“No…”
“I guess he was planning to surprise you,” Sam said. “Wait until you hear what he has in mind! Guest stars, big-name Western writers, shooting on location—the works! If ‘The Raiders’ doesn’t skyrocket to number one, I’m in the wrong business.”
There was a brief hesitation. Then Bill Hunt said, “Have Mel phone me. Maybe we all got a little panicked here.”
“He’ll call you,” Sam promised.
“And, Sam—you understand my position. I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody.”
“Of course you weren’t,” Sam said, generously. “I know you too well to think that, Bill. That’s why I felt I owed it to you to let you hear the truth.”
“I appreciate that.”
“What about lunch next week?”
“Love it. I’ll call you Monday.”
They exchanged good-byes and hung up. Sam sat there, drained. Jack Nolan was as queer as an Indian dime. Someone should have taken him away in a net long ago. And Sam’s whole future depended on maniacs like that. Running a studio was like walking a high wire over Niagara Falls in a blizzard. Anyone’s crazy to do this job, Sam thought. He picked up his private phone and dialed. A few moments later, he was talking to Mel Foss.
“‘The Raiders’ stays on the air,” Sam said.
“What?” There was stunned disbelief in Foss’s voice.
“That’s right. I want you to have a fast talk with Jack Nolan. Tell him if he ever steps out of line again, I’ll personally run him out of this town and back to Fire Island! I mean it. If he gets the urge to suck something, tell him to try a banana!”
Sam slammed the phone down. He leaned back in his chair, thinking. He had forgotten to tell Foss about the format changes he had ad-libbed to Bill Hunt. He would have to find a writer who could come up with a Western script called Laredo.
The door burst open and Lucille stood there, her face white. “Can you get right down to Stage Ten? Someone set it on fire.”
8
Toby Temple had tried to reach Sam Winters half a dozen times, but he was never able to get past his bitch of a secretary, and he finally gave up. Toby made the rounds of the nightclubs and studios without success. During the next year, he took jobs to support himself. He sold real estate and insurance and haberdashery, and in between he played in bars and obscure nightclubs. But he was not able to get past the studio gates.
“You’re going about it the wrong way,” a friend of his told him. “Make them come to you.”
“How do I do that?” Toby asked, cynically.
“Get into Actors West.”
“An acting school?”
“It’s more than that. They put on plays, and every studio in town covers them.”
Actors West had the smell of professionalism. Toby could sense it the moment he walked in the door. On the wall were photographs of graduates of the school. Toby recognized many of them as successful actors.
The blond receptionist behind the desk said, “May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Toby Temple. I’d like to enroll.”
“Have you had acting experience?” she asked.
“Well, no,” Toby said. “But, I—”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tanner won’t interview anyone without professional experience.”
Toby stared at her a moment. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. That’s our rule. She never—”
“I’m not talking about that,” Toby said. “I mean—you really don’t know who I am?”
The blonde looked at him and said, “No.”
Toby let his breath out softly. “Jesus,” he said. “Leland Hayward was right. If you work in England, Hollywood doesn’t even know you’re alive.” He smiled and said apologetically, “I was joking. I figured you’d know me.”
The receptionist was confused now, not knowing what to believe. “You have worked professionally?”
Toby laughed. “I’ll say I have.”
The blonde picked up a form. “What parts have you played, and where?”
“Nothing here,” Toby said quickly. “I’ve been in England for the last two years, working in rep.”
The blonde nodded. “I see. Well, let me talk to Mrs. Tanner.”
The blonde disappeared into the inner office, returning a few minutes later. “Mrs. Tanner will see you. Good luck.”