“That doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m not dealing with agents on this show.”
“You’ll deal with me,” Amby sputtered.
“Out of the way.” Wylie moved the microphone. It didn’t need moving, but moving it gave him the opportunity to brush the agent aside.
Amby was pushed back on his heels. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t hound Sonny. He’s an artist. He’s too big to be told he’s a Vic Wylie rubber stamp. He’s no high-school—”
Wylie swung about with a snarl. “Get out.”
The impact of the two words jolted the little agent as though they were blows.
The scrap of ridiculous mustache quivered. “Now, now, Vic—”
“Get out. If I have to tell you again, you’ll take your star out with you.”
Amby Carver cleared his throat. Whatever he meant to say died under the producer’s glare.
“This is no time to upset the cast,” Amby said pompously. “I’ll take this up with you later.” The usually jaunty cane trailed as he made his exit with an attempt at frigid dignity. Sonny languidly polished the nails of one hand against the palm of the other and hummed.