“Something else will turn up, Pop,” Tony said. “As a matter of fact, we have a platter—”
Joe knew there wasn’t a platter in the cabinet that had a possible old-man part.
“Tut, tut, Tony. Something has turned up.” Pop was actually twinkling. “As a matter of fact, this relieves me from a distressing predicament. I was going to ask you for my release if you could let me go without putting the show in a hole. I have friends in Cleveland and there’s a part coming up. To be exact, it has come up. A character part that’s a lead. Something of a tear-jerker—Sunset of Life. The part’s waiting for me. How soon could I be released?”
“Friday week.”
“This is providential, Tony. They’d like me to be at Cleveland Saturday week. Actually providential.”
Joe’s heart lifted. This couldn’t be front. This was too real, too sincere.
Tony had his hat and coat; Tony was booming again. “Then everything’s jake, Pop? I’m auditioning a specialty for the Sunday night variety. If I’m not back by five, Joe, run along. I’ll be seeing you, Pop.” Tony was gone.
The lift in Joe’s heart became song. “Mr. Bartell, that’s swell.”
“All but the ride to Cleveland,” Pop Bartell said whimsically. “I had ten years of one-night stands, Joe; I could live happily without ever seeing a railroad. In case I don’t get over this way again”—his hand made a sweep—“au revoir, Joe, and lots of good luck.”
“Send me your notices,” Joe said eagerly.