“There’s not much nourishment in a roll and a cup of coffee,” Archie Munn said bitterly.
The sun touched one side of Royal Street, and the Saturday shopping crowds moved leisurely. Joe, his head bent, moved numbly with the crowd. Stanch, warm-hearted Lucille Borden! She hadn’t worked since June, and the night club had gone into bankruptcy, and the Years of Danger show hadn’t gone back on the air. He bit his lips.
Lights burned behind the glass door that said: VIC WYLIE PRODUCTIONS. The producer, in the inner room, was at the telephone.
“Miss Robb’s on her way over with an envelop, Arch. Take Lu to a restaurant. Give her the envelop and send her home in a cab.”
Joe was motionless, silent. Wylie put down the telephone.
“Arch tells me you were there, kid.”
“Yes.”
The producer sat with his head in his hands. “She’s a type,” he said harshly in the silence. “She hasn’t much range. But give her a type part she fits and they don’t come any better. You hear that, kid? They don’t come any better. Look what happens to her. You think that’s rare? You don’t know the stories small-time radio can tell. Why do they stay in it? Oh, I know. The big time. It’s a dream; it’s like a drug. Not one in a thousand ever cracks the big time. I’m sick of watching them trying to live on crumbs. I’m fed up. But I can’t get out. My father and my mother were show people; I was born in a theatrical boarding-house. I toddled across a stage when I was five years old.” His head snapped up fiercely. “What else do I know?”
The telephone rang.
Joe stumbled out. He bumped into a chair and pushed it aside. His throat was choked. He was waiting at the elevators when Wylie’s entrance door swung open.