He spoke about his mother in all his interviews, and each time she became more saintlike. It was the only way Toby could share his success with her.
Toby acquired a beautiful estate in Bel-Air. The house was Tudor, with eight bedrooms and an enormous staircase and hand-carved paneling from England. It had a movie theater, a game room, a wine cellar, and on the grounds were a large swimming pool, a housekeeper’s cottage and two guest cottages. He bought a lavish home in Palm Springs, a string of racehorses and a trio of stooges. Toby called them all “Mac” and they adored him. They ran errands, chauffeured him, got him girls at any hour of the day or night, took trips with him, gave him massages. Whatever the master desired, the three Macs were always there to give him. They were the jesters to the Nation’s Jester. Toby had four secretaries, two just to handle the enormous flow of fan mail. His private secretary was a pretty twenty-one-year-old honey-blonde named Sherry. Her body had been designed by a sex maniac, and Toby insisted that she wear short skirts with nothing under them. It saved them both a lot of time.
The premiere of Toby Temple’s first movie had gone remarkably well. Sam Winters and Clifton Lawrence were at the theater. Afterward they all went to Chasen’s to discuss the picture.
Toby had enjoyed his first meeting with Sam after the deal had been made. “It would have been cheaper if you had returned my phone calls,” Toby said, and he told Sam of how he had tried to reach him.
“My tough luck,” Sam said, ruefully.
Now, as they sat in Chasen’s, Sam turned to Clifton Lawrence. “If you don’t take an arm and a leg, I’d like to make a new three-picture deal for Toby.”
“Just an arm. I’ll give you a call in the morning,” the agent said to Sam. He looked at his watch. “I have to run along.”
“Where you going?” Toby asked.
“I’m meeting another client. I do have other clients, dear boy.”
Toby looked at him oddly, then said, “Sure.”
The reviews the next morning were raves. Every critic predicted that Toby Temple was going to be as big a star in movies as he was in television.
Toby read all the reviews, then got Clifton Lawrence on the phone.
“Congratulations, dear boy,” the agent said. “Did you see the Reporter and Variety? Those reviews were love letters.”
“Yeah. It’s a green-cheese world, and I’m a big fat rat. Can I have any more fun than that?”
“I told you you’d own the world one day, Toby, and now you do. It’s all yours.” There was a deep satisfaction in the agent’s voice.
“Cliff, I’d like to talk to you. Can you come over?”
“Certainly. I’ll be free at five o’clock and—”
“I meant now.”
There was a brief hesitation, then Clifton said, “I have appointments until—”
“Oh, if you’re too busy, forget it.” And Toby hung up.
One minute later, Clifton Lawrence’s secretary called and said, “Mr. Lawrence is on his way over to see you, Mr. Temple.”
Clifton Lawrence was seated on Toby’s couch. “For God’s sake, Toby, you know I’m never too busy for you. I had no idea you would want to see me today, or I wouldn’t have made other appointments.”
Toby sat there staring at him, letting him sweat it out. Clifton cleared his throat and said, “Come on! You’re my favorite client. Didn’t you know that?”
And it was true, Clifton thought. I made him. He’s my creation. I’m enjoying his success as much as he is.
Toby smiled. “Am I really, Cliff?” He could see the tension easing out of the dapper little agent’s body. “I was beginning to wonder.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got so many clients that sometimes I think you don’t pay enough attention to me.”
“That’s not true. I spend more time—”
“I’d like you to handle just me, Cliff.”
Clifton smiled. “You’re joking.”
“No. I’m serious.” He watched the smile leave Clifton’s face. “I think I’m important enough to have my own agent—and when I say my own agent, I don’t mean someone who’s too busy for me because he has a dozen other people to take care of. It’s like a group fuck, Cliff. Somebody always gets left with a hard-on.”