Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) (17 page)

God, do not let this happen,
Lionel prayed.
I will give half my earnings to widows and orphans. I will eat only crumbs and wear only rags. I will work with lepers. Do NOT let this happen.

“Who’s Jennifer Jerrold?” Tracy whispered in Lionel’s ear.

“Talent agent,” he whispered back. “She represents Jack Fahey, the guy we’ve been using in all the Bennet’s Bridal spots. The Bennet’s people are crazy about him, so that means we’re stuck with
her
.”

And then she was there by his side, placing one taloned hand on his shoulder. (For a second Lionel thought Peg was going to bite it.) Jennifer was treading water somewhere in her fifties, while maintaining a pretense that even
she
wasn’t sure of her exact age after too many decades of lying about it. But if her chronology was murky, her presence was not. She always dressed in black, and tonight wore a floor-length vest draped over a roomy indigo jumpsuit, making her look something like a cross between Orson Welles and Lily Munster.

“Well, if it isn’t one of my
favorite
agencies,” she intoned as if it were the first line of a particularly portentous Jacobean tragedy. “Are you here to collect some delicious prize or other?” Little scotch-scented breaths tumbled from her mouth and wafted past Lionel’s nose.

Perlman, Deming, and Magellan all got to their feet; Lionel tried to, but Jennifer’s clamp kept him in place. He gave up the effort immediately, vastly preferring to sit in his chair and stare at his plate.

“Evening, Jennifer,” said Deming, extending his hand for the talent agent to shake. “Don’t believe you know Babcock Magellan, head of All-Pro Power Tools.”

Jennifer released Lionel’s shoulder and shook Magellan’s’s hand. “What extraordinary good luck,” she said with embarrassing sincerity. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Not at all,” Magellan said, trying to free his hand from her viselike grip. He was grinning too much; apparently he, and probably the rest of the table, had by now figured out that Jennifer was smashed.

“My I present my husband, Kyle?” she said, and she stepped away from Lionel’s chair.

Oh, God,
he thought.
Oh sweet lord baby Jesus.

The fortyish, sandy-haired, Arrow-shirt-handsome Kyle made his way around the table to shake hands with the three other men. Kyle’s teeth were too white, his manner too precise, his gait too mincing. None of them could help making assumptions about the
real
nature of the Kyle-and-Jennifer marriage.

And then Kyle turned in Lionel’s direction, and his eyes lit up. “Hey — Lionel, right?” he said. “Haven’t seen
you
in … God, when
was
that?”

Lionel felt the floor fall away. His vision momentarily clouded; and when it cleared, he was still faced with Kyle’s sculpted good looks. He blurted out a laugh that sounded like a cat being drowned. “Can’t remember,” he said. “Good to see you again — Kyle, was it?”

Kyle put a hand on his hip and said, “Haven’t aged a
day
, you horrible old thing. What’s your secret? Some dreadfully boring New Age diet?”

“Just having a job I love,” he said, unable to keep from giggling nervously.

Kyle smirked theatrically. “How
terribly
Protestant-work-ethic. I suppose you’re to be commended.”

“Well, thanks.”

Jennifer leaned over the table and said, in a voice just loud enough to carry to the Eastern Seaboard, “Kyle, stop it. We’re here to network, not flirt.” Lionel reeled as if he’d been hit, then squeezed his knees together to prevent himself from urinating all over the chair. “For what masterwork are you to be lauded tonight?” Jennifer continued, in a more hushed tone. “If it’s for Bennet’s Bridal, I may have to scold you for being so secretive.”

Perlman put his hand on Magellan’s shoulder. “Actually, it’s for our All-Pro work. A chainsaw spot. Maybe you saw it.”

“Maybe I did,” she said, straightening unsteadily and furrowing her brow. “I’ll have to look into it and let you know. Kyle, remind me.” Then she swept the left panel of her vest over her arm and stepped back. “Well, congratulations all around. If you have any new promotions coming up this year, remember us, won’t you? We always like to see of bervice.” She knitted her brow again, aware that something wasn’t quite right with what she’d said.

Kyle appeared at her side. “C’mon, Jen, let’s move along.”

“Dear Kyle,” she said, patting his cheek as he gently guided her away. “Such a treasure. Such a help. How long has it been since I raised your allowance …?”

When the couple had moved out of earshot, everyone at the All-Pro table erupted into grunts of laughter.

“Drunk as a
skunk
,” said Becca, leaning over her plate. The entire scene had been, for her, the equivalent of an all-expenses-paid romp in select European hotspots. “Did you smell her
breath
?” she gasped. “It’s amazing that woman can still
stand.
I guess that’s what happens when party girls grow old. And,” she said, turning to Peg, who she knew would appreciate this insight, “they
always
grow old.”

“She’s been doing that as long as I can remember,” said Deming to Magellan, worried that Jennifer might have offended him. “She’s really pretty harmless. And a shrewd businesswoman, too.”

“Who said I was drunk?” sneered Dolores Magellan, only half in tune with the conversation. She tried to adjust her wig, but it had gotten hooked on her left earring; the more she pushed, the greater the pain she inflicted on herself, until she yelped in agony, gave up, and tossed back another swig of her whisky and soda.

“And how about that
husband
?” Becca continued, a look of almost beatific delight on her face. “That guy a Tinkerbell, or what?”

Lionel felt the color leap to his face, and was just beginning to worry about seeming too effected by Becca’s remark when Tracy astonished him by saying, “What a terrible thing to say. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Becca looked crestfallen, as though someone had just yanked her away from a sand castle she’d only half built. “It’s
not
a terrible thing to say,” she protested with all the indignation of someone who believes herself utterly innocent. “It’s the truth!”

“It
is
the truth,” said Perlman, coming to his wife’s aid. “Everyone in the business knows it. Jennifer Jerrold married a fag ten years younger than her.”

“You’re just as bad,” said Tracy, balling up her napkin and throwing it on the table. “So what if he’s gay? You act like he’s some kind of
freak
or something. And so what if she was drunk? I’ve seen you guys at
least
that loopy, lots of times. But she’s a woman, right? And women are supposed to be ladies. And women aren’t supposed to marry men who like men. That’s it, right? You lay down the rules for everyone else in the world, and the rules are simple: everyone has to be exactly like
you
.”

“If you’re going to talk about men who like men, I can’t sit here and listen,” said Peg, pushing her chair away from the table. “It makes my brain itch. Ugh! I’m going to empty these, and while I’m gone maybe you can think of something decent to talk about.” She grabbed the table’s two ashtrays — which contained no more than a few sad olive pits — and trotted away.

Becca, offended by Tracy having spoken to her in such an aggrieved tone, now sat with her hands folded and her lips pursed, looking very determinedly in the opposite direction.

Lionel could see that Magellan’s face was growing red; he was obviously uncomfortable with the turn this conversation had taken. What’s more, Deming and Perlman could see it, too, and were eager to trivialize Tracy’s anger to the point at which they could chuckle at it and move on. Unfortunately for Lionel, they chose him to be their vehicle for this.

“And what’s with you and Kyle?” Perlman said, winking at him. “Seemed to know you pretty well.”

Lionel felt panic start to well in him — like a thousand electrified cockroaches skittering up his spine — but he forced himself to stay calm, to think his way through this. Any attempt to lie about how he knew Kyle would undoubtedly be labored and overwrought, and would consequently raise more questions than it answered. Falling back on his tried-and-true technique for these situations, he took refuge in the truth … but truth conveyed in a manner in which no one would recognize it. He took a breath and said, in what he considered his queeniest voice, “Kyle and I? Oh, we had a gay old fling once upon a time. Didn’t I ever mention it?”

Deming, Perlman, and Magellan all laughed uproariously, out of relief at the lessening of the tension as much as out of appreciation for Lionel’s joke. But Tracy regarded him with a look of astonished betrayal, as if to say, You, too? Then she slid her chair from the table and left the ballroom without a word.

Lionel couldn’t afford to worry about her just now. He waited till the laughter died and then said, “Seriously, it’s a long story and not that interesting. He’s a friend of a friend, he wanted to get into advertising, so he took me to lunch to get my advice, blah, blah, blah.” He moved to pick up his drink, but felt how seriously his hand was shaking, and so withdrew it and hid it in his lap.

“That must be when he married Jennifer,” said Deming. “Got
into
advertising then, didn’t he?” Some scattered laughter.

“I’m not sure he did,” said Magellan, and all the men burst into wholesale guffaws, as though it were a witticism worthy of Noël Coward. Even Becca forgot her wounded pride long enough to titter at it.

Dolores regarded her laughing dinner companions for a few moments, then leaned over to her husband and said, without even bothering to lower her voice, “Just because they kiss your ass doesn’t mean you have it
like
it so much.” Magellan’s face darkened and Lionel thought,
In vino veritas.

Peg came back with ashtrays so clean they looked newly minted. She placed them on the table, resumed her seat, and said, “Are we on to pleasanter topics now?” When no one answered, she inferred that the tension had only worsened since she’d left, and quietly pretended to be preoccupied with her carrot sticks.

Lionel saw a chance to cut the tension when a familiar figure passed the table. “Look,” he said in a low voice, “there goes Franklin Potter. The ceremony must be about to start.”

“Speaking of fags,” said Perlman, craning his neck to see the actor make his way across the ballroom.

Lionel snapped his head in alarm. “No!” he exclaimed. “Not Franklin Potter!”

Perlman lowered his head as if to say, Come
on,
Lionel.

“But my Aunt Ramona says he’s dating Helena Clement.”

“Your Aunt Ramona hears what his P.R. guy wants her to hear. Truth is, the guy flames more than a Burger King char-broiler.”

Lionel sat back in his chair, genuinely surprised — and more than a little titillated. “No
shit
.”

“No shit,” Perlman said, turning back to the table. Franklin Potter had disappeared into the men’s room. “Got this straight from my friend Gary in L.A. He directed an episode of
Breadside Manor
two years ago, and said that during a five-day shoot Potter showed up with
three
different guys, one of whom he’s pretty sure he
paid
for.”

This started Becca off on a blistering tirade against voracious male homosexuals, which in turn led to a blistering tirade against AIDS activists, which in turn led to a blistering tirade against Jesse Jackson (Lionel wasn’t sure how she made the connection, but knew that most of Becca’s blistering tirades ended up being about Jesse Jackson). When she finally ran out of both breath and vitriol, her spirits were so restored that she was actually able to go for a second helping of cheese, which inspired Magellan and the Demings to go with her. The tension had been broken.

Lionel had listened with only half an ear, because most of his concentration was fixed on the men’s room. He had not yet seen Franklin Potter come out. Now it was five minutes to eight; the actual Trippy Award ceremony, which the actor was hosting, was set to begin at eight. If he was ever going to get a good, up-close look at Franklin Potter, now was the time. And he definitely wanted an up-close look at Franklin Potter. It was something in his nature: any celebrity whom he discovered to be gay immediately became much, much more alluring to him, and Franklin Potter, with his quirky grin and bright-blue eyes, was heartthrob enough to make even Lionel forget his heterosexual fantasies of just ten minutes before — although he told himself he wasn’t exactly
forgetting
them, just setting them aside for a moment. He was perfectly confident that he could give in to this compulsion to check out Franklin Potter in the men’s room, then come back and continue his breeder romance with Tracy.

It was then that he realized Tracy had been gone for even longer than Franklin Potter, and that gave him the excuse he needed. He put his napkin on the table, got to his feet, and said to Perlman and Dolores Magellan (who gave a very good imitation of listening), “I’d better go find Tracy.”

Perlman nodded. “She’s probably waiting for you to find her and apologize. Take my advice: do it.”

Lionel nodded and left the table, and as he made his way across the ballroom he felt his heart pound and his knees weaken. He wasn’t usually starstruck, but a gay star — a
hot
gay star — was something entirely different. He felt a little metallic taste in his mouth, as if he might vomit. It was really ridiculous, getting this excited over the prospect of being a celebrity voyeur. He probably wouldn’t even see anything. Potter was probably holed up in a stall with the door closed. If he were lucky, he’d get a glimpse of his shoes. But this was a compulsion, not a rational desire: he had to follow it through to the finish.

He swung open the men’s-room door and looked around the tiled interior. There were two patrons within, both formally dressed, one at the sink, washing his face, the other at a urinal, leaning into it with one arm against the wall.