“Does Amby know how to pick them? I’m asking you if I’m a picker.”
“You certainly are.” If Amby wanted to be friends, why not? Joe was in a mood to give friendship to all the world.
“Didn’t I predict you’d go up in lights?” The Carver cane gave a jaunty wriggle. “Don’t forget to tell the Everts-Hall Agency I have a ten per cent piece of you, Joe.”
Joe was deflated. Amby’s wait had been a money wait; Amby might really think he’d laid an egg. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Vic, and Vic said he was tops.
An hour and a half later this same Vic Wylie was savagely, brutally rehearsing the next day’s show and wailing his torment.
“Studio B to-morrow morning for the dress,” he told them finally and dropped into a chair. “You need three more hours of rehearsal. You’re not ready for a dress. What can I do about it? I can’t give you all my time; I have two other shows.” His eyes closed.
“Did you eat?” Stella asked.
The producer’s eyes opened vaguely. “Did I? I forget. Don’t bother me.”
Joe went out and brought back coffee and sandwiches.
“Leave them there,” said Wylie. He had whipped himself back to work and was reading script.