"Dear Mr. Donnelly...."
The Producer sighed again. He reached into his pill drawer and took an ulcer capsule. Then he went back to his correspondence.
When the man entered his office, he didn't even glance up.
"That you, Frick?" he said, eyes on a letter of praise from a Yonkers housewife.
When the man didn't answer, the Producer looked up.
He gasped. "Hey!" he said.
"Shut up!" the man said harshly. He moved swiftly towards the desk and lifted a bronze ashtray in a lightning motion. He raised the object threateningly over the fat man's head.
"Keep quiet!" he said.
"What is this?" The Producer's voice quavered. Then he recognized the face. "You're the one from the Show—"
The man blinked. His face relaxed, and he lowered the impromptu weapon. "I—I'm sorry...."