“Who gave you that story? Carver? Is he your agent?”
“Yes.”
“Written contract or verbal agreement?”
“My father signed a contract.”
“All nicely poisoned with legality.” Wylie’s voice was acid. He swung around in the chair and sat with his back to the room, nervously tense. Abruptly he swung back as though jerked by invisible wires. “I’m giving you a chance at something that may never happen. Munson’s store wants a serial. That’s no secret; everybody in radio knows it.”
Wonder was sharp in Joe. Was that why Amby had known, because everybody else had known?
The producer went on in a nervous rush of words. “The Everts-Hall Agency has the Munson account. They haven’t been able to come up with a show Munson’ll O.K. We’re giving it a whirl. We have our own ideas about the kind of show Munson should have. A heroine for the lead because a department store sells mostly to women. A widow fighting to give her son a chance in life. Sue Davis Against the World. You’re Dick Davis, the son. You’re fifteen. You want to get out of school and help.” Wylie tossed a script across the desk. “Page four. Read me the speech beginning ‘Mother, don’t shake your head....’” The chair swung again and the man’s back was to the room.
Joe Carlin found the place. Joe Carlin, who was becoming a veteran, who had had three station auditions, who had rehearsed a show and cut a platter for FKIP began to read:
Dick: Mother, don’t shake—
The chair spun around. “Mo—ther!” The voice that came out of the chair had a mocking, infantile bleat. Startled, Joe stopped.