“I can’t give a good show Monday, Tony. You know what I can do when my voice is right.”
Tony scratched his chin. “The He people don’t.”
“But they won’t go on the air for another couple of weeks.”
Tony continued to scratch his chin. “When a sponsor buys a show, he buys what he hears. You can’t sell him a package by telling how good it will be in two weeks. Why isn’t it good to-day?”
“What time Monday, Tony? I might—” There was no need to finish. Tony seemed to have withdrawn into some further reserve.
“I’ll give you a call, Joe.”
Joe thought: “You may have to.” When Wylie told a man he was tops, he was tops. Where would they find another juvenile who was tops?
This time the knob on the door of Vic Wylie Productions turned. Miss Robb’s desk was closed. The inner office door was open and Joe heard voices. With a shock of amazement he recognized his own voice, Stella’s voice, Bert Farr’s voice. Recognition widened and amazement grew. This was one of the early scripts of the Sue Davis show. What—? He walked to the door.
Wylie, his chin sunk in the palm of one hand, glumly listened to the playing of a platter. Two minutes, three minutes passed and the script reached its curtain. The shut-off clicked and the platter ceased to revolve.
“Kid, what did the doctor say?” Wylie had not moved.