They’re all out of step but me, he thought.
“What’s your opinion, Nora?” he asked the girl.
“Tutter’s the dreamiest” she replied. “I wouldn’t care if he’d robbed the Bank of America.”
“Thanks, both of you.” If nice kids like these thought that way, what hope was there?
The reporter shook his head and drifted toward the other studio door, the one lettered Studio Employees Only. He pushed through and found himself at the joint of an L-shaped corridor. At the end of the branch to his right he could make out the fluid glitter of the receptionist Straight ahead, dressing rooms lined both sides of the L’s other arm. At the far end of this hall gleamed the glass of a control booth to another studio.
The door of the dressing room labeled 2 was open.
Layton was about to negotiate the few yards between him and the open dressing, room when the sound of a bolt being turned over made him look to his left. As he turned, a door opened noisily; in the silence of the corridors it was startling. A perky little redhead, all curves, was just coming out of a room adjoining Studio A, adjusting her blouse. She frowned when she saw Layton, walked quickly past him, and went into dressing room 2.
Curious, Layton strolled over to the room she had just vacated. The door had remained open, and he looked in. He grinned. It was a tiny room, windowless, with a washbowl and an unscreened toilet; on the door, he now saw, was the legend Ladies — Employees Only. No wonder the redhead had frowned!
In her embarrassment at being caught still adjusting her clothing she had forgotten to shut the door. Layton pulled it to; its self-closing device was out of order.
He drifted over to room 2, wondering who the redhead was. She had looked familiar.
The curvy redhead was seated at a small table across from a man; between them lay two containers of black coffee, apparently cold. Her hand cupped the man’s chin across the table and she was leaning far forward, smiling, her rather thin lips a tantalizing two inches from his.
They became aware of Layton in the doorway simultaneously. The woman sat back, annoyed. The man turned his head to give Layton an inquiring look. He was slim, on the Ivy League side, with a smooth, clean, open face that just missed being handsome. Close up, in the flesh, he seemed even younger than the thirty-five years he publicly admitted to. He reminded Layton of a jockey — the horse variety, ageless.
“Mr. King? I’m Jim Layton of the Bulletin. Spare me a few minutes?”
“Well, hello, Jim.” The disc jockey rose and shook Layton’s hand warmly, his features slipping by long practice into the charming and boyish smile that was his public expression number one. “Sure enough. Hathaway sent me a memo you’d be here with the rest of the mourners. Oh! Lola Arkwright, my assistant.”
“Hello, Miss Arkwright,” Layton said.
“Hello,” she said. She was furious.
Layton was amused. According to his publicity, Tutter King was an incorrigible bachelor without a libido in his make-up — a sort of two-dimensional man, an image on a screen, exuding sex but with the untouchability of a monk. It was his principal appeal to the teenage girls; there was no more danger in him than in a dream. It was no accident that Nora Perkins had called him “the dreamiest.”
Layton doubted that Lola Arkwright thought of King that way. He remembered her now. She was the girl on The King’s Session who operated the turntable.
“Here, sit down, Jim,” King said, holding out the chair he had been occupying. The only other seat in the dressing room was covered by the redhead’s full little bottom. “How about some coffee? There’s a coin-operated machine down the hall. Lola, go get Mr. Layton some like a doll.”
“For you I’ll do anything, darling,” the redhead said. “But on your dime, not mine.”
“I don’t care for any, thanks just the same,” Layton said. He remained standing, and so did King. “Mr. King, how do you feel about having your show canceled? Think KZZX was justified in firing you?”
“Call me Tutter, or Tut,” the disc jockey said with a smile. “I don’t go for this formal stuff.”
“Okay, Tut. Do you think you got a raw deal, or don’t you?”
King’s smile faded effortlessly into an expression of frank gravity. “What do you think, Jim?”
“Reporters aren’t supposed to have opinions. It’s yours I’m paid to get.”
King sat down at the table and reached for one of the coffee containers. “Nobody’s even suggested that I did anything illegal. I’m not under indictment for any crime. There’s no law against accepting fees to plug records. And every cent I’ve ever received I’ve reported on my tax returns.”
“My paper knows the legality of your position,” Layton said. “What I’m here for is your opinion of the ethics involved.”
King drained the cup of its cold contents.
“I’ll give you my opinion,” Lola said acidly. “I think this whole deal stinks. Tutter’s one of the finest guys I’ve ever known.”
“Shut up, doll,” King said. “Well, Jim, I’ll match my ethics against the next fellow’s. I gave the record companies what they paid for, and I can’t see that I damaged a darn soul in the process.”
“Then it’s your position that there’s nothing wrong in accepting payola in return for popularizing songs you know to be dogs?”
King’s slight shoulders shrugged boyishly. “Most pop tunes today are pretty bad, Jim. If I only spun the platters I really go for, I couldn’t run The King’s Session for a week.”
Layton wrote the answer down in his notebook. The slightest vertical line appeared between King’s eyes. He said suddenly, “How old are you, Jim?”
“Thirty-four.” Layton was surprised.
“Then you must remember — when we were kids — how people flipped over ‘Flat-foot Floogie,’ ‘Mairsie Doats,’ and all the rest of them. They were a lot worse than some of these rock-’n’-roll lyrics.”
“I’d appreciate a direct statement, Mr. King.”
“Tutter,” King said, smiling again.
“Tutter. Do you or don’t you think that what you did was wrong?”
“I didn’t do anything anyone else wouldn’t have done in my place.”
“That still isn’t answering the question.”
“Suppose you’d been running The King’s Session, Would you have turned down a hundred G’s a year for slanting your plugs?”
“All right, you’ve sucked me in.” Layton grinned. “You want my answer? Yes, if I had to take it under the table.”
The red-haired girl said softly, “That’s why you’re a two-bit reporter.”
“I said shut up, Lola,” King said just as softly. “I respect your views, Jim. But I honestly think my only offense was getting caught, and having the whole thing twisted to make it look as if I were a crook or something.”
Layton wrote it down.
“As far as KZZX is concerned,” the disc jockey went on, “they just folded under the heat. It took some folding, because The King’s Session has been their biggest moneymaker. I’ll tell you something else, Jim.”
“Yes?” Layton looked up alertly.
“The whole story hasn’t come out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say some of those who’ve yelled loudest for my scalp could stand a little investigating themselves.”
“You mean others were involved in the payola?”
King’s smile this time was not charming. “You staying for the show?”
“Now I am,” Layton said.
“Good, because I’m making an important statement just before I sign off.”
“About these others being involved, or have you changed the subject?”
“Just stick around. Nice meeting you, Jim.”