The offers that were coming in were phenomenal. Clifton Lawrence was as excited about them as Toby, and Clifton’s excitement had nothing to do with business or money. Toby Temple had been the most wonderful thing that had happened to him in years, for he felt as though Toby were his son. He had spent more time on Toby’s career than on any of his other clients, but it had been worth it. Toby had worked hard, had perfected his talent until it shone like a diamond. And he was appreciative and generous, something that was rare in this business.
“Every top hotel in Vegas is after you,” Clifton Lawrence told Toby. “Money is no object. They want you, period. I have scripts on my desk from Fox, Universal, Pan-Pacific—all starring parts. You can do a tour of Europe, any guest shot you want, or you can have your own television show on any of the networks. That would still give you time to do Vegas and a picture a year.”
“How much could I make with my own television show, Cliff?”
“I think I can push them up to ten thousand a week for an hour variety show. They’ll have to give us a firm two years, maybe three. If they want you badly enough, they’ll go for it.”
Toby leaned back on the couch, exulting. Ten thousand a show, say forty shows a year. In three years, that would come to over one million dollars for telling the world what he thought of it! He looked over at Clifton. The little agent was trying to play it cool, but Toby could see that he was eager. He wanted Toby to make the television deal. Why not? Clifton could pick up a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar commission for Toby’s talent and sweat. Did Clifton really deserve that kind of money? He had never had to work his ass off in filthy little clubs or have drunken audiences throw empty beer bottles at him or go to greedy quacks in nameless villages to have a clap treated because the only girls available were the raddled whores around the Toilet Circuit. What did Clifton Lawrence know of the cockroach-ridden rooms and the greasy food and the endless procession of all-night bus rides going from one hell-hole to another? He could never understand. One critic had called Toby an overnight success, and Toby had laughed aloud. Now, sitting in Clifton Lawrence’s office, he said, “I want my own television show.”
Six weeks later, the deal was signed with Consolidated Broadcasting.
“The network wants a studio to do the deficit financing,” Clifton Lawrence told Toby. “I like the idea because I can parlay it into a picture deal.”
“Which studio?”
“Pan-Pacific.”
Toby frowned. “Sam Winters?”
“That’s right. For my money, he’s the best studio head in the business. Besides, he owns a property I want for you, The Kid Goes West.”
Toby said, “I was in the army with Winters. Okay. But he owes me one. Shaft the bastard!”
Clifton Lawrence and Sam Winters were in the steam room in the gymnasium at Pan-Pacific Studios, breathing in the eucalyptus scent of the heated air.
“This is the life,” the little agent sighed. “Who needs money?”
Sam grinned. “Why don’t you talk like that when we’re negotiating, Cliff?”
“I don’t want to spoil you, dear boy.”
“I hear that you made a deal with Toby Temple at Consolidated Broadcasting.”
“Yeah. Biggest deal they’ve ever made.”
“Where are you going to get the deficit financing for the show?”
“Why, Sam?”
“We could be interested. I might even throw in a picture deal. I just bought a comedy called The Kid Goes West. It hasn’t been announced yet. I think Toby’d be perfect for it.”
Clifton Lawrence frowned and said, “Shit! I wish I’d known about this earlier, Sam. I’ve already made a deal at MGM.”
“Have you closed yet?”
“Well, practically. I gave them my word…”
Twenty minutes later, Clifton Lawrence had negotiated a lucrative arrangement for Toby Temple in which Pan-Pacific Studios would produce “The Toby Temple Show” and star him in The Kid Goes West.
The negotiations could have gone on longer, but the steam room had become unbearably hot.