<atskills." 

　The owner studied him a moment. "How old are you?'' "Twenty-two," Toby lied. "Horseshit. All right. Get out there. And if you lay an egg, you won't live to see twenty-two." And there it was. Toby Temple's dream had finally come true. He was standing in the spotlight while the band played a fanfare for him, and the audience, his audience, sat there waiting to discover him, to adore him. He felt a surge of affection so strong that the feeling brought a lump to his throat. It was as though he and the audience were one, bound together by some wonderful, magical cord. For an instant he thought of his mother and hoped that wherever she was, she could see him now. The fanfare stopped. Toby went into his routine. "Good evening, you lucky people. My name is Toby Temple. I guess you all know your names." Silence. He went on. "Did you hear about the new head of the Mafia in Chicago? He's a queer. From now on, the Kiss of Death includes dinner and dancing." There was no laughter. They were staring at him, cold and hostile, and Toby began to feel the sharp claws of fear tearing at his stomach. His body was suddenly soaked in perspiration. That wonderful bond with the audience had vanished. He kept going. "I just played an engagement in a theater up in Maine. The theater was so far back in the woods that the manager was a bear." Silence. They hated him. "Nobody told me this was a deaf-mute convention. I feel like the social director on the Titanic. Being here is like walking up the gangplank and there's no ship." They began to boo. Two minutes after Toby had begun, the owner frantically signaled to the musicians, who started to play loudly, drowning out Toby's voice. He stood there, a big smile on his face, his eyes stinging with tears. He wanted to scream at them.

　It was the screams that awakened Mrs. Csinski. They were high-pitched and feral, eerie in the stillness of the night, and it was not until she sat up in bed that she realized it was the baby screaming. She hurried into the other room where she had fixed up a nursery. Josephine was rolling from side to side, her face blue from convulsions. At the hospital, an intern gave the baby an intravenous sedative, and she fell into a peaceful sleep. Dr. Wilsons who had delivered Josephine, gave her a thorough examination. He could find nothing wrong with her. But he was uneasy. He could not forget the clock on the wall.

　Vaudeville had flourished in America from 1881 until its final demise when the Palace Theatre closed its doors in 1932. Vaudeville had been the training ground for all the aspiring young comics, the battlefield where they sharpened their wits against hostile, jeering audiences. However, the comics who won out went on to fame and fortune. Eddie Cantor and W. C. Fields, Jolson and Benny, Abbott and Costello, and Jessel and Burns and the Marx Brothers, and dozens more. Vaudeville was a haven, a steady paycheck, but with vaudeville dead, comics had to turn to other fields. The big names were booked for radio shows and personal appearances, and they also played the important nightclubs around the country.

　For the struggling young comics like Toby, however, it was another story. They played nightclubs, too, but it was a different world. It was called the Toilet Circuit, and the name was a euphemism. It consisted of dirty saloons all over the country where the great unwashed public gathered to guzzle beer and belch at the strippers and destroy the comics for sport. The dressing rooms were stinking toilets, smelling of stale food and spilled drinks and urine and cheap perfume and, overlaying it all, the rancid odor of fear: flop sweat. The toilets were so filthy that the female performers squatted over the dressing room sinks to urinate. Payment varied from an indigestible meal to five, ten or sometimes as much as fifteen dollars a night, depending on the audience reaction. Toby Temple played them all, and they became his school. The names of the towns were different, but the places were all the same, and the smells were the same, and the hostile audiences were the same. If they did not like a performer, they threw beer bottles at him and heckled him throughout his performance and whistled him off. It was a tough school, but it was a good one, because it taught Toby all the tricks of survival. He learned to deal with drunken tourists and sober hoodlums, and never to confuse the two. He learned how to spot a potential heckler and quiet him by asking him for a sip of his drink or borrowing his napkin to mop his brow. Toby talked himself into jobs at places with names like Lake Kiamesha and Shawanga Lodge and the Avon. He played Wildwood, New Jersey, and the B'nai B'rith and the Sons of Italy and Moose halls. And he kept learning.

　Toby's act consisted of parodies of popular songs, imitations of Gable and Grant and Bogart and Cagney, and material stolen from the big-name comics who could afford expensive writers. All the struggling comics stole their material, and they bragged about it. "I'm doing Jerry Lester" -- meaning they were using his material -- "and I'm twice as good as he is." "I'm doing Milton Berle." "You should see my Red Skelton." Because material was the key, they stole only from the best.

　Toby would try anything. He would fix the indifferent, hard-faced audience with his wistful blue eyes and say, "Did you ever see an Eskimo pee?" He would put his two hands in front of his fly, and ice cubes would dribble out. He would put on a turban and wrap himself in a sheet. "Abdul, the snake charmer," he would intone. He would play a flute, and out of a wicker basket a cobra began to appear, moving rhythmically to the music as Toby pulled wires. The snake's body was a douche bag, and its head was the nozzle. There was always someone in the audience who thought it was funny. He did the standards and the stockies and the platters, where you laid the jokes in their laps. He had dozens of tricks. He had to be ready to switch from one bit to another, before the beer bottles started flying. 

　And no matter where he played, there was always the sound of a flushing toilet during his act.

　Toby traveled across the country by bus. When he arrived at a new town he would check into the cheapest hotel or boardinghouse and size up the nightclubs and bars and horse parlors. He stuffed cardboard in the soles of his shoes and whitened his shirt collars with chalk to save on laundry. The towns were all dreary, and the food was always bad- but it was the loneliness that ate into him. He had no one. There was not a single person in the vast universe who cared whether he lived or died. He wrote to his father from time to time, but it was out of a sense of duty rather than love. Toby desperately needed someone to talk to, someone who would understand him, share his dreams with him. He watched the successful entertainers leave the big clubs with their entourages and their beautiful, classy girls and drive off in shiny limousines, and Toby envied them. Someday...

　The worst moments were when he flopped, when he was booed in the middle of his act, thrown out before he had a chance to get started. At those times Toby hated the people in the audience; he wanted to kill them. It wasn't only that he had failed, it was that he had failed at the bottom. He could go down no further; he was there. He hid in his hotel room and cried and begged God to leave him alone, to take away his desire to stand in front of an audience and entertain them. God, he prayed, let me want to be a shoe salesman or a butcher. Anything but this. His mother had been wrong. God had not singled him out. He was never going to be famous. Tomorrow, he would find some other line of work. He would apply for a nine-to-five job in an office and live like a normal human being.

　And the next night Toby would be on stage again, doing his imitations, telling jokes, trying to win over the people before they turned on him and attacked. He would smile at them innocently and say, "This man was in love with his duck, and he took it to a movie with him one night. The cashier said, 'You can't bring that duck in here', so the man went around the corner and stuffed the duck down the front of his trousers, bought a ticket and went inside. The duck started getting restless; so the man opened up his fly and let the duck's head out. Well, next to the man was a lady and her husband. She turned to her husband and said, 'Ralph, the man next to me has his penis out.' So Ralph said, 'Is he bothering you?' 'No,' she said. 'Okay. Then forget it and enjoy the movie.' A few minutes later the wife nudged her husband again. 'Ralph -- his penis--' And her husband said, 'I told you to ignore it.' And she said, 'I can't--it's eating my popcorn!' "

　He made one-night appearances at the Three Six Five in San Francisco, Rudy's Rail in New York and Kin Wa Low's in Toledo. He played plumbers' conventions and bar mitzvahs and bowling banquets. And he learned. He did four and five shows a day at small theaters named the Gem and the Odeon and the Empire and the Star. And he learned. And, finally, one of the things that Toby Temple learned was that he could spend the rest of his life playing the Toilet Circuit, unknown and undiscovered. But an event occurred that made the whole matter academic.

　On a cold Sunday afternoon in early December in 1941, Toby was playing a five-a-day act at the Dewey Theatre on Fourteenth Street in New York. There were eight acts on the bill, and part of Toby's job was to introduce them. The first show went well. During the second show, when Toby introduced the Flying Kanazawas, a family of Japanese acrobats, the audience began to hiss them. Toby retreated backstage.

　"What the hell's the matter with them out there?" he asked.

　"Jesus, haven't you heard? The Japs attacked Pearl Harbor a few hours ago," the stage manager told him.

　"So what?" Toby asked. "Look at those guys -- they're great."

　The next show, when it was the turn of the Japanese troupe, Toby went out on stage and said,

　"Ladies and gentlemen, it's a great privilege to present to you. fresh from their triumph in Manila-- the Flying Filipinos!"

　The moment the audience saw the Japanese troupe, they began to hiss. During the rest of the day Toby turned them into the Happy Hawaiians, the Mad Mongolians and, finally, the Eskimo Flyers. But he was unable to save them. Nor, as it turned out, himself. When he telephoned his father that evening, Toby learned that there was a letter waiting for him at home. It began, "Greetings", and was signed by the President. Six weeks later, Toby was sworn into the United States Army. The day he was inducted, his head was pounding so hard that he was barely able to take the oath.

　The headaches came often, and when they happened, little Josephine felt as though two giant hands were squeezing her temples. She tried not to cry, because it upset her mother. Mrs. Czinski had discovered religion. She had always secretly felt that in some way she and her baby were responsible for the death of her husband. She had wandered into a revival meeting one afternoon, and the minister had thundered,

　"You are all soaked in sin and wickedness. The God that holds you over the pit of Hell like a loathsome insect over a fire abhors you. You hang by a slender thread, every damned one of you, and the flames of His wrath will consume you unless you repent!" Mrs. Csinski instantly felt better, for she knew that she was hearing the word of the Lord.

　''This a punishment from God because we killed your father," her mother would tell Josephine, and while she was too young to understand what the words meant, she knew that she had done something bad, and she wished she knew what it was, so that she could tell her mother that she was

　<cut>

　In the beginning, Toby Temple's war was a nightmare. In the army he was a nobody, a serial number in a uniform like millions of others, faceless, nameless, anonymous.

　He was sent to basic training camp in Georgia and then shipped out to England, where his outfit was assigned to a camp in Sussex. Toby told the sergeant he wanted to see the commanding general. He got as far as a captain. The captain's name was Sam Winters. He was a dark-complexioned, intelligent-looking man in his early thirties.

　"What's your problem, soldier?"

　"It's like this. Captain," Toby began. "I'm an entertainer. I'm in show business. That's what I did in civilian life."

　Captain Winters smiled at his earnestness. "What exactly do you do?" he asked.

　"A little of everything," Toby replied. "I do imitations and parodies and.. ." He saw the look in the captain's eyes and ended lamely, "Things like that."

　"Where have you worked?"

　Toby started to speak, then stopped. It was hopeless. The captain would only be impressed by places like New York and Hollywood. "No place you would have heard of," Toby replied. He knew now that he was wasting his time.

　Captain Winters said, "It's not up to me, but I'll see what I can do."

　"Sure," Toby said. "Thanks a lot, Captain." He gave a salute and exited.

　Captain Sam Winters sat at his desk, thinking about Toby long after the boy had gone. Sam Winters had enlisted because he felt that this was a war that had to be fought and had to be won. At the same time he hated it for what it was doing to young kids like Toby Temple. But if Temple really had talent, it would come through sooner or later, for talent was like a frail flower growing under solid rock. In the end, nothing could stop it from bursting through and blooming. Sam Winters had given up a good job as a motion-picture producer in Hollywood to go into the army. He had produced several successful pictures for Pan-Pacific Studios and had seen dozens of young hopefuls like Toby Temple come and go. The least they deserved was a chance.

　Later that afternoon he spoke to Colonel Beech about Toby. "I think we should let Special Services audition him," Captain Winters said. "I have a feeling he might be good. God knows the boys are going to need all the entertainment they can get."

　Colonel Beech stared up at Captain Winters and said coolly, "Right, Captain. Send me a memo on it." He watched as Captain Winters walked out the door. Colonel Beech was a professional soldier, a West Point man, and the son of a West Point man. The Colonel despised all civilians, and to him Captain Winters was a civilian. Putting on a uniform and captain's bars did not make a man a soldier. When Colonel Beech received Captain Winters's memo on Toby Temple, he glanced at it, then savagely scribbled across it, "request denied", and initialed it. He felt better.

　What Toby missed most was the lack of an audience. He needed to work on his sense of liming, his skills. He would tell jokes and do imitations and routines at every opportunity. It did not matter whether his audience was two GIs doing guard duty with him in a lonely field, a busload of soldiers on their way into town or a dishwasher on KP. Toby had to make them laugh, win their applause. Captain Sam Winters watched one day as Toby went through one of his routines in the recreation hall. Afterward, he went up to Toby and said, "I'm sorry your transfer didn't work out, Temple. I think you have talent. When the war's over, if you get to Hollywood, look me up." He grinned and added, "Assuming I still have a job out there." The following week Toby's battalion was sent into combat.

　In later years, when Toby recalled die war, what he remembered were not the battles. At Samt-Lo he had been a smash doing a mouth-sync act to a Bing Crosby record. At Aachen he had sneaked into the hospital and told jokes to the wounded for two hours before the nurses threw him out. He remembered with satisfaction that one GI had laughed so hard all his stitches had broken open. Metz was where he had bombed out, but Toby felt that that was only because the audience was jittery about the Nazi planes flying overhead.

　The fighting that Toby did was incidental. He was cited for bravery in the capture of a German command post. Toby had really had no idea what was going on. He had been playing John Wayne, and had gotten so earned away that it was all over before he had time to be frightened. To Toby, it was the entertaining that was important.

　In Cherbourg he visited a whorehouse with a couple of friends, and while they were upstairs, Toby stayed in the parlor doing a routine for the madame and two of her girls. When he had finished, the madame sent him upstairs, on the house.

　That was Toby's war. All in all, it was not a bad war, and time went by very quickly. When the war ended, it was 1945 and Toby was almost twenty-five years old. In appearance he had not aged one day. He had the same sweet face and beguiling blue eyes, and that helpless air of innocence about him. Everyone was talking about going home. There was a bride waiting in Kansas City, a mother and father in Bayonne, a business in St. Louis. There was nothing waiting for Toby. Except Fame. He decided to go to Hollywood. It was time that God made good on His promise.

　"Do you know God? Have you seen the face of Jesus? I have seen Him, brothers and sisters, and I have heard His voice, but He speaks only to those who kneel before Him and confess their sins. God abhors the unrepentant. The bolo of God's wrath is bent and the flaming arrow of His righteous anger is pointed at your wicked hearts, and at any moment He will let go and the arrow of His retribution shall smite your hearts! Look up to Him now, before it is too late!"

　Josephine looked up toward the top of the tent, terrified, expecting to see a flaming arrow shooting at her. She clutched her mother's hand, but her mother was unaware of it. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright with fervor. "Praise Jesus!" the congregation roared. The revival meetings were held in a huge tent, on the outskirts of Odessa, and Mrs. Czinski took Josephine to all of them. The preacher's pulpit was a wooden platform raised six feet above the ground. Immediately in front of the platform was the glory pen, where sinners were brought to repent and experience conversion. Beyond the pen were rows and rows of hard wooden benches, packed with chanting, fanatic seekers of salvation, awed by the threats of Hell and Damnation. It was terrifying for a six-year-old child. The evangelists were Fundamentalists, Holy Rollers and Pentecostalists and Methodists and Adventists, and they all breathed Hell-fire and Damnation.

　"Get on your knees, O ye sinners, and tremble before the might of Jehovah! For your wicked ways have broken the heart of Jesus Christ, and for that ye shall bear the punishment of His Father's wrath. Look around at the faces of the young children here, conceived in lust and filled with sin." And little Josephine would burn with shame, feeling everyone staring at her. When the bad headaches came, Josephine knew that they were a punishment from God. She prayed every night that they would go away, so she would know that God had forgiven her. She wished she knew what she had done that was so bad. "And I'll sing Hallelujah, and you'll sing Hallelujah, and we'll all sing Hallelujah when we arrive at Home."

　"Liquor is the blood of the Devil, and tobacco is his breath, and fornication is his pleasure. Are you guilty of trafficking with Satan? Then you shall burn eternally in Hell, damned forever, because Lucifer is coming to get you!" And Josephine would tremble and look around wildly, fiercely clutching the wooden bench so that the Devil could not take her. They sang, "I want to get to Heaven, my long-sought rest." But little Josephine misunderstood and sang, "I want to get to Heaven with my long short dress."

　After the thundering sermons would come the Miracles. Josephine would watch in frightened fascination as a procession of crippled men and women limped and crawled and rode in wheelchairs to the glory pen, where the preacher laid hands on them and willed the powers of Heaven to heal them. They would throw away their canes and their crutches, and some of them would babble hysterically in strange tongues, and Josephine would cower in terror. The revival meetings always ended with the plate being passed.

　"Jesus is watching you -- and He hates a miser." And then it would be over. But the fear would stay with Josephine for a long time.

　In 1946, the town of Odessa, Texas, had a dark brown taste. Long ago, when the Indians had lived there, it had been the taste of desert sand. Now it was the taste of oil. There were two kinds of people in Odessa: Oil People and the Others. The Oil People did not look down on the Others -- they simply felt sorry for them, for surely God meant everyone to have private planes and Cadillacs and swimming pools and to give charapugne parties for a hundred people. That was why He had put oil in Texas.

　Josephine Czinski did not know that she was one of the Others. At six, Josephine Czinski was a beautiful child, with shiny black hair and deep brown eyes and a lovely oval face. Josephine's mother was a skilled seamstress who worked for the wealthy people in town, and she would take Josephine along as she fitted the Oil Ladies and turned bolts of fairy cloth into stunning evening gowns. The Oil People liked Josephine because she was a polite, friendly child, and they liked themselves for liking her. They felt it was democratic of them to allow a poor kid from the other side of town to ate with their children. Josephine was Polish, but she did look lovely, and while she could never be a member of the Club, they were happy to give her visitors' privileges. Josephine was allowed to play with the Oil Children and share their bicycles and ponies and hundred-dollar dolls, so that she came to live a dual life. There was her life at home in the tiny clapboard cottage with battered furniture and outdoor plumbing and doors that sagged on their hinges. Then there was Josephine's life in beautiful colonial manions on large country estates. If Josephine stayed overnight at Cissy Topping's or Lindy Ferguson's, she was given a large bedroom all to herself, with breakfast served by maids and butlers. Josephine loved to get up in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep and go down and stare at the beautiful things in the house, the lovely paintings and heavy monogrammed silver and antiques burnished by time and history. She would study them and caress them and tell herself that one day she would have such things, one day she would live in a grand house and be surrounded by beauty. But in both of Josephine's worlds, she felt lonely. She was afraid to talk to her mother about her headaches and her fear of God because her mother had become a brooding fanatic, obsessed with God's punishment, welcoming it. Josephine did not want to discuss her fears with the Oil Children because they expected her to be bright and gay, as they were. And so, Josephine was forced to keep her terrors to herself.

　On Josephine's seventh birthday, Brubaker's Department Store announced a photographic contest for the Most Beautiful Child in Odessa. The entry picture had to be taken in a photograph department of the store. The prize was a gold cup inscribed with the name of she winner. The cup was placed in the department-store window, and Josephine used to come by the window every day to stare at it. She wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

　Josephine's mother would not let her enter the contest -- "Vanity is the devil's mirror,'' she said -- but one of the Oil Women who liked Josephine paid for her picture. From that moment on, Josephine knew that the gold cup was hers. She could visualize it sitting on her dresser. She would polish it carefully every day. When Josephine found out that she was in the finals, she was too excited to go to school. She stayed in bed all day with an upset stomach, her happiness too much for her to bear. This would be the first time that she had owned anything beautiful. The following day Josephine learned that the contest had been won by Tina Hudson, one of the Oil Children. Tina was not nearly as beautiful as Josephine, but Tina's father happened to be on the board of directors of the chain that owned Brubaker's Department Store.

　When Josephine heard the news, she developed a headache that made her want to scream with pain. She was afraid for God to know how much that beautiful gold cup meant to her, but He must have known because her headaches continued. At night she would cry into her pillow, so that her mother could not hear her.

　A few days after the contest ended, Josephine was invited to Tina's home for a weekend. The gold cup was sitting in Tina's room on a mantel. Josephine stared at it for a long time. When Josephine returned home, the cup was hidden in her overnight case. It was still there when Tina's mother came by for it and took it back. Josephine's mother gave her a hard whipping with a switch made from a long, green twig. But Josephine was not angry with her mother. The few minutes Josephine had held the beautiful gold cup in her hands had been worth all the pain.

　Hollywood, California, in 1946, was the film capital of the world, a magnet for the talented, the greedy, the beautiful, the hopeful and the weird. It was the land of palm trees and Rita Hayworth and the Holy Temple of the Universal Spirit and Santa Anita. It was the agent who was going to make you an overnight star; it was a con game, a whorehouse, an orange grove, a shrine. It was a magical kaleidoscope, and each person who looked into it saw his own vision. To Toby Temple, Hollywood was where he was meant to come.

　He arrived in town with an army duffel bag and three hundred dollars in cash, moving into a cheap boardinghouse on Cahuenga Boulevard. He had to get into action fast, before he went broke. Toby knew all about Hollywood. It was a town where you had to put up a front. Toby went into a haberdasher on Vine Strtet, ordered a new wardrobe, and with twenty dollars remaining in his pocket, strolled into the Hollywood Brown Derby, where all the stars dined.

　The walls were covered with caricatures of the most famous actors in Hollywood. Toby could feel the pulse of show business here, sense the power in the room. He saw the hostess walking toward him. She was a pretty redhead in her twenties and she had a sensational figure. She smiled at Toby and said, "Can I help you?" Toby could not resist it. He reached out with his two hands and grabbed her ripe melon breasts. A look of shock came over her face. As she opened her mouth to cry out, Toby fixed his eyes in a glazed stare and said apologetically, "Excuse me, miss -- I'm not a sighted person." "Oh! I'm sorry!" She was contrite for what she had been thinking, and sympathetic. She conducted Toby to a table, holding his arm and helping him sit down, and arranged for his order. When she came back to his table a few minutes later and caught him studying the pictures on the wall, Toby beamed up at her and said, "It's a miracle! I can see again!" He was so innocent and so funny that she could not help laughing. She laughed all through dinner with Toby, and at his jokes in bed that night.

　Toby took odd jobs around Hollywood because they brought him to the fringes of show business. He parked cars at Oro's, and as the celebrities drove Toby would open the car door with a bright smile and  apt quip. They paid no attention. He was just a parking boy, and they did not even know he was alive. Toby watched the beautiful girls as they got out of the cars in their expensive, tight-fitting dresses, and he thought to himself, If you only knew what a big star I'm going to be, you'd drop all those creeps.

　Toby made the rounds of agents, but he quickly learned that he was wasting his time. The agents were all star-fuckers. You could not look for them. They had to be looking for you. The name that Toby heard most often was Clifton Lawrence. He handled only the biggest talent and he made the most incredible deals. One day, Toby thought, Clifton Lawrence is going to be my agent. Toby subscribed to the two bibles of show business: Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter. It made him feel like an insider. Forever Amber had been bought by Twentieth Century-Fox, and Otto Preminger was going to direct. Ava Gardner had been signed to star in Whistle Stop with George Raft and Jorja Curtright, and Life with Father had been bought by Warner Brothers. Then Toby saw an item that made his pulse start pounding. "Producer Sam Winters has been named Vice-President in Charge of Production at Pan-Pacific Studios."

　When Sam Winters returned from the war his job at Pan-Padfic Studios was waiting for him. Six months later, there was a shakeup. The head of the studio was fired, and Sam was asked to take over until a new production head could be found. Sam did such a good job that the search was abandoned, and he was officially made Vice-President in Charge of Production. It was a nerve-racking, ulcer-making job, but Sam loved it more than he loved anything in the world. Hollywood was a three-ring circus filled with wild, insane characters, a minefield with a parade of idiots dancing across it. Most actors, directors and producers were selfcentered megalomaniacs, ungrateful, vicious and destructive. But as far as Sam was concerned, if they had talent, nothing else mattered. Talent was the magic key. Sam's office door opened and Lucille Elkins, his secretary, came in with the freshly opened mail. Lucille was a permanent fixture, one of the competent professionals who stayed on forever and watched her bosses come and go.

　"Clifton Lawrence is here to see you," Lucille said.

　"Tell him to come in."

　Sam liked Lawrence. He had style. Fred Alien had said, "All the sincerity in Hollywood could be hidden in a gnat's navel and there'd still be room for four caraway seeds and an agent's heart." Cliff Lawrence was more sincere than most agents. He was a Hollywood legend, and his clients ran the gamut of who's who in the entertainment field. He had a one-man office and was constantly on the move, servicing clients in London, Switzerland, Rome and New York. He was on intiate terms with all the important Hollywood executives and played in a weekly gin game that included the production heads of three studios. Twice a year, Lawrence chartered a yacht, gathered half a dozen beautiful "models" and invited top studio executives for a week's "fishing trip". Clifton Lawrence kept a fully stocked beachhouse at Malibu that was available to his friends anytime they wanted to use it. It was a symbiotic relationship that Clifton had with Hollywood, and it was profitable for everyone.

　Sam watched as the door opened and Lawrence bounced in, elegant in a beautifully tailored suit. He walked up to Sam, extended a perfectly manicured hand and said,

　"Just wanted to say a quick hello. How's everything, dear boy?"

　"Let me put it this way," Sam said. "If days were ships, today would be the Titanic."

　Clifton Lawrence made a commiserating noise.

　"What did you think of the preview last night?" Sam asked.

　"Trim the first twenty minutes and shoot a new ending, and you've got yourself a big hit."

　"Bull's-eye." Sam smiled. "That's exactly what we're doing. Any clients to sell me today?"

　Lawrence grinned. "Sorry. They're all working." And it was true. Clifton Lawrence's select stable of top stars, with a sprinkling of directors and producers, were always in demand. "See you for dinner Friday, Sam," Clifton said.

　"Czao."

　He turned and walked out the door. Lucille's voice came over the intercom.

　"Dallas Burke is here."

　"Send him in."

　"And Mel Foss would like to see you. He said it's urgent." Mel Foss was head of the television division of PanPadfic Studios. Sam glanced at his desk calendar.

　"Tell him to make it breakfast tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. The Polo Lounge."

　In the outer office, the telephone rang and Lucille picked it up. "Mr. Winter's office." An unfamiliar voice said,

　"Hello there. Is the great man in?"

　"Who's calling, please?"

　"Tell him it's an old buddy of his -- Toby Temple. We were in the army together. He said to look him up if I ever got to Hollywood, and here I am."

　"He's in a meeting, Mr. Temple. Could I have him call you back?"

　"Sure." He gave her his telephone number, and Lucille threw it into the wastebasket. This was not the first time someone had tried the old-army-buddy routine on her.

　Dallas Burke was one of the motion-picture industry's pioneer directors. Burke's films were shown at every college that had a course in movie making. Half a dozen of his earlier pictures were considered classics, and none of his work was less than Brilliant and innovative. Burke was in his late seventies now, and his once massive frame had shrunk so that his clothes seemed to flap around him.

　"It's good to see you again, Dallas," Sam said as the old man walked into the office.

　"Nice to see you, kid." He indicated the man with him.

　"You know my agent."

　"Certainly. How are you, Peter?" They all found seats.

　"I hear you have a story to tell me," Sam said to Dallas Burke.

　"This one's a beauty" There was a quavering excitement in the old man's voice.

　"I'm dying to hear it, Dallas," Sam said. "Shoot."

　Dallas Burke leaned forward and began talking. "What's everybody in the world most interested in, kid? Love -- right? And this idea's about the most holy land of love there is -- the love of a mother for her child." His voice grew stronger as he became immersed in his story.

　"We open in Long Island with a nineteen-year-old girl working as a secretary for a wealthy family. Old money. Gives us a chance for a slick background—know what I mean? High-society suite. The man she works for is married to a tight-assed blueblood. He likes the secretary, and she likes him, even though he's older."

　Only half-listening, Sam wondered whether the story was going to be Back Street or Imitation of Life. Not that it mattered, because whichever it was, Sam was going to buy it. It had been almost twenty years since anyone had given Dallas Burke a picture to direct. Sam could not blame the industry. Burke's last three pictures had been expensive, old-fashioned and box-office disasters. Dallas Burke was finished forever as a picture maker. But he was a human being and he was still alive, and somehow he had to be taken care of, because he had not saved a cent. He had been offered a room in the Motion Picture Relief Home, but he had indignantly turned it down. "I don't want your fucking charity!" he had shouted. "You're talking to the man who directed Doug Fairbanks and Jack Barrymore and Milton Sills and Bill Farnum. I'm a giant, you pygmy sons of bitches!" And he was. He was a legend; but even legends had to eat. When Sam had become a producer, he had telephoned an agent he knew and told him to bring in Dallas Burke with a story idea. Since then, Sam had bought unusable stories from Dallas Burke every year for enough money for the old man to live on, and while Sam had been away in the army, he had seen to it that the arrangement continued.

　"... so you see," Dallas Burke was saying, "the baby grows up without knowing her mother. But the mother keeps track of her. At the end, when the daughter marries this rich doctor, we have a big wedding. And do you know what the twist is, Sam? Listen to this — it's great. They won't let the mother in! She has to sneak in to the back of the church to watch her own kid getting married. There won't be a dry eye in the audience.... Well, that's it. What do you think?"

　Sam had guessed wrong. Stella Dallas. He glanced at the agent, who averted his eyes and studied the tips of his expensive shoes in embarrassment.

　"It's great," Sam said. "It's exactly the kind of picture the studio's looking for." Sam turned to the agent. "Call Business Affairs and work out a deal with them, Peter. I'll tell them to expect your call."

　The agent nodded.

　"Tell them they're gonna have to pay a stiff price for this one, or I'll take it to Wamer Brothers," Dallas Burke said. "I'm giving you first crack at it because we're friends."

　"I appreciate that," Sam said. He watched as the two men left the office. Strictly speaking, Sam knew he had no right to spend the company's money on a sentimental gesture like this. But the motionpicture industry owed something to men like Dallas Burke, for without him and his kind there would have been no industry.

　At eight o'clock the following morning, Sam Winters drove up under the portico of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A few minutes later, he was threading his way across the Polo Lounge, nodding to friends, acquaintances and competitors. More deals were made in this room over breakfast, lunch and cocktails than were consummated in all the offices of all the studios combined.

　Mel Foss looked up as Sam approached. "Morning, Sam."

　The two men shook hands and Sam slid into the booth across from Foss. Eight months ago Sam had hired Foss to run the television division of Pan-Pacific Studios. Television was the new baby in the entertainment world, and it was growing with incredible rapidity. All the studios that had once looked down on television were now involved in it. The waitress came to take their orders, and when she had left, Sam said,

　"What's the good news, Mel?"

　Mel Foss shook his head. "There is no good news," he said. "We're in trouble."

　Sam waited, saying nothing. "We're not going to get a pickup on "The Raiders'."

　Sam looked at him in surprise. "The ratings are great. Why would the network want to cancel it? It's tough enough to get a hit show."

　"It's not the show," Foss said. "It's Jack Nolan."

　Jack Nolan was the star of "The Raiders", and he had been an instant success, both critically and with the public.

　"What's the matter with him?" Sam asked. He hated Mel Foss's habit of forcing him to draw information from him.

　"Have you read this week's issue of Peek magazine?"

　"I don't read it any week. It's a garbage pail." He suddenly realized what Foss was driving at. "They nailed Nolan!"

　"In black and white," Foss replied. "The dumb son of a bitch put on his prettiest lace dress and went out to a party. Someone took pictures."

　"How bad is it?"

　"Couldn't be worse. I got a dozen calls from the network yesterday. The sponsors and the network want out. No one wants to be associated with a screaming fag."

　"Transvestite," Sam said. He had been counting heavily on presenting a strong television report at the board meeting in New York next month. The news from Foss would put an end to that. Losing "The Raiders" would be a blow. Unless he could do something.

　When Sam returned to his office, Lucille waved a sheaf of messages at him.

　"The emergencies are on top," she said. "They need you -- "

　"Later. Get me William Hunt at IBC." Two minutes later, Sam was talking to the head of the International Broadcasting Company. Sam had known Hunt casually for a number of years, and liked him. Hunt had started as a bright young corporate lawyer and had worked his way to the top of the network ladder. They seldom had any business dealings because Sam was not directly involved with television. He wished now that he had taken the time to cultivate Hunt. When Hunt came on the line, Sam forced himself to sound relaxed and casual.

　"Morning, Bill."

　"This is a pleasant surprise," Hunt said. "It's been a long time, Sam."

　"Much too long. That's the trouble with this business, Bill. You never have time for the people you like."

　"Too true."

　Sam made his voice sound offhand. "By the way, did you happen to saw that silly article in Peek?"

　"You know I did." Hunt sa'd quietly. "That's why we're canceling the show, Sam." The words had a finality to them.

　"Bill," Sam said, "what would you say if I told you that Jack Nolan was framed?"

　There was a laugh from the other end of the line. "I'd say you should think about becoming a writer."

　"I'm serious," Sam said, earnestly. "I know Jack Nolan. He's as straight as we are. That photograph was taken at a costume party. It was his girlfriend's birthday; and he put the dress on as a gag." Sam could feel his palms sweating.

　"I can't--"

　"I'll tell you how much confidence I have in Jack," Sam said into the phone. "I've just set him for the lead in Laredo, our big Western feature for next year."

　There was a pause. "Are you serious, Sam?"

　"You're damn right I am. It's a three-million-dollar picture. If Jack Nolan turned out to be a fag, he'd be laughed off the screen. The exhibitors wouldn't touch it. Would I take that kind of gamble if I didn't know what I was talking about?"

　"Well..." There was hesitation in Bill Hunt's voice.

　"Come on, Bill, you're not going to let a lousy gossip sheet like Peek destroy a good man's career. You like the show, don't you?"

　"Very much. It's a damned good show. But the sponsors -- "

　"It's your network. You've got more sponsors than you have air time. We've given you a hit show. Let's not fool around with a success."

　"Well..."

　"Has Mel Foss talked to you yet about the studio's plans for 'The Raiders' for next season?"

　"No..."

　"I guess he was planning to surprise you," Sam said. "Wait until you hear what he has in mind. Guest stars, bigname 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 Me! 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 yon to have a fast talk with Jack Nolan. Tell him if he ever steps out of line again, I'll personally ran 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."

　<cut>

　“Mrs. Tanner, people talk about your school and the wonderful plays you put on here. I'll bet you have no idea of the reputation this place has."

　She studied him a moment. "I do have an idea. That's why I have to be careful to keep out phonies."

　Toby felt his face begin to redden, but he smiled boyishly and said, "I'll bet, a lot of them must try to crash in here."

　''Quite a few," Mrs. Tanner agreed. She glanced at the card she held in her hand.

　"Toby Temple."

　"You probably haven't heard the name,'' he explained, "because for the last couple of years, I've been -- "

　"Playing repertory in England."

　He nodded. "Right"

　Alice Tanner looked at him and said quietly, "Mr. Temple, Americans are not permitted to play in English repertory. British Actors Equity doesn't allow it."

　Toby felt a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "You might have checked first and saved us both this embarrassment. I'm sorry, but we only enroll professional talent here." She started back toward her desk. The interview was over.

　"Hold it! " His voice was like a whiplash. She turned in astonishment. At that instant, Toby had no idea what he was going to say or do. He only knew that his whole future was hanging in the balance. The woman standing in front of him was the stepping-stone to everything he wanted, everything he had worked and sweated for, and he was not going to let her stop him.

　"You don't judge talent by rules, lady! Okay--so I haven't acted. And why? Because people like you won’t give me a chance. You see what I mean?" It was W. C. Fields's voice. Alice Tanner opened her mouth to interrupt him, but Toby never gave her the opportunity. He was Jimmy Cagney telling her to give the poor kid a break, and James Stewan agreeing with him, and Clark Gable saying he was dying to work with the kid and Cary Grant adding that he thought the boy was brilliant. A host of Hollywood stars was in that con! and they were all saying funny things, things that Toby Temple had never thought of before. The words, the kes poured out of him in a frenzy of desperation. He was man drowning in the darkness of his own oblivion, clinging via life raft of words, and the words were all that were keep him afloat. He was soaked in perspiration, running around the room, imitating the movement of each character who was Bring. He was manic, totally outside of himself, forgetting here he was and what he was here for until he heard Alice Tanner saying,

　"Stop it! Stop it!" Tears of laughter were streaming down her face. "Stop it!" she repeated, gasping for breath. And slowly, Toby came down to earth. Mrs. Tanner had taken out a handkerchief and was wiping her eyes. "You--you're insane," she said. "Do you know that?"

　Toby stared at her, a feeling of elation slowly filling him, exalting him. "You liked it, huh?"

　Alice Tanner shook her head and took a deep breath to hold her laughter and said, "Not -- not very much."

　Toby looked at her, filled with rage. She had been laughg at him, not with him. He had been making a fool of himself.

　"Then what were you laughing at?" Toby demanded.