Joe was no longer discouraged. “An audition,” he called back over his shoulder.
The bell rang again.
This time Lucille Borden’s voice sang over the telephone. “Joe, I’m rushed; only a minute. N.B.C.’s called me to New York for a committee audition. Wish me luck.”
Joe didn’t know what a committee audition was. But whatever it was, it was good. The people Wylie picked were beginning to get the breaks. They were going places.
The morning brought one of those dark days of lowering skies and gray gloom. Pop Bartell was already at the Everts-Hall Agency, his one shirt spotless.
“Hear about Lucille?” Tony Vaux boomed. “The first local artist to get a committee audition in three years.”
“What is a committee audition?” Joe asked.
“The real thing, Joe. One producer hears your first reading at N.B.C. If he turns you down, you can’t go back for a year. If he passes you along, you’re called before a committee of five producers. Usually you’re called back in a week. Somebody must have slipped on Lu.”
Joe thought with envy: “Five producers; big time.” His heart lifted. Good luck, Lucille!
Ceiling lights burned in the room, and the misty day, dark and damp, pressed against the windows. Pop was as slim and straight, as sprightly and spry, as a stripling. Joe scanned the Bush-League Larry script: