Joe had forgotten Sonny. As suddenly as suspicion had been born, suspicion died. And he’d practically accused Wylie. His throat grew tight. Oh, he’d forgotten so much! Amby Carver claiming to be a pal of all the great and the near-great of radio; shyster Amby Carver putting him through the burlesque of meaningless auditions. His mother’s voice, usually soft and low, saying with acid contempt: “That Carver person.” Lucille Borden bluntly calling Amby a tramp. “Vic,” Joe said humbly, “try to forgive me.” It was the first time he had called the producer by his given name. “Kid,” said Vic Wylie, “there’s nothing to forgive. You were backed into a corner and you threw a punch. You threw it wild. You don’t know show business and you don’t know the Carvers. Show business is lousy with agents. The good ones are worth all you pay them; the chiselers are rats. You found Carver out and you gave him the ice. You gave him the ice before an audience the day you let him walk out of here alone. He’s vain and he’s cheap. You wounded his vanity, and that’s the worst thing you can do to a heel like Carver. He’ll never forgive you. He’ll toss a commission over his shoulder any day for a chance to cut your throat.” The telephone rang. “Hello. Who? Oh, hello, Tony.” Vic Wylie squared around to the desk and chuckled with acid humor. “So Mrs. Munson’s been calling you. Isn’t that nice? Yes, he’s been here; here and gone. Of course I heard him read. In fact, Tony, I let him read until he ran down. How was he? A nice little boy who used to be brought into the parlor to speak pieces for the company. He wanted to know if he didn’t remind me of Clark Gable.” Sounds came out of the telephone. Wylie’s voice snapped. “Do you know me, Tony, or don’t you? He can’t act. He hams every line. I wouldn’t take him if diamonds went with him. If he had a voice, I might make that voice give something. He’s a blank. He has nothing.” The telephone sputtered. “I know your agency’s in a spot, Tony. I know Munson’s one of your best accounts. Blame Carver. He sold Mrs. Munson the idea her nephew’s a knockout. What’ll you tell her? Pass the buck to me. Tell her I said to ship him back to Baltimore.” The producer put down the telephone and was somber and silent. Joe’s heart pounded. “Vic.” Vic Wylie brooded. “Don’t get any wrong ideas, kid. Don’t think I’m handing you something because I like you. I wouldn’t be in show business long if I ran a Vic Wylie Friendship Club. I don’t like Carver any more than I like a polecat, but if this ham he sent me had dynamite on the ball, you’d be out.” Joe’s hands, hidden in his pockets, gripped the lining. “I’ve cast this show, kid. For my money, it stays cast. You’re playing the Dick Davis part.” Lucille and Archie Munn took the breaks in their stride—good breaks or bad breaks. Joe tried hard to be nonchalant. “I wasn’t sure, Vic.”