depression. He was a willowy man in rust-colored silk slacks, a pale yellow Italian sports shirt. He had a bland oval face, thinning mousy hair, and some rather precious mannerisms. Yet, over the years, all those female employees who had achieved a false sense of security by privately classifying him as queer had, sooner or later, become acquainted with the enormity of their error.
The sounds of business which came from the workroom did not hearten him. He knew it was all dog work, standard releases to hick papers regarding the local activities of one of their prominent citizens, heavily larded with Sultana promotion, and complete with the glossies taken by his staff photographer. The whippety-click of the high-speed mimeos seemed joyless also, signifying only that he was sending gimmicked copy to a thousand indifferent city desks on what he had analyzed to be a thirty-two to one chance of use. The hotel was jammed with nobodies. They’d cut the nut on entertainment in the public rooms of the hotel. There wasn’t even anybody worth a Hideaway card, and nobody due that was worth one for the next ten days. Lately, he thought, it’s like trying to puff a body and fender shop. Maybe turning down Vegas was the worst mistake of my life.
He had once been a radio tenor, of some small romanticvogue, and when the voice had started to go, he had begun managing a few people, starting with an ex-wife. In the early fifties he had learned that if he developed somebody hot he’d always be squeezed out by MCA or Morris, so he had moved over into the night club thing and then into hotels.
Rick DiLarra came bustling into Amory’s office. DiLarra was a swart, bursting, beetling man, full of a conviction and enthusiasm that was almost plausible. He was the convention director for the Sultana.
Amory turned slowly and looked at DiLarra with mild distaste. “Where were you, sweets?”
“Honest to God, no more than three minutes ago I heard you wanted to ask me something, Alan. I was trying to get the lighting straightened out for …”
“What the hell have you got over there, sweets? Buggy-whip dealers?” Amory drifted over to his flight-deck desk and sagged into a plum leather armchair.
DiLarra perched a chunky hip on a faraway curve of the desk and said earnestly, “No, this is one of the better ones, honest to God. A hell of a lot better than that last bunch. It’s a heavy industry crowd, and every cash drawer in the place is getting well. Is something wrong?”
“I got a call from a clown I know slightly. Stormlander his name is. He publishes a thing called Tropical Life. We make a due-bill deal on a small ad once in a while, I understand. He called just as a matter of courtesy, to say a broad will be in the house doing a spec coverage on one of the outfits in your convention. Something called AGM. That mean anything, sweets?”
“Honest to Christ, Alan, if I started worrying about what initials mean, I’d go nuts.”
“Stormlander says give her cooperation if she asks for it, andif it’s something he can use, we’ll get tear sheets in advance. I thought you’d maybe know something about it.”
“I haven’t heard a thing.”
“I wrote the girl’s name down here. Cory Barlund. That mean anything either?”
“Absolutely nothing, Alan.”
“I thought I’d better check it out with you before I waste time checking it a different way.”
“Some kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know. A small bell rings. I’ve got the idea she was lined up out of the Hideaway a couple or three times in the past couple of years. But I can’t remember who it was through. I think she’s a little high-style piece for the top dollar, and maybe part time rather than regular—that is if it’s the same kid. Rest easy a minute while I check.”
Alan Amory used his direct line, equipped with a mouthpiece which made it impossible for DiLarra to hear a word he said. After Amory got his party he talked for about a minute and a half
The sounds of business which came from the workroom did not hearten him. He knew it was all dog work, standard releases to hick papers regarding the local activities of one of their prominent citizens, heavily larded with Sultana promotion, and complete with the glossies taken by his staff photographer. The whippety-click of the high-speed mimeos seemed joyless also, signifying only that he was sending gimmicked copy to a thousand indifferent city desks on what he had analyzed to be a thirty-two to one chance of use. The hotel was jammed with nobodies. They’d cut the nut on entertainment in the public rooms of the hotel. There wasn’t even anybody worth a Hideaway card, and nobody due that was worth one for the next ten days. Lately, he thought, it’s like trying to puff a body and fender shop. Maybe turning down Vegas was the worst mistake of my life.
He had once been a radio tenor, of some small romanticvogue, and when the voice had started to go, he had begun managing a few people, starting with an ex-wife. In the early fifties he had learned that if he developed somebody hot he’d always be squeezed out by MCA or Morris, so he had moved over into the night club thing and then into hotels.
Rick DiLarra came bustling into Amory’s office. DiLarra was a swart, bursting, beetling man, full of a conviction and enthusiasm that was almost plausible. He was the convention director for the Sultana.
Amory turned slowly and looked at DiLarra with mild distaste. “Where were you, sweets?”
“Honest to God, no more than three minutes ago I heard you wanted to ask me something, Alan. I was trying to get the lighting straightened out for …”
“What the hell have you got over there, sweets? Buggy-whip dealers?” Amory drifted over to his flight-deck desk and sagged into a plum leather armchair.
DiLarra perched a chunky hip on a faraway curve of the desk and said earnestly, “No, this is one of the better ones, honest to God. A hell of a lot better than that last bunch. It’s a heavy industry crowd, and every cash drawer in the place is getting well. Is something wrong?”
“I got a call from a clown I know slightly. Stormlander his name is. He publishes a thing called Tropical Life. We make a due-bill deal on a small ad once in a while, I understand. He called just as a matter of courtesy, to say a broad will be in the house doing a spec coverage on one of the outfits in your convention. Something called AGM. That mean anything, sweets?”
“Honest to Christ, Alan, if I started worrying about what initials mean, I’d go nuts.”
“Stormlander says give her cooperation if she asks for it, andif it’s something he can use, we’ll get tear sheets in advance. I thought you’d maybe know something about it.”
“I haven’t heard a thing.”
“I wrote the girl’s name down here. Cory Barlund. That mean anything either?”
“Absolutely nothing, Alan.”
“I thought I’d better check it out with you before I waste time checking it a different way.”
“Some kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know. A small bell rings. I’ve got the idea she was lined up out of the Hideaway a couple or three times in the past couple of years. But I can’t remember who it was through. I think she’s a little high-style piece for the top dollar, and maybe part time rather than regular—that is if it’s the same kid. Rest easy a minute while I check.”
Alan Amory used his direct line, equipped with a mouthpiece which made it impossible for DiLarra to hear a word he said. After Amory got his party he talked for about a minute and a half
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