Lucille’s performance held Joe spellbound. “Brilliant,” Pop said softly. “I salute her.”
Joe flushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bartell.”
“I understand.” A hand patted the boy’s shoulder. “From the experiences of thirty years of wisdom, permit me to cull you wisdom. When the bad breaks come, never lose your front.”
“You never lost yours, Mr. Bartell.”
“Had I lost that, Joe,” the old man said gravely, “I’d have lost everything. Are you remaining for the Sue Davis show?” Slim and straight, he strode toward the street. And in that moment Joe Carlin knew why front, for all its hollowness and sham, meant so much to show people. It was the hard stiffener when an actor’s precarious world was shaken; it was sanctuary and armor.
He ordered more coffee. “Will you please get FKIP?”
To-day the Sue Davis show rose to tense drama. The money Dick Davis brought home after selling his stamps was almost gone; without warning, tight-fisted Israel Tice offered $500 more for the widow’s property than he had offered before. Sue was weary of fighting a battle that seemed endless. Why not sell, she asked her son, and be done with heartache? Why not find peace? Dick wanted to hold the property, but he saw how the struggle was aging his mother and consented. She was to agree to the terms when Tice stopped in that evening. Dick, who did not want to be present at the meeting, went off into the mountains to search for wild grapes. He came upon a picnic party; departing, they left behind a newspaper published that morning at the State capital. The paper carried the story of a new super-highway and a map. The map showed the highway following the line of the unimproved county road that passed his mother’s home. Their dream of a tea-room would be realized. But Tice must have seen the story that morning; Tice knew what the mountain might not know until to-morrow. Dick had to get home before his mother signed the agreement to sell. Running down the mountainside, crashing through thickets, he reached the house as she lifted the pen. He stuck the newspaper under Israel Tice’s nose, and a thwarted skinflint departed.
It was hokum. Joe knew it for hokum. But it was good hokum, and it had built up a terrific suspense. The kind of suspense a Curt Lake script could give a show. Or had it been Sonny Baker’s acting?
Next day Joe walked Royal Street. Saturday was a poor day to make the rounds, but when you were desperate for a part every day counted. FKIP’s John Dennis sat in a deserted casting office staring at the ceiling.