Joe gripped the books. He had read about agents and the part they played in show business. No actor could get any place without an agent; but no agent would bother with an actor unless the actor was good. His head swam.
They rode down to the lights and the ebb and flow of visitors, to the cheerfulness and blue leather of the fourth floor. The receptionist looked questioningly at Joe; he put his hands together and shook them. The blonde seemed pleased. The loudspeaker gave them Lucille Borden tough-girling through another episode of Years of Danger.
Amby Carver led the way to one of the blue window-seats. “You’re eighteen, Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“How would you like me to handle you?”
Joe said a fervent: “What could be sweeter?”
“Not much,” Amby admitted without hesitation. “When Ambrose Carver says he’s putting a man over, that man’s over. You’re going to be a headliner, Joe; I’ll have your name in lights. I’ll have you playing coast-to-coast chain shows. I’ll—Is your father home nights?”
“Except Wednesdays. That’s bowling night.”
“I’ll drop in and see him to-night. About eight.”
Joe couldn’t figure that. “What for?”