For reasons that Mrs. Czinski did not understand, Dr. Wilson insisted that Josephine be brought back to the hospital for an examination every six weeks. The conclusions each time were the same: she seemed normal.
Only time would tell.
3
On Labor Day, the summer season in the Catskills was over and the Great Merlin was out of a job, and along with him, Toby. Toby was free to go. But where? He was homeless, jobless and penniless. Toby’s decision was made for him when a guest offered him twenty-five dollars to drive her and her three children from the Catskills to Chicago.
Toby left without saying good-bye to the Great Merlin or his smelly props.
Chicago, in 1939, was a prosperous, wide-open city. It was a city with a price, and those who knew their way around could buy anything from women to dope to politicians. There were hundreds of nightclubs that catered to every taste. Toby made the rounds of all of them, from the big, brassy Chez Paree to the little bars on Rush Street. The answer was always the same. No one wanted to hire a young punk as a comic. The sands were running out for Toby. It was time he started to fulfill his mother’s dream.
He was almost nineteen years old.
One of the clubs Toby hung around was the Knee High, where the entertainment consisted of a tired three-piece combo, a broken-down, middle-aged drunken comic and two strippers, Meri and Jeri, who were billed as the Perry Sisters and were, improbably enough, really sisters. They were in their twenties, and attractive in a cheap, blowsy way. Jeri came up to the bar one evening and sat next to Toby. He smiled and said politely, “I like your act.”
Jeri turned to look at him and saw a naive, baby-faced kid, too young and too poorly dressed to be a mark. She nodded indifferently and started to turn away, when Toby stood up, Jeri stared at the telltale bulge in his pants, then turned to look up at the innocent young face again. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “Is that all you?”
He smiled. “There’s only one way to find out.”
At three o’clock that morning, Toby was in bed with both of the Perry Sisters.
Everything had been meticulously planned. One hour before showtime, Jeri had taken the club comic, a compulsive gambler, to an apartment on Diversey Avenue where a crap game was in progress. When he saw the action, he licked his lips and said, “We can only stay a minute.”
Thirty minutes later, when Jeri slipped away, the comic was rolling the dice, screaming like a maniac. “An eighter from Decatur, you son of a bitch!” lost in some fantasy world where success and stardom and riches all hung on each roll of the dice.
At the Knee High, Toby sat at the bar, neat and tidy, waiting.
When showtime came and the comic had not appeared, the owner of the club began to rage and curse. “That bastard’s through this time, you hear? I won’t have him near my club again.”
“I don’t blame you,” Meri said. “But you’re in luck. There’s a new comic sitting at the bar. He just got in from New York.”
“What? Where?” The owner took one look at Toby. “For chrissakes, where’s his nanny? He’s a baby!”
“He’s great!” Jeri said. And she meant it.
“Try him,” Meri added. “What can you lose?”
“My fuckin’ customers!” But he shrugged and walked over to where Toby was sitting. “So you’re a comic, huh?”
“Yeah,” Toby said casually. “I just finished doing a gig in the Catskills.”
The owner studied him a moment. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” Toby lied.
“Horseshit. All right. Get out there. And if you lay an egg, you won’t live to see twenty-two.”
And there it was. Toby Temple’s dream had finally come true. He was standing in the spotlight while the band played a fanfare for him, and the audience, his audience, sat there waiting to discover him, to adore him. He felt a surge of affection so strong that the feeling brought a lump to his throat. It was as though he and the audience were one, bound together by some wonderful, magical cord. For an instant he thought of his mother and hoped that wherever she was, she could see him now. The fanfare stopped. Toby went into his routine.