Kiss Your Elbow. Alan Handley

he’s dead, poor soul, so I should scarcely think he would be the one you are after, would you?”

      “Scarcely. Is that all?”

      “Yiss, that is all. Are you quite sure he is a member of Actors’ Equity?”

      “No…not exactly.”

      “Well, really, Mr. Briscoe.” Angrily she took her coat from a cupboard and started to put it on.

      “Can you suggest any other place I might look? You’ve been so kind and helpful perhaps you might know some other place.” That thawed her out a little. She paused for a second.

      “Is your friend a member of the profession?”

      “I’m almost positive of that.”

      “There are still, you know, other organizations. Professional organizations—AFRA, Screen Actors Guild, Chorus Equity and, I believe, those night club entertainers have some sort of an organization, too.” I hadn’t thought of that possibility. My thanks were slightly overdone, but she must receive a kind word so seldom that by the time I had escorted her down to the street and said goodbye I was pretty sure I could play gin rummy with those address cards from now on.

      There must be someone I knew who was a member of those other unions, and I could get them to check for me. It was such a long shot that there didn’t seem to be any particular need for secrecy. And if questioned, I could always say I found a watch or a ring with an inscription. “Ever thine, Bobby LeB.,” or some such.

      And Mr. Frobisher wanted my phone number. Money in my pocket and a phone call from a top-flight producer. What more could I ask?

      Things were certainly looking up.