We cut offstage to find a stretch limousine pulling up outside the studio.
Stood there in what can only be described as a frenzied mess is a well-dressed, middle-aged gentlemen. As the vehicle grinds to a halt, the man moseys over to the passenger door – mumbling to himself nervously and shaking his head as he goes.
“Good evening, sir”, he announces opening the car door. “And how are we this evening?”
The camera pans down as two suede yacht loafers, one after the other, touch down on the pavement.
The individual stands to reveal none other than The Culture Boy, Bobby Baxter.
“Good evening, Palfrey”, he remarks passing the man his bag. “What news of the deserter? I do hope you’ve managed to trace his whereabouts.”
The man takes the bag and gulps somewhat anxiously as they both make their way towards the studio entrance.
“I’m afraid we’ve not managed to track him down as yet, sir. Rumour has it that he’s got a bit of a reputation when it comes to playing truant. I wouldn’t mind wagering that he might not even show up at all this evening.”
“Is that so?”, Baxter replies.
“Indeed it is, sir.”
The Culture Boy stops in his tracks and turns to face the man, pointing him in the chest and wearing a frustrated look on his face.
“Now you listen to me, Palfrey”, Bobby exclaims. “I don’t pay you to disclose rumours or hedge bets when it comes to my business. I pay you to do as I ask.”
“I don’t care if Axel Eaton’s spent his bus fare here on the last turkey in the shop. You find that son of a bitch and you bring him to me. Understand?”
Palfrey nods feverishly.
“Right you are, sir. I’ll make sure he’s in the ring tonight in one form or another – even if I have to deliver him there myself.”
Bobby grunts and turns away towards the studio once again, leaving his valet with a predicament to ponder.