Wylie’s voice snapped. “Do you know me, Tony, or don’t you? He can’t act. He hams every line. I wouldn’t take him if diamonds went with him. If he had a voice, I might make that voice give something. He’s a blank. He has nothing.”
The telephone sputtered.
“I know your agency’s in a spot, Tony. I know Munson’s one of your best accounts. Blame Carver. He sold Mrs. Munson the idea her nephew’s a knockout. What’ll you tell her? Pass the buck to me. Tell her I said to ship him back to Baltimore.”
The producer put down the telephone and was somber and silent.
Joe’s heart pounded. “Vic.”
Vic Wylie brooded. “Don’t get any wrong ideas, kid. Don’t think I’m handing you something because I like you. I wouldn’t be in show business long if I ran a Vic Wylie Friendship Club. I don’t like Carver any more than I like a polecat, but if this ham he sent me had dynamite on the ball, you’d be out.”
Joe’s hands, hidden in his pockets, gripped the lining.
“I’ve cast this show, kid. For my money, it stays cast. You’re playing the Dick Davis part.”
Lucille and Archie Munn took the breaks in their stride—good breaks or bad breaks. Joe tried hard to be nonchalant. “I wasn’t sure, Vic.”
Wylie still brooded. “Don’t try to front me, kid; I’ve seen too much of it. When you deal with me, deal clean.”