“I’m fed up, done, finished.” The girl’s voice was hard and clipped, tough. She laughed. “Satisfied now? What’s your name—or are you old enough to have a name?”
“Joe Carlin.”
“You’re nice, youngster. An unspoiled kid. That’s a City Boy script you’re reading. I was in that show. I was shot. I’m always getting shot, or stabbed, or smashed up by automobiles. I end up every show on a stretcher. Sometimes I think the script writers are trying to kill me off. You were trying to read the part the way Sonny Baker read it.”
Joe was flattered. “Was I that good?”
“You were laying an egg. A pretty bad egg. Never imitate anybody. Be yourself. Give the part Joe Carlin. Well, don’t forget to tell Carver. The tramp may find me a part.”
She was gone, and Joe continued to stare at the door through which she had passed. A real actress, the first one he’d met face to face. Lucille Borden. Why, she wasn’t tough and hard at all. Were all actors and actresses so quick and generous with help and advice? A glow, a pride that he was an actor, too, ran through him. He turned to the mike and read again. He tried to give the part Joe Carlin, but all the days he had listened to Sonny Baker got in the way.
“Lucille Borden was here,” he told Amby when the agent finally returned.
Amby tried to hide his surprise. “Lucille? See how they’re starting to run to me, Joe? What did she want?”
“A part if one turns up.”
Ambrose Carver rubbed his hands briskly. “A great girl, Lucille. One of my best friends. She thinks I’m aces.”