Tony boomed genially. “Hello, Amby. Boy, how do you think of them? Good? It’s a natural. How do you think of them? You ought to be writing script. You come up with ideas in each hand and every idea’s a honey. But look, Amby. Isn’t this too good to waste? I mean, if it’s used now— Sure; that’s the point. We should build up to it; set the stage for a big smash. You were thinking of that? You’re absolutely right, Amby. Your idea, then, is to put it on ice for two or three weeks? Great. Couldn’t be better.” Tony put down the telephone.
“What do we do when he starts looking for typhoid?” Joe asked.
“In three weeks,” Tony chuckled, “he’ll think up a new brilliant and forget this one.”
The account executive came back seeking data for an Everts-Hall client, a soap manufacturer, who might make a cautious test of radio advertising in this area. “He doesn’t want to spend any too much, Tony.”
“They never do,” Tony boomed and brought out platters. Joe listened to show after show until it seemed that the world must be full of unsold radio shows.
“How about a spot?” the executive asked.
“FKIP’s open at 4:15.” Tony brought out the Crosley ratings and there was absorbed discussion of the competition the 4:15 spot faced and of the ratings of the competing shows.
Joe ate a hurried sandwich at a drug-store counter. This was the part of show business hidden from the public. Show business behind the scenes, the inside stuff.
An actress and an actor named Mander were in the office with Tony when Joe got back. Mander told a story and told it well. Tony threw back his head and roared.
“Folks,” he said, “here’s where I move along.” The actress went out with him. Their voices drifted back from the corridor.