“I thought you gave these to Vic,” Joe said.
“Carbons. Reading copies. Everybody reads—agency, sponsor, producer. Sometimes I think they call in a traffic cop. Anybody may throw a red flag and then you may have to rewrite. Munson never used to bother with script, but now he has a public relations radio counsel—Mr. Carver. When Vic goes into rehearsal, he’s using script with a production O.K.”
“Do you do much rewriting?” Joe was thinking of a Thomas Carlin Presents script that would never be rewritten.
“Some,” Curt said dryly.
Ten minutes later the telephone rang. “Mr. Carver,” said the girl outside.
Amby had blossomed. His cane gleamed with a brilliant polish and his spidery mustache had taken on the elegance of waxed, pin-point tips. “Joe, my boy, congratulations.” The little man was bursting with effusive cordiality, but his eyes were shifty and apprehensive. “I’m delighted. Absolutely. I had the word a week ago you were slated to come in here with Tony.”
Joe took that with an inward hoot.
“Tony and I are great pals, Joe—like that.” Two of Amby’s fingers hooked together to indicate a close relationship. “Did you get a boost? Amby Carver’s telling you you did. Didn’t I bring you into radio? Didn’t I get you your start? I went down the line, all the way.”
Amby was an open book. A future producer might some day prove valuable. But Joe had been given his cue. In this shop you smoothed everybody.
“Thanks, Amby. That was nice of you.”