Another elevator carried them down. FKIP was now broadcasting baseball from Chicago. The speaker in the car said: “Right over the dish, but too low. Ball two.” The lobby speaker roared. “There it goes—goes—and it’s gone. Mac hits into the right field bleachers—” They passed out into Royal Street.
“Amby,” said Joe, “are you Sonny’s agent?”
“Who?”
“Sonny Baker?”
Amby’s laugh rolled out, mellow and deep. “Joe, that’s funny. A great friend of mine, Sonny, but you can’t stay in this agency racket on friendship. You got to have winners. Also-rans don’t pay off.”
“But isn’t Sonny—”
“A winner? Momentarily, Joe; momentarily. He had no competition last season. He happened to be the only available juvenile who had anything on the ball. That happens in radio sometimes, when you get away from the big broadcasting centers like New York, Chicago, and Hollywood. The parts were there and he fell into them. One was a good, fat part. Next season when he auditions for a show, he’ll find somebody named Joe Carlin reading script.”
“The fat part,” said Joe, “was that in City Boy.”
“That was it.”
“You—” Joe had to wait a moment. “You think I’ll have a chance for some parts?”