“Look at that!” he said in awe.
O’Hanlon glanced at the sign and said, “Yeah! How about that? Lili Wallace!” And he laughed. “Don’t worry, Toby. After the opening you’ll be on top of her.”
The manager of the Oasis, a middle-aged, sallow-faced man named Parker, greeted Toby and personally escorted him to his suite, fawning all the way. “I can’t tell you how pleased we are to have you with us, Mr. Temple. If there’s anything at all you need—anything—just give me a call.”
The welcome, Toby realized, was for Clifton Lawrence. This was the first time the fabulous agent had deigned to book one of his clients into this hotel. The manager of the Oasis hoped that now the hotel would get some of Lawrence’s really big stars.
The suite was enormous. It consisted of three bedrooms, a large living room, a kitchen, a bar and a terrace. On a table in the living room were bottles of assorted liquors, flowers and a large bowl of fresh fruit and cheeses, compliments of the management.
“I hope this will be satisfactory, Mr. Temple,” Parker said.
Toby looked around and thought of all the dreary little cockroach-ridden fleabag hotel rooms he had lived in. “Yeah. It’s okay.”
“Mr. Landry checked in an hour ago. I’ve arranged to clear the Mirage Room for your rehearsal at three o’clock.”
“Thanks.”
“Remember, if there’s anything at all you need—” And the manager bowed himself out.
Toby stood there, savoring his surroundings. He was going to live in places like this for the rest of his life. He would have it all—the broads, the money, the applause. Mostly the applause. People sitting out there laughing and cheering and loving him. That was his food and drink. He did not need anything else.
Dick Landry was in his late twenties, a slight, thin man with an alopecian head and long, graceful legs. He had started out as a gypsy on Broadway and had graduated from the chorus to lead dancer to choreographer to director. Landry had taste and a sense of what an audience wanted. He could not make a bad act good, but he could make it look good, and if he was given a good act, he could make it sensational. Until ten days ago, Landry had never heard of Toby Temple, and the only reason Landry had cut into his frantic schedule to come to Las Vegas and stage Temple’s act was because Clifton Lawrence had asked him to. It was Clifton who had given Landry his start.
Fifteen minutes after Dick Landry met Toby Temple, Landry knew he was working with a talent. Listening to Toby’s monologue, Landry found himself laughing aloud—something he rarely did. It was not the jokes so much as Toby’s wistful way of delivering them. He was so pathetically sincere that it broke your heart. He was an adorable Chicken Little, terrified that the sky was about to fall on his head. You wanted to run up there and hug him and assure him that everything would be all right.
When Toby finished, it was all that Landry could do to keep from applauding. He went up to the stage where Toby stood. “You’re good,” he said enthusiastically. “Really good.”
Toby said, pleased, “Thanks. Cliff says you can show me how to be great.”
Landry said, “I’m going to try. The first thing is for you to learn to diversify your talents. As long as you can only stand up there and tell jokes, you’ll never be more than a standup comic. Let me hear you sing.”
Toby grinned. “Rent a canary. I can’t sing.”
“Try it.”
Toby tried. Landry was pleased. “Your voice isn’t much,” he told Toby, “but you have an ear. With the right songs, you can fake it so that they’ll think you’re Sinatra. We’ll arrange to have some song writers do some special material for you. I don’t want you singing the same songs that everyone else is doing. Let’s see you move.”
Toby moved.
Landry studied him carefully. “Fair, fair. You’ll never be a dancer, but I’m going to make you look like one.”
“Why?” Toby asked. “Song-and-dance men are a dime a dozen.”
“So are comics,” Landry retorted. “I’m going to turn you into an entertainer.”
Toby grinned and said, “Let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work.”
They went to work. O’Hanlon and Rainger were at every rehearsal, adding lines, creating new routines, watching Landry drive Toby. It was a grueling schedule. Toby rehearsed until every muscle in his body ached, but he burned off five pounds and became trim and hard. He took a singing lesson every day and vocalized until he was singing in his sleep. He worked on new comedy routines with the boys, then stopped to learn new songs that had been written for him, and it was time to rehearse again.
Almost every day, Toby found a message in his box that Alice Tanner had telephoned. He remembered how she had tried to hold him back. You’re not ready yet. Well, he was ready now, and he had done it in spite of her. To hell with her. He threw the messages away. Finally, they stopped. But the rehearsals went on.
Suddenly it was opening night.
There is a mystique about the birth of a new star. It is as though some telepathic message is instantaneously transmitted to the four corners of the world of show business. Through some magic alchemy, the news spreads to London and Paris, to New York and Sydney; wherever there is theater, the word is carried.
Five minutes after Toby Temple walked onto the stage of the Oasis Hotel, the word was out that there was a new star on the horizon.
Clifton Lawrence flew in for Toby’s opening and stayed for the supper show. Toby was flattered. Clifton was neglecting his other clients for him. When Toby finished the show, the two of them went to the hotel’s all-night coffee shop.