Fifteen minutes after Dick Landry met Toby Temple, Landry knew he was working with a talent. Listening to Toby’s monologue, Landry found himself laughing aloud—something he rarely did. It was not the jokes so much as Toby’s wistful way of delivering them. He was so pathetically sincere that it broke your heart. He was an adorable Chicken Little, terrified that the sky was about to fall on his head. You wanted to run up there and hug him and assure him that everything would be all right.
When Toby finished, it was all that Landry could do to keep from applauding. He went up to the stage where Toby stood. “You’re good,” he said enthusiastically. “Really good.”
Toby said, pleased, “Thanks. Cliff says you can show me how to be great.”
Landry said, “I’m going to try. The first thing is for you to learn to diversify your talents. As long as you can only stand up there and tell jokes, you’ll never be more than a standup comic. Let me hear you sing.”
Toby grinned. “Rent a canary. I can’t sing.”
“Try it.”
Toby tried. Landry was pleased. “Your voice isn’t much,” he told Toby, “but you have an ear. With the right songs, you can fake it so that they’ll think you’re Sinatra. We’ll arrange to have some song writers do some special material for you. I don’t want you singing the same songs that everyone else is doing. Let’s see you move.”
Toby moved.
Landry studied him carefully. “Fair, fair. You’ll never be a dancer, but I’m going to make you look like one.”
“Why?” Toby asked. “Song-and-dance men are a dime a dozen.”
“So are comics,” Landry retorted. “I’m going to turn you into an entertainer.”
Toby grinned and said, “Let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work.”
They went to work. O’Hanlon and Rainger were at every rehearsal, adding lines, creating new routines, watching Landry drive Toby. It was a grueling schedule. Toby rehearsed until every muscle in his body ached, but he burned off five pounds and became trim and hard. He took a singing lesson every day and vocalized until he was singing in his sleep. He worked on new comedy routines with the boys, then stopped to learn new songs that had been written for him, and it was time to rehearse again.
Almost every day, Toby found a message in his box that Alice Tanner had telephoned. He remembered how she had tried to hold him back. You’re not ready yet. Well, he was ready now, and he had done it in spite of her. To hell with her. He threw the messages away. Finally, they stopped. But the rehearsals went on.
Suddenly it was opening night.
There is a mystique about the birth of a new star. It is as though some telepathic message is instantaneously transmitted to the four corners of the world of show business. Through some magic alchemy, the news spreads to London and Paris, to New York and Sydney; wherever there is theater, the word is carried.
Five minutes after Toby Temple walked onto the stage of the Oasis Hotel, the word was out that there was a new star on the horizon.
Clifton Lawrence flew in for Toby’s opening and stayed for the supper show. Toby was flattered. Clifton was neglecting his other clients for him. When Toby finished the show, the two of them went to the hotel’s all-night coffee shop.
“Did you see all the celebrities out there?” Toby asked. “When they came back to my dressing room, I damn near died.”
Clifton smiled at Toby’s enthusiasm. It was such a pleasant change from all his other, jaded clients. Toby was a pussycat. A sweet, blue-eyed pussycat.
“They know talent when they see it,” Clifton said. “So does the Oasis. They want to make a new deal with you. They want to raise you from six-fifty to a thousand a week.”
Toby dropped his spoon. “A thousand a week? That’s fantastic, Cliff!”
“And I’ve had a couple of feelers from the Thunderbird and the El Rancho Hotel.”
“Already?” Toby asked, elated.
“Don’t wet your pants. It’s just to play the lounge.” He smiled. “It’s the old story, Toby. To me you’re a headliner, and to you you’re a headliner—but to a headliner are you a headliner?” He stood up. “I have to catch a plane to New York. I’m flying to London tomorrow.”