An FKIP loudspeaker, scratchy and metallic, tin-panned the harmony of a quartet as Joe went toward the elevators; his shoulders swayed. The first moment of disappointment had passed. The voice in the hall, he told himself, had been one of those things; the _I Want Work_ platter was still a turkey. Long before this every producer, every casting director, every station must have heard the story of how Vic Wylie had ridden along with him. If the _I Want Work_ show had sold, he’d have had a part. He couldn’t miss. He carried Wylie’s stamp of approval and Wylie was tops as a picker. If he was good enough for Wylie, he was good enough for any of them. He watched a dial that announced the descent of the elevator. The elevator stopped, and Amby Carver stepped out. At sight of Joe Carlin the agent’s eyes blinked. Then the cane made a flourish. “Joe, you’re just the man I’m looking for. I’m getting a couple of parts lined up—” “Doesn’t Mrs. Munson’s nephew want them?” Joe asked. He pushed back his hat. “Joe,” little Amby said earnestly, “you got me wrong. All wrong. Look! Sure I was after a job with Munson. Why not? Do you know when I tried to bring the nephew in? After I read the script. If you want to click with an afternoon show it’s got to have yum-yum. Is there any love in this Sue Davis show? Amby Carver’s asking you. I told Munson the script was stinko. Does your agent want you in a stinko show that ruins your reputation? So I try to get the nephew in. I tell Munson the show is such a stinko only a good actor like his nephew can save it. That leaves me in the middle. If the show flops, hadn’t I warned him? Even his nephew couldn’t save it. If it gets orchids, his nephew did save it. Either way, Amby Carver’s in right.” “Why didn’t you tell me this at the start?” Joe asked. “Look! You expect me to call you at Wylie’s? That’s out. I’m off Vic.” “I have a telephone at home.” “The last time,” Amby said with heat, “somebody calls that it’s that Carver person. Am I supposed to like that? I’m your agent. I’ve been hustling for you. I—” “You tried to get Sonny Baker back from the coast,” Joe drawled. Amby pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. “I want to tell you about that.” Joe said: “Don’t bother.” Amby’s eyes studied the boy obliquely. The handkerchief touched the microscopic mustache delicately, and his voice was soft. “I wouldn’t swallow everything I’m told, Joe; Vic’s picked lemons before. Some day when you find Sonny Baker in your hair, don’t come weeping and wailing to me. You’ve asked for it.” The next elevator carried down a well-pleased-with-himself Joe Carlin. Amby Carver now knew he couldn’t be pushed around. Let the agent bring Sonny Baker back—Sonny was no longer anything to worry about. When you were good enough for sneering, insulting Wylie, you were good enough for any of them.