Amby pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “I want to tell you about that.”
Joe said: “Don’t bother.”
Amby’s eyes studied the boy obliquely. The handkerchief touched the microscopic mustache delicately, and his voice was soft. “I wouldn’t swallow everything I’m told, Joe; Vic’s picked lemons before. Some day when you find Sonny Baker in your hair, don’t come weeping and wailing to me. You’ve asked for it.”
The next elevator carried down a well-pleased-with-himself Joe Carlin. Amby Carver now knew he couldn’t be pushed around. Let the agent bring Sonny Baker back—Sonny was no longer anything to worry about. When you were good enough for sneering, insulting Wylie, you were good enough for any of them.
The tide of show people through Royal Street had thinned. Old Pop Bartell swung past, very straight and very gallant. With FFOM not concerning itself with the casting problem until to-morrow, the entrance to the FFOM Building was almost deserted. Joe went on to FWWO. He had, he reflected, been inside this station only once, the day Amby had arranged for him to audition. It had been his worst audition.
FWWO, one of the smaller stations of the city, didn’t have the crowd that had besieged FKIP. Joe found three show people in the office of Gillis, the casting director. They drifted out.
“Hello,” said Gillis. “Glad to see you again. Your name is—let me see now—Lawton?”
“Carlin,” said Joe. “Joe Carlin.”
“Carlin. Of course. What was your last show with us, Carlin?”
Joe explained that he had auditioned last June.