Page 32 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

“Thank you.” But he heard heaviness in his agent’s tone.

“I’m sorry, Press. I can’t pitch this. It’s a mess. Spelling errors, crossed-out words, almost illegible.”

Prescott’s breath became choppy, and he fought to compose his face.

Melvin leaned his elbows on the desk, and his gray eyebrows drew together. “I hate to say this, but you aren’t a writer.”

The rotten-egg stench of rejection filled his nostrils, and he sucked in a breath. “You only read one page. If you read a few more—”

“I don’t have to.” Melvin’s voice dove low into concern, but concern girded with steel. “I work with talent all day, every day. I know it when I see it. And this?” He whapped the script. “I don’t see it.”

A door slammed in Prescott’s head. With fumbling, aching fingers, he gathered his script, nestled it in his attaché case.

Melvin stood, went to the door, and opened it. “Remember, you have plenty of money, solid investments. You don’t need to do stuff like this.”

Somehow Prescott pushed himself out of the chair and left the office.

“Miss Baker is here to see you,” Edna called.

“Miss Baker, what a pleasure.” Melvin ushered a pretty young blonde into the office and shut the door.

Prescott stared at that door. His heart pounded.

Fourteen years old. Alone in the tenement hallway with nothing but a satchel.

What now? Where could he go? What could he do with his life?

He couldn’t be a screenwriter.

Slam.

He couldn’t go back to the movies.

Slam.

He refused to return to the boxing ring. To life as a hermit.

He slammed those doors himself.

Sensing Edna’s curious gaze on his back, Prescott shoved out a polite goodbye and exited stage left.

Only as a movie star had he ever had any worth. Now he had none.

San Diego

Wednesday, November 17, 1943

In the gymnasium, Maggie tried not to look at Mr. Anderson and Ria as the cast ran through the trial performance.

For the “twelve drummers drumming” curtain call, Prescott sang “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” pausing after each phrase while the performers for the corresponding act came onstage, did a sample of their routine, and took their bows.

During the real show, the band’s drummer would play a jazzy solo for each act. But today, they had sweet Mrs. Chester on the piano, trying to pound chords like a drummer. Since she played like a church organist, not a jazz pianist, she added to the flatness of the performance.

No one’s performance had been flatter than Prescott Duke’s.

“‘Ten lords a-leaping . . .’” he sang.

The men ran onto the tape-bordered stage, and Freddie and Ferdy performed backflips, collided with each other, bonked heads.