Amby pleaded. “Listen, Joe. Your curtain’s only going up. Some day you crash the big time. Then you wear diamonds. You stick with a good agent, and he gets you big time. I’ve told you about John Royal of N.B.C. A great friend of mine. A pal. When I take you to New York, Royal listens.”
“Take me to New York now.”
Amby gulped coffee. “Sure Royal listens. Because he’s a great pal of mine he might give you a low-down. He’d say: ‘Joe, you’re not ready; you need more experience.’ So what? You’d come back here where you could get experience. That’s why small-time radio pays in experience; you can’t get it any place else. Didn’t Colonel Stoopnagle come out of an upstate New York station? Ambrose Carver’s your agent, Joe, and Ambrose Carver’s telling you.”
“Suppose I go on a five-a-week commercial?”
“Now you’re talking something else. That means a sponsor. Five dollars a show.”
Joe’s finger drew a slow diagram on the table. “Sonny Baker was on a commercial five-a-week. He also had two once-a-week commercials. How much did he earn?”
“Maybe thirty-five dollars.”
Joe stood up. “And he’s what the Journal calls a local radio star. Lucille Borden and Archie Munn have been around a long time. They worked to-day for nothing. If that’s radio, you can have it.”
Amby’s hand went up to the foppish little mustache. “You’re not quitting, Joe,” he said softly. “To-day you cut your first platter. You heard the playback. You’re not going to forget listening to your own voice. Come back to FKIP.”
“What for?”