But to Joe Carlin there was nothing dismaying about the McCoy Building. The elevator creaked and groaned and finally reached the sixth floor. Down at the end of a drab hall pale sunlight came in through a smudged window, and motes of dust danced in the pallid shaft of light. To Joe, the dust was a thrilling reminder of the dusty wings, and the dusty drops and props of the stage of Northend High. Even the mustiness of the hall brought memories of the damp brick wall at the rear of the high school stage. Joe thought in fascination: “It smells the way an agent’s building ought to smell—a stagey, theater smell.”
He tried the door of 615. The door was locked. He banged on the panels.
An elevator boy in shirt sleeves left his car and came to the bend in the hall. “You looking for Carver? He telephoned downstairs to wait.”
Joe waited. The wait dragged. He paced the dusty hall, forgot himself and leaned against the dusty wall, tried to see out through the dusty window. At noon the elevator door complained harshly and Amby Carver arrived.
“Sorry, Joe. Got tied up. Waiting long?”
“Two hours.”
“Took me more than an hour to get John Royal long distance. You know—Royal, N.B.C., New York. National Broadcasting. Great friend of mine. Interested in one of my singers.” A key turned in the lock of 615.
“What singer?” Joe asked eagerly.
Amby shook his head. “No can do, Joe. My pet superstition. Had a baritone last year; thought I had him in the bag for five hundred dollars a week; talked about it. Contract fell right out of the bag. Don’t mention names anymore until a contract’s signed.”
The office was furnished with the bare essentials—desk, typewriter, chairs, and a filing cabinet that looked second-hand. But what caught and held Joe’s attention raptly was a microphone in a corner, probably discarded by some studio.