—Fifth floor, please.
—Ah.
The gentleman pressed the corresponding button. Then reaching into his pocket he produced a peanut, which he handed to the bird on his shoulder. Standing on one claw, the bird took the peanut with the other.
—Thank you, Mr. Morton, it squawked.
—My pleasure, Mr. Winslow.
As Emmett watched the bird shell the peanut with a startling facility, Mr. Morton noted his interest.
—An African grey, he said with a smile. One of the most intelligent of all our feathered friends. Mr. Winslow here, for example, has a vocabulary of one hundred and sixty-two words.
—One hundred and sixty-three, squawked the bird.
—Is that so, Mr. Winslow. And what was the hundred and sixty-third word?
—ASPCA.
The gentleman coughed in embarrassment.
—That is not a word, Mr. Winslow. It is an acronym.
—Acronym, squawked the bird. One hundred and sixty-four!
Only when the gentleman smiled at Emmett a little sadly did Emmett realize this little exchange was part of the act too.
Having reached the fifth floor, the elevator came to a stop and its doors opened. With a word of thanks, Emmett stepped off and the doors began to close. But once again, Mr. Morton stuck the tip of his umbrella in the gap. This time when the doors reopened, he got off the elevator, joining Emmett in the hall.
—I don’t wish to intrude, young man, but I couldn’t help hearing your inquiry back in Mr. Lehmberg’s office. By any chance, are you now headed to McGinley & Co.?
—I am, said Emmett in surprise.
—May I offer you a piece of friendly advice?
—His advice is nice and worth the price.
When Mr. Morton gave the bird a hangdog expression, Emmett laughed out loud. It was the first time that he had laughed out loud in a good long while.
—I’d appreciate any advice you’re willing to give, Mr. Morton.
The gentleman smiled and pointed his umbrella down the hallway, which was lined with identical doors.
—When you go into Mr. McGinley’s office, you will not find his receptionist, Miss Cravitts, any more helpful than you found Mrs. Burk. The ladies who manage the desks in this building are naturally reticent, disinclined you might even say, to be helpful. This may seem ungenerous, but you have to understand that they are besieged from morning to night by artists of all persuasions who are trying to talk their way into a meeting. In the Statler Building, the Cravittses and Burks are all that stand between a semblance of order and the Colosseum. But if these ladies must be reasonably stern with performers, they have to be all the more so with those who come seeking names and addresses. . . .
Mr. Morton set the point of his umbrella down on the floor and leaned on the handle.
—In this building, for every performer an agent represents, there are at least five creditors in hot pursuit. There are outraged audience members, ex-wives, and cheated restaurateurs. There is only one person for whom the gatekeepers show the slightest courtesy, and that is the man who holds the purse strings—whether he be hiring for a Broadway show or bar mitzvah. So, if you’re going into Mr. McGinley’s office, may I suggest you introduce yourself as a producer.
As Emmett considered this advice, the gentleman studied him discreetly.
—I can see from your expression that the notion of misrepresenting yourself goes against the grain. But you should take heart, young man, that within the walls of the Statler Building, he who misrepresents himself well, represents himself best.
—Thank you, said Emmett.
Mr. Morton nodded. But then he raised a finger with an additional thought.
—This performer you’re looking for. . . . Do you know his specialty?
—He’s an actor.
—Hmm.
—Is something wrong?
Mr. Morton gestured vaguely.
—It’s your appearance. Your age and attire. Let us just say that your image clashes with what one might expect from a theatrical producer.
Mr. Morton studied Emmett a little more brazenly, then smiled.
—May I suggest that you present yourself as the son of a rodeo owner.
—The man I’m looking for is a Shakespearean actor . . .
Mr. Morton laughed.
—Even better, he said.
And when he began to laugh again, his parrot laughed with him.
* * *
? ? ?
When Emmett paid his visit to the offices of McGinley & Co., he took care to do exactly as Mr. Morton had advised at every step, and he was not disappointed. When he entered the waiting room, which was crowded with young mothers and redheaded boys, the receptionist met him with the same expression of impatience that he’d been given at Tristar Talent. But as soon as he explained that he was the son of a touring rodeo operator looking to hire a performer, her expression brightened.