Then, in smaller print:
_No experience necessary._
Vera squeezed my arm as we got out of the taxi. “See?” she said.
“Honey,” I said, “I wanna meet this guy.”
The door of the big, round barn was high up off the ground, and we had
to walk up a ramp to reach it. When we got inside, we weren’t alone.
There was a big room, swanky as hell, with indirect lighting and plush
seats all around. This guy Quoron sure had the shekels. Maybe twenty
people were sitting around, waiting, and because I’ve been around in
this game a long time, I knew most of them. I didn’t exactly teach Rudy
Vallee how to sing, but I’m no youngster.
Here was just about the weirdest collection of theatrical has-beens. I
saw them all--the would-be Shakespearean hams, the musical comedy stars
who were on the way out when Oklahoma was nothing more than a state,
the ventriloquists, singers, sword-swallowers, bearded ladies--everyone
who had ever been on a stage and couldn’t get back on one.
This Quoron was no dud, and word got around.
I said hello to a few people, but I kept it selective; I couldn’t be
associating with the riffraff of the profession who would wind up in a
tank-town carnival somewhere, if Quoron could place them. He may have
been a miracle man, but sword-swallowers were as passé as ragtime.
We all waited and I swallowed nervously each time I looked at the
little door marked “Quontas Quoron, Private.” My courage soared up
and down like an express elevator. Every time I thought of how hard
jobs were to get, I shuddered. But when I looked at sagging Vera and
realized Quoron had placed her, I felt much better.
It was like the scene after the big act which leaves everyone gasping
when the guy finally came out. I mean, we waited so long that we didn’t
know what to expect, and when the little guy came out it was sort of a
letdown.
“I am Meldon Quoron,” he said, “Quontas’ brother. He’ll be along soon.
Meanwhile....”
He went into the old familiar spiel about jobs being hard to get and
placement being necessary in out-of-the-way places, but I didn’t give a
damn. If he got me a job, I didn’t care if it was in Squedunk--as long
as he paid the carfare.
He was a little guy, almost as big around the middle as he was tall,
and in his dark blue--almost black--suit he looked like a bowling ball.
But his face was ridiculous--I noticed that now. The body was short and
plump--he could make Costello look like Charles Atlas, but the face was
angular. It was more than that--it was elongated. I never saw anything
like it. His chin was long, narrow and pointed, and his nose could have
been a small white salami. Then, at the top, his head started to come
to a point; at least it looked that way, but it probably was the way he
combed his hair. And anyway, this was stupid as hell. Here I was, out
of a job, and unconsciously making fun of the guy who could maybe get
me one.