“No, sir.” But Joe did have plans. He’d lay siege to casting directors’ offices until he found a part. Did Vic think radio began and ended in the office of Vic Wylie Productions? When Vic wanted him again, Vic could send for him.
Next day Joe Carlin once more started to make the rounds.
He told himself: “I’ve been in a successful show; they know me now.” But making the rounds didn’t have the hopeful outlook it had worn last night. The bread-and-butter hunt depressed him. He had been all through this before; he was back where he had started.
Now that he was at liberty, no actor, beginning to look a little seedy, led him into a quiet nook to negotiate a small loan. None of the show people mentioned the Sue Davis show. Nothing else had changed. There was the same sharp anxiety that showed itself only in off-guard moments, the same glib talk of fat parts about to turn up, the same business of having a bright gag ready for casting directors, the same sham front that fooled nobody. Lucille Borden had carried a front while living on coffee and rolls. But Stella Joyce had said there was a limit.
He made the rounds thinking about Archie Munn, who had at last reached his limit. He made the rounds from FKIP to FFOM to FWWO. Casting directors were brightly glib. “Hello, Carlin; how are you?” or “Hello, Joe; how’s the boy?” Nothing more; nothing about parts. Casting directors’ routine hadn’t changed, either. You might make the rounds for weeks and for months. Playing a part in a successful show was something that had happened yesterday. Hadn’t Archie played in successful shows?
Friday added another to the growing list of fruitless days. Gossip was a thread running through the stations. Practically all the September programs were renewing their radio time, and that meant few new shows and few new parts. Joe, coming out of FFOM, met Pop Bartell. Pop was a gilded lily—new suit, new coat, new hat, new shoes. Show business always dresses when it is in the money.
“Joe,” the veteran announced impressively, “I owe you two dollars, and an apology for not having discharged my obligation earlier, and a round of dinners.” He made the paying of the debt a ceremony. “Are you following Lucille Borden? Join me in a cup of coffee. I am familiar with a coffee house that does very little business at this hour. We can pick it up there. I highly recommend the cheese cake.”
The raftered ceiling of the coffee house was dark and smoky, the paneled walls were lined with sporting prints, the tables were bare wood, scarred and grooved. In the dim light thrown by the Dutch lamps Pop Bartell seemed to have torn ten years from what the world calls age.
Lucille’s performance held Joe spellbound.
“Brilliant,” Pop said softly, “truly brilliant. A remarkable characterization. I salute her. Have you heard my show, Joe?”