“He didn’t say so.”
“You don’t know radio. They never say so. If they like you, some day you may get a call. If they think you smell, you’re never sent for. Get the picture?”
Joe didn’t.
“Suppose you come in for an audition and Dennis says you’re colossal.” Amby Carver was brisk. “Your father and mother tell the neighbors—FKIP says you’re colossal. Down the street some family thinks its daughter is colossal. They send her in, and all Dennis gives her is a ‘Thank you.’ So what? Anybody can write that answer; that’s no Information, Please. The girl’s mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and nieces all gang up on FKIP. Now do you see why everybody gets a ‘Thank you’ and no more? Dennis steps softly and keeps FKIP out of trouble. That’s radio.”
The memory of heartache in Studio K was gone from Joe, and the warmth in him grew and swelled. “Are you with FKIP?”
“Well—not officially.” Amby Carver’s voice took on a vast tolerance. “Why tie up with even a 50,000-watt station? Why cramp myself? I’m a discoverer. Actors, singers, bands, script-writers, gag men—that’s my field. Talent. I find it and market it. We all make money.”
Joe caught it. “An agent?”
One of the man’s hands made a flourish. “Mr. Carlin—”
The boy said: “My name’s Joe.”
“Mine’s Amby. Let’s go where we’ll be more comfortable and talk business.”