispers to me the details about how, soon, she would die.

Katherine Kenton continues reading as voice-over. At first we continue to hear the sounds of the park, the clip-clopping of horse-drawn carriages and the calliope music of the carousel, but these sounds gradually fade. At the same time we dissolve to show Miss Kathie and Webster Carlton Westward III lounging in her bed. In voice-over we still hear Miss Kathie’s voice reading, an audio bridge from the preceding scene: “ ‘… On the final day of Katherine Kenton’s life, she dressed with particular care.’ ”

Reading from the “lie-ography” written by Webb, the voice-over continues, “ ‘Our lovemaking felt more poignant. Seemingly for no special reason the muscles of her lovely, seasoned vagina clung to the meaty shaft of my love, milking the last passionate juices. A vacuum, like some haunting metaphor, had already formed between our wet, exhausted surfaces, our mouths, our skin and privates, requiring an extra force of effort for us to tear ourselves asunder.’ ”

Continuing to read from the final chapter of Love Slave, Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘Even our arms and legs were reluctant to unknot themselves, to untangle from the snarl of moistened bedclothes. We lay glued together by the adhesive qualities of our spent fluids. Our shared being pasted into becoming a single living organism. The copious secretions held us as a second skin while we embraced in the lingering ebb of our sensuous copulations.’ ”

Through heavy star filters, the boudoir scene appears hazy. Almost as if dense fog or mist fills the bedroom. Both lovers move in dreamy slow motion. After a beat, we see that the bedroom is Miss Kathie’s but the man and woman are younger, idealized versions of Webster and Katherine. Like dancers, they rise and groom-the woman brushing her hair and rolling stockings up her legs, the man popping his cuffs, inserting cuff links, and brushing lint from his shoulders-with the exaggerated, stylized gestures of Agnes de Mille or Martha Graham.

Miss Kathie’s voice, reading, says, “ ‘Only the beckoning prospect of dinner reservations at the Cub Room, a shared repast of lobster thermidor and steak Diane in the scintillating company of Omar Sharif, Alla Nazimova, Paul Robeson, Lillian Hellman and Noah Beery coaxed us to rise and dress for the exciting evening ahead.’ ”

As the voice-over continues, the lovers dress. They seem to orbit each other, continuing to fall into each other’s embrace, then straying apart.

“ ‘Donning a Brooks Brothers double-breasted tuxedo,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘I could envision an infinite number of such evenings stretching into our shared future of love. Leaning close to tie my white bow tie, Katherine said, “You have the largest, most gifted penis of any man alive.” I recall the moment distinctly.’ ”

The voice-over continues, “ ‘Inserting a white orchid in my buttonhole, Katherine said, “I would die without you plumbing my salty depths.”

“ ‘In retrospect, I think,’ ” Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘ “If only that were true.” ’ ”

As the idealized Katherine and Webster caress each other, the voice-over says, “ ‘I fastened the back of her enticing Valentino frock, offering my arm to guide her from the bedchamber, down the steps of her elegant residence to the busy street, where I might engage a passing conveyance.’ ”

The idealized lovers seem to float from the boudoir down the town house stairs, hand in hand, floating through the foyer and down the porch steps to the sidewalk. In contrast to their languid movements, the street traffic rushes past with ominous roars, motortrucks and taxicabs, blurred with speed.

“ ‘As the stream of vehicles whizzed past us,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘almost invisible in their high velocity, I sank to one knee on the curb.’ ”

The idealized Webb kneels before the idealized Miss Kathie.

“ ‘Taking her limpid hand, I ask if she-the most glorious queen of theatrical culture-would consider wedding me, a mere presumptuous mortal…’ ”

In soft-focus slow motion, the idealized Webb lifts the hand of the idealized Katherine until the long, smooth fingers meet his pursed lips. He plants a kiss on the fingers, the back of the hand, the palm.

The voice-over continues, “ ‘At that moment of our tremendous happiness, my beloved Katherine-the only great ideal of the twentieth century-stumbled from the treacherous curbstone…’ ”

In real time, we see the flash of a chrome bumper and radiator grille. We hear brakes screech and tires squeal. A scream rings out.

“ ‘… falling,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘directly into the deadly path of a speeding omnibus.’ ”

Still reading from Love Slave, Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘The end.’ ”

Bark, moo, meow… Final curtain.

Growl, roar, oink… Fade to black.

Webb planned to kill her on this night. Tonight they had dinner reservations at the Cub Room with Alla Nazimova, Omar Sharif, Paul Robeson and… Lillian Hellman. Their plans had been to spend the afternoon together, dress late and catch a taxicab to the restaurant. Miss Kathie hands me the manuscript, telling me to sneak it back to its hiding place in Webb’s suitcase, under his shirts, but on top of his shoes, tucked tight into one corner.

This scene begins with a very long shot of the chess pavilion atop the Kinderberg rocks. From this distance my Miss Kathie and I appear as two minute figures wandering down a path from the pavilion, dwarfed by the background of skyscrapers, lost in the huge landscape, but our voices sounding distinct and clear. Around us, a hush has fallen over the din and sirens of the city.

Walking in the distance, the pair of us are distinct as the only two figures that remain together. Always in the center of this very, very long shot. Around us, single, distant figures jog, skate, stroll, but Miss Kathie and I move across the visual field at the same even pace, two dots traveling in a straight line as if we were a single entity, walking in identical slow strides. In tandem. Our steps the same length.