He found Sam Anderson at the stage door. "You can get gin at the corner drug store," said the old man.
"Where can I buy some flowers?"
"Right next door. The market is open until eleven."
He made his purchases and light-heartedly hurried back to the theatre. As he opened the dressing-room door, he saw the black overcoat of a man. He entered. The bulbous-nosed ruddy-cheeked Jew who faced him was Ed Feinberg.
"I was down to Palm Springs and dropped by to see your act. It's okay," he commented.
"Can you get us more time?"
"Yes … and no," he replied.
"I get it," Anita remarked tersely.
"I don't," said Ken.
"This is business," Feinberg said. "I guess Miss Rogers is the business manager of the act, ain't she?"
"Yes," Ken replied.
"You leave it to her." He winked. "She knows how to get dates. You keep on dancing. You're all right, kid."
Ken handed the flowers to Anita.
"Sweet boy." She smiled. "Now don't you go talking about us two, Ed."
"I'm on my way," Feinberg said. "Good luck, anyhow."
"You won't stop over and have a drink with us?"
"I can't. Gotta sleep in L.A. tonight."
"So that's an agent," Ken said as the door closed.
"That's an agent," she agreed. "He took his one buck fifty commission too, the bastard. And more beside."
She tucked his hand under hers and held it tightly against her body as they walked to the hotel.
