“Thank you, I don’t drink.” Jill smiled and walked away. She had a date with a casting director and that was more important than Toby Temple. He was a one-shot. A casting director meant steady employment.
When they taped the show that evening it was an enormous success, one of the best shows Toby had ever done.
“Another smash,” Clifton told Toby. “That astronaut sketch was top drawer.”
Toby grinned. “Yeah. I like that little chick in it. She’s got something.”
“She’s pretty,” Clifton said. Every week there was a different girl. They all had something, and they all went to bed with Toby and became yesterday’s conversation piece.
“Fix it for her to have supper with us, Cliff.”
It was not a request. It was a command. A few years ago, Clifton would have told Toby to do it himself. But these days, when Toby asked you to do something, you did it. He was a king and this was his kingdom, and those who did not want to be exiled stayed in his favor.
“Of course, Toby,” Clifton said. “I’ll arrange it.”
Clifton walked down the hall to the dressing room where the girl dancers and female members of the cast changed. He rapped once on the door and walked in. There were a dozen girls in the room in various stages of undress. They paid no attention to him except to call out greetings. Jill had removed her makeup and was getting into her street clothes. Clifton walked up to her. “You were very good,” he said.
Jill glanced at him in the mirror without interest. “Thanks.” At one time she would have been excited to be this close to Clifton Lawrence. He could have opened every door in Hollywood for her. Now everyone knew that he was simply Toby Temple’s stooge.
“I have good news for you. Mr. Temple wants you to join him for supper.”
Jill lightly tousled her hair with her fingertips and said, “Tell him I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” And she walked out.
Supper that evening was a misery. Toby, Clifton Lawrence and Durkin, the director, were in La Rue’s at a front booth. Durkin had suggested inviting a couple of the showgirls, but Toby had furiously rejected the idea.
The table captain was saying, “Are you ready to order, Mr. Temple?”
Toby pointed to Clifton and said, “Yeah. Give the idiot here an order of tongue.”
Clifton joined the laughter of the others at the table, pretending that Toby was simply being amusing.
Toby snapped, “I asked you to do a simple thing like inviting a girl to dinner. Who told you to scare her off?”
“She was tired,” Clifton explained. “She said—”
“No broad is too tired to have dinner with me. You must have said something that pissed her off.” Toby had raised his voice. The people at the next booth had turned to stare. Toby gave them his boyish smile and said, “This is a farewell dinner, folks.” He pointed at Clifton. “He’s donated his brain to the zoo.”
There was laughter from the other table. Clifton forced a grin, but under the table his hands were clenched.
“Do you want to know how dumb he is?” Toby asked the people at the adjoining booth. “In Poland, they tell jokes about him.”
The laughter increased. Clifton wanted to get up and walk out, but he did not dare. Durkin sat there embarrassed, too wise to say anything. Toby now had the attention of several nearby booths. He raised his voice again, giving them his charming smile. “Cliff Lawrence here gets his stupidity honestly. When he was born, his parents had a big fight over him. His mother claimed it wasn’t her baby.”
Mercifully, the evening finally came to an end. But tomorrow Clifton Lawrence stories were going to be told all over town.
Clifton Lawrence lay in his bed that night, unable to sleep. He asked himself why he allowed Toby to humiliate him. The answer was simple: money. The income from Toby Temple brought him over a quarter of a million dollars a year. Clifton lived expensively and generously, and he had not saved a cent. With his other clients gone, he needed Toby. That was the problem. Toby knew it, and baiting Clifton had become a blood sport. Clifton had to get away before it was too late.