“Oh, I’m not a dancer, really,” Randy said. “I’m a hoofer. You know, tap and soft-shoe and a couple of gestures and turns that make the customers think I studied ballet. Mostly I dance just enough to carry off the singing, so that the act will have a little movement. I hate singers who just stand there and croon.”
“Where did you study singing?” Peggy asked.
“Oh, I’m not really a singer,” Randy said with a grin. “I just sing enough so the customers won’t notice that I’m not dancing well!”
“I’d love to see you work and make up my own mind,” Peggy said. “When can I get a chance?”
With an expression halfway between a smile and a frown, Randy answered, “I hope that you never get a chance. I’m not working now, and with any luck, I won’t have to do night-club work again. I’ve always wanted to write for the theater, and I believe in the play we’re doing now, so I’ve turned down all engagements until we get it produced. It may be the break I need. I’ve been able to put away enough to live on for a while, so I don’t need the night clubs. If the play flops, though, I can always go back to them, much as I don’t want to.”
“In that case, I hope I never get a chance to see your act, too,” Peggy said.
“A sensible wish!” Mal put in. “I’ve seen it, and I tell you, as a singer and dancer, Red Brewster—as he bills himself—is a darn good playwright. I won’t say it’s the worst night-club act in New York, but—”
“I know,” Randy interrupted cheerfully, “but it is.”
“But he makes a living at it,” Amy protested, taking the lighthearted insults a little too seriously.
“Just proves an old contention of mine,” Mal answered airily, “that the public has a lot more money than taste!”