WILLIAM P. MCGIVERN
19
me see you again.” The girl smiled up at him. “You don’t even know my name,” she said, “and yet you’re anxious to see me again?” “I know all I need to,” Jonathon said seriously. The girl’s reply was completely obliterated by the sudden squealing of protesting brakes. A heavy truck had stopped suddenly before them blocking the traffic. Behind the truck a long sleek Cadillac honked its patrician horn impatiently. Finally the owner of the Cadillac, a short, dynamic looking, florid fellow dressed in extremely loud sport clothes climbed wrathfully from the back seat of his car. “I’ll get a cab,” he shouted angrily. “My time is my money and I am not a spendthrift. There ought to be a law against trucks anyway.” The man strode to the sidewalk and Jonathon, getting his first good look at him, felt his knees go suddenly weak. For this multi-colored, bellowing specimen of humanity was Max Swart, the biggest theatrical producer in the country. Jonathon had seen him before on several occasions as the fabled producer had swept past him in the outer reception rooms of his office and disappeared into the huge double doors that barricaded his own inner sanctum. A nod of approval from Max Swart had made many of the biggest men and women in show business. But, needless to say, Max Swart did not make a habit of nodding at just anyone. Jonathon watched him breathlessly as a very small boy might watch Babe Ruth or Jack Dempsey. The Great Man was walking toward them, he would pass right by them—BUT NO!!!