Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

44 ?? into his professional life. I didn't like it, either; it was actually taking advantage of his feeling for me to push somebody off on him who might not be good enough to waste Barry's time with. No — I took that back. Remembering the way Cal had sung that song of his — the one he'd written — I knew he was good. It might be I'd be doing Barry a favor, finding him a big new star. All the time I was on the phone with Mrs. Calucchi I was telling myself that, but when I hung up I didn't go right ahead and phone Barry at home. "Tomorrow," I thought. "At the office. More businesslike that way." Mrs. Calucchi came through with a room, and by talking very fast about how Cal must move down there the very next day I was able to get him out without making any promises about Barry. I didn't want to sit around speculating about his chances, I wanted to have a definite appointment with Barry before I allowed the subject to be brought up. Earlier than it was possible to get hold of Barry, next morning, I started to try. Finally I got the tired voice of Hilda, his secretary. She groaned when I told her what I wanted. "He'll be insane by the end of today, pulling his hair out," she warned me. "You know his show is scheduled to open in two weeks? The way it looks now they'll never get this show on the road. Can't you put off your business till next week?" Next week — by then, unless I was wrong, Cal Duncan would be living on soda crackers. "Hilda, it can't wait!" "That's what they all say. Song writers, dance directors, Lise Martaine herself, they're all going to take overdoses of things immediately if they don't get to see him. Okay," she said sadly. "Come up. I'll slip you in somehow." It was a bad beginning. I called Cal and told him, but in spite of his gratitude and excitement I didn't feel any lift. When I met him and we went up together on the subway my gloom got worse. It didn't feel like a good day. The subway was so jammed, Barry's office was so busy. In spite of Hilda's encouraging wave, we sat and sat and sat. But Cal — he had to have his chance. If I could help him, I had to; he'd sort of made it my business. So we sat it out, not talking. Every now There's Only You . . . (Continued jrom page 54) and then he cleared his throat. That was all. By the time Hilda gave us the sign to go in, Cal was numb. He didn't even return the quick squeeze I gave his hand for encouragement. As we reached the private door, a woman came out, and I caught a glimpse of dark, flashing eyes and a very red mouth and an armful of what looked like sables, only I've never been that close to any before so I wouldn't know. In fact I got more than a glimpse, because she took her time giving Cal such a long, slow look that we all seemed to be stopped there for minutes. Then she smiled, right into his eyes, flicked a measuring glance over me and went on. Lise Martaine— I recognized her from her pictures. Cal just stood there looking till I gave him a poke. This was no time for him to be taking his mind off his work! My conscience gave me a poke when I saw how white-faced Barry was. Somehow I'd never thought of him as a hard-working man before. When he took me out, or came down to see us at the Book Shop, he was always so calm and light-hearted and well-dressed — a typical rich man's son, which is what he'd been before he turned to producing. Of course he was a big success, and I know you don't get that without working hard for it, but still it was a shock to see circles under his eyes. He said it was nice to meet Cal, and listened quietly while I explained our business. And yet, though nothing changed, I thought there was a funny twist to his mouth as he asked Cal some questions. How long he'd been singing, and what he'd done. Then he said, "Well, Mr. Duncan, if you're ready — do you have a guitar with you? I've never heard cowboy songs without one." It was the first time I'd realized that Cal didn't. I was panic-stricken. I began to say, "Maybe you can lend him one," but Cal interrupted me by clearing his throat. "No, I don't. I wanted to do something different for you, Mr. Markman. Not cowboy stuff. Something more artistic." It was a complete shock to me. He hadn't mentioned any such plan. "Aren't you going to do your own song?" I burst out. "You know, the one — about 'There's Only One of Me'? I wanted Barry to hear you sing that R IVI 82 "Ttmeactited t&ove " is just one of the many gripping problems you'll hear reenacted on the radio program "My True Story." For here — direct from the files of True Story Magazine — are presented the problems, fears, hopes and dreams of real people . . . people who could be your next-door neighbors, or the couple down the block. You can gain a better understanding of your own problems too, so listen to a complete story every day, Monday through Friday. tune in "7?£y, *?*ue Stony" . AMERICAN BROADCASTING STATIONS one, Cal — it's perfect for you." There was an urgent message in my voice, as I tried to tell Cal that he must sing something he knew he did well for this important trial. It was so unbelievably stupid for him to pick this time to become "artistic" that I couldn't believe he was serious. But he shook his head stubbornly. "No, Miss Chichi, if Mr. Markham doesn't mind, I'll just pick a few chords on his piano here and do this other song. I don't want to be just a cowboy singer." He didn't look at me and my message went unanswered. "I don't mind anything if you'll just get to it," Barry said. His voice hadn't changed, but suddenly I knew it was no use, no use at all. He wasn't exactly angry — but upset. Not in any mood to give Cal a fair hearing. All he wanted was to get us over with and out. Crossing my fingers, I sat down as far away from Barry as possible. It was out of my hands now. Barry was antagonistic and Cal was stubborn and mistaken and I almost hated them both. Cal looked all wrong without his guitar. He didn't seem to know where to look or what to do with his face. Going to the piano, he picked out a few chords, and then nodded. He lifted his head and sang. "None But the Lonely Heart" — that was the song he sang. As I listened, I thought loyally that really his voice was nice to listen to. But still and all the song was wrong for him. I'd heard it many times on the radio. I knew how it should be sung — sort of rich and powerful and yet tender. Cal's voice — well, I'm no judge, but I knew his voice wasn't like that, rich and powerful. I remembered it out on the hill in the moonlight — soft, gentle, with an easy rise and fall like a breeze playing around your hair and your cheeks. I had to think back and remember, because there in Barry's office it didn't sound like that at all. When he finished, nobody said anything. Barry's face was very grave; I don't think he'd smiled once since he saw us. Finally he said. "You've got a pleasant voice, Mr. Duncan, a good and easy voice to listen to. I can't say more than that." He picked up a pen and put it down again. "Quite honestly, I don't think it's an unusual voice." "Isn't it enough to be good?" I asked in a small voice. Barry shook his head. "Chichi — no. Good voices are cheaper than a dime a dozen in this town. A successful singer has got to have so much more than just a nice voice that I can't begin to tell you about it. Certainly not in the little time I've got — though I don't mean to be rude — " "Oh, sure I know you're up to your ears." I got up and made myself march to the door. I wanted to pound on Barry's desk and insist that he give Cal a chance, but that would have been a little silly. He had given Cal a chance. Cal had flopped. What did I want Barry to do: say that Cal had a star-type voice when he didn't? After all, Barry was my friend. I had no business turning against him in my mind just because Cal had come into my life. Dimly I heard Cal thank Barry and say something to him, I don't know what, and then we were outside. We spoke only once on the way downtown, when Cal said, "I want to thank you,