“There you are.” A little smile and she was gone.
Toby did not know that the tea was a special blend imported from Fortnum and Mason, nor that it was steeping in Irish Baleek, but he knew it tasted wonderful. In fact, everything about this office was wonderful, especially the dapper little man who sat in an armchair studying him. Clifton Lawrence was smaller than Toby had expected, but he radiated a sense of authority and power.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your seeing me,” Toby said. “I’m sorry I had to trick you into—”
Clifton Lawrence threw his head back and laughed. “Trick me? I had lunch with Goldwyn yesterday. I went to watch you last night because I wanted to see if your talent matched your nerve. It did.”
“But you walked out—” Toby exclaimed.
“Dear boy, you don’t have to eat the entire jar of caviar to know it’s good, right? I knew what you had in sixty seconds.”
Toby felt that sense of euphoria building up in him again. After the black despair of the night before, to be lifted to the heights like this, to have his life handed back to him—
“I have a hunch about you, Temple,” Clifton Lawrence said. “I think it would be exciting to take someone young and build his career. I’ve decided to take you on as a client.”
The feeling of joy was exploding inside Toby. He wanted to stand up and scream aloud. Clifton Lawrence was going to be his agent!
“…handle you on one condition,” Clifton Lawrence was saying. “That you do exactly as I tell you. I don’t stand for temperament. You step out of line just once, and we’re finished. Do you understand?”
Toby nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“The first thing you have to do is face the truth.” He smiled at Toby and said, “Your act is terrible. Definitely bottom drawer.”
It was as though Toby had been kicked in the stomach. Clifton Lawrence had brought him here to punish him for that stupid phone call; he was not going to handle him. He…
But the little agent continued. “Last night was amateur night, and that’s what you are—an amateur.” Clifton Lawrence rose from his chair and began to pace. “I’m going to tell you what you have, and I’m going to tell you what you need to become a star.”
Toby sat there.
“Let’s start with your material,” Clifton said. “You could put butter and salt on it and peddle it in theater lobbies.”
“Yes, sir. Well, some of it might be a little corny, but—”
“Next. You have no style.”
Toby felt his hands begin to clench. “The audience seemed to—”
“Next. You don’t know how to move. You’re a lox.”
Toby said nothing.
The little agent walked over to him, looked down and said softly, reading Toby’s mind, “If you’re so bad, what are you doing here? You’re here because you’ve got something that money can’t buy. When you stand up on that stage, the audience wants to eat you up. They love you. Do you have any idea how much that could be worth?”
Toby took a deep breath and sat back. “Tell me.”
“More than you could ever dream. With the right material and the proper kind of handling, you can be a star.”
Toby sat there, basking in the warm glow of Clifton Lawrence’s words, and it was as though everything Toby had done all his life had led to this moment, as though he were already a star, and it had all happened. Just as his mother had promised him.
“The key to an entertainer’s success is personality,” Clifton Lawrence was saying. “You can’t buy it and you can’t fake it. You have to be born with it. You’re one of the lucky ones, dear boy.” He glanced at the gold Piaget watch on his wrist. “I’ve set up a meeting for you with O’Hanlon and Rainger at two o’clock. They’re the best comedy writers in the business. They work for all the top comics.”
Toby said nervously, “I’m afraid I haven’t much mon—”
Clifton Lawrence dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Not to worry, dear boy. You’ll pay me back later.”
Long after Toby Temple had left, Clifton Lawrence sat there thinking about him, smiling to himself at that wide-eyed innocent face and those trusting, guileless blue eyes. It had been many years since Clifton had represented an unknown. All his clients were important stars, and every studio fought for their services. The excitement had long since gone. The early days had been more fun, more stimulating. It would be a challenge to take this raw, young kid and develop him, build him into a hot property. Clifton had a feeling that he was really going to enjoy this experience. He liked the boy. He liked him very much, indeed.
The meeting took place at the Twentieth Century-Fox studio on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles, where O’Hanlon and Rainger had their offices. Toby had expected something lavish, on the order of Clifton Lawrence’s suite, but the writers’ quarters were drab and dingy, located in a small wooden bungalow on the lot.
An untidy, middle-aged secretary in a cardigan ushered Toby into the inner office. The walls were a dirty apple-green, and the only adornment was a battered dart board and a “PLAN AHEAD” sign with the last three letters squeezed together. A broken venetian blind partially filtered out the sun’s rays that fell across a dirty brown carpet worn down to the canvas. There were two scarred desks, back to back, each littered with papers and pencils and half-empty cartons of cold coffee.
“Hi, Toby. Excuse the mess. It’s the maid’s day off,” O’Hanlon greeted him. “I’m O’Hanlon.” He indicated his partner. “This is—er—?”