Vic Wylie had sent for him at last!
“Will you phone back and tell them I’ll be there within an hour?” He’d been waiting for more than a week. Let Vic wait an hour.
He ate a sandwich at Munson’s, killed time, and finally walked into Vic Wylie Productions.
“I expect Mr. Wylie back in a few minutes,” Miss Robb said.
So he hadn’t kept Wylie waiting. The inner room still held memories. Memories softened him. Why wrap himself in cold aloofness and let Vic see he was sore? Vic would tell him to come back to the cast for the Monday show and he’d go on from there, forgetting how tough the last week had been, giving everything he had.
Wylie arrived without the usual accompaniment of fury and bustle. He closed the door and placed the brief-case upon the desk with what, for him, might pass for gentleness. He went around to his chair and, for a moment, seemed to give himself up to contemplation of some thought far away. He was gaunt and disheveled, apparently a little more tired than usual. He hadn’t shaved.
“Kid,” he said heavily, “I’m not up to the light touch. I can’t spar around with this. I’ve got to give it to you fast and quick. You’re out.”
The blood drained out of Joe. Never again to play Dick Davis.... He found his voice. “I’m out for good?”
“That’s the ticket.”
“Why?” This was some sort of wild dream or some mad joke. Only—Vic didn’t joke about things like this.