"The ambassador's son."
"Le Jazz Hot? Goggle-eyed guy?"
"That's him. He owns a record company. They make race records mostly, but he took a chance on 'We're The Most' and it.... You should have heard them rave last night."
"This is sensational, Sam. Man, this is the Most!"
"It's an outrage," Cooper said. He was angry and perplexed.
"What's burning you?"
"I spend years writing tunes. I drudge like a sincere-type writer. A veritable Irving Beethoven. And what happens? Nothing. But a lousy little novelty I work up in half an hour during rehearsal.... It's a trappisty."
"Lay there and bleed, long-hair. This is great. Can I shake the hand that shook the hand of Irving B. Cooper, author of 'We're The Most' and countless other hit tunes which their names are legion?" Lennox pumped Cooper's limp hand and dragged him into the living room. "This needs a drink. We'll all have a drink, by God. Bring out the skunk."
He filled glasses and thrust one into Cooper's fist. "We'll plug it on the show. Maybe we can get Mason to use it for his theme. Tell me about last night. Why the hell didn't you say Le Jazz Hot was your publish—" Lennox did a take. "Hold the phone. You mean you were supposed to meet him at Alice McVeagh's party? It was a business date?"
"Well...." Cooper began.