“You mean money? You expect to get paid some money?” Amby’s voice thinned to a squeak. “Where do you think you are, New York?”
Joe thought: “And I boasted to Dad....” Something was wrong. He saw his agent staring at him, gaping at him, and his heart drained. He was cold again, and this wasn’t the kind of strange chill that brought a thrill in its wake.
“Listen, Amby.” Could this be the same voice that had come off a platter? “I worked three days on that show. Yesterday I started at ten and got through at seven last night. Three hours yesterday afternoon in one stretch. For what?”
“If you mean money—”
“Don’t I get anything?”
“Sure, sure. Give me a chance to tell you. You, Lucille, Archie—you all get something.”
“What?”
Ambrose Carver said: “You get experience.”
CHAPTER 4
“The name,” Joe Carlin said bitterly, “is sucker. My name, Amby.” He knew now that he should have asked what FKIP paid for cutting a platter. “I shouldn’t have taken fifty dollars for granted.”