Next day was Bush-League Larry day. With Tony producing the show at FFOM, Joe again had to meet the gay crowd alone. He tried to rise to it, to meet them smile for smile. He knew some stories, too. But Tony wasn’t there, and the fever of anxiety made them restless. They didn’t stay long. “Tell Tony I was in, Joe, will you?” Joe had a stock reply. “Too bad you can’t wait.” He knew they wouldn’t wait and spend unprofitable time with him. He wasn’t Tony; he wasn’t casting this show. He saw the last of the crowd leave and felt tired, weary.
“All gone?” Tony boomed on his arrival. “I thought they’d still be waiting. What a day! Thank God we don’t have a new show come up every month.” He took a cigar from his pocket and studied the boy. “You don’t like it, Joe, do you?”
“No,” said Joe.
Tony’s voice had changed. “You get used to it. It’s the system; it’s show business. Will they feel any better if we slam the door on them and lock them out? Anyway, we’re not guilty of sustaining. When we put on a show we have a paid cast.”
Joe said slowly: “How long before you’re used to it?”
“I don’t know,” Tony said in that same changed voice. “I’ve been here only five years.” He went to his desk, wrote for a while, and swung around with a paper in his hands. “Last year I laid out more than four hundred dollars in small loans. Most of it’s gone for good. How are they going to pay back? Where are they going to get it?” He held out the paper. “Call these people in, Joe. We’ll start to audition.”
Joe, sitting at a telephone, went down the list of calls. Mander at ten to-morrow morning, somebody else at eleven, somebody else at noon. The list ran two and one-half days. Fourteen actors and actresses coming in—and only four parts. Waiting for a number to answer, he thought of Tony with a stir of emotion. This Tony who boomed and glad-handed wasn’t the real Tony at all. The boom and the glad hand were front. The real Tony was as soft-hearted as brooding Vic Wylie.
Mander arrived next morning at ten sharp. Joe thought: “He’s dressed for the part.” Mander wore a shriekingly loud tie, an exaggerated high collar, and shoes glaringly yellow. Did this trick of dressing like a small-town wise guy add anything to a reading? Joe wondered.
“Greetings,” Tony boomed. “Waiting for you.”
“Considering what you’re going to get,” Mander popped off, “you should have stayed awake all night.” He looked toward Joe and made a blithe motion with one hand. “A little music, Professor.”