Pity lay in Lucille Borden’s eyes. “Don’t you understand?”
“What’s there to understand? Somebody’s promised him a part. Why do they keep him hanging on a hook? It’s cruel.”
“Pop doesn’t expect a call,” Lucille said. “Walking into a producer’s office and asking about a call gives Pop a chance to keep up a front. He can pretend he’s not a washed-up has-been.”
Joe was shocked. “You mean—”
Archie Munn tapped a fork against the table. “It’s tough, Joe, but it’s show business. Pop’s an old timer. He’s been through it all—medicine shows, street carnivals, burlesque, road companies. After forty years of it, one-night stands took it out of him. He turned to radio; after all, show business is all he knows. Vic’s been able to throw him a few bits.”
Joe was still shocked. “You mean he doesn’t get much work?”
“You’ve heard his voice. How many radio shows have old-man parts?”
Compassion tied a knot in Joe’s throat. To come to this after forty years must be bitterly hard. But were they sure about the forty years? It didn’t seem possible. There wasn’t a gray hair on Pop’s head.
Stella Joyce seemed to read his thoughts. “You’ve heard of hair dye, Joe? If Pop were in a bread line, his shoulders would be back. It’s all front.”
“Everything’s front in show business,” Archie Munn said roughly.