Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) (23 page)

He looked at her, barely visible in the murk, and knew she had no ailment of any kind. This, rather, was an act of kindness, a demonstration of such sensitivity and caring and selflessness as the hate-spewing members of Terrible Swift Sword would be incapable of recognizing, much less understanding.

He squeezed her hand, kissed her cheek, and then got up and headed for the door. He waited for her to catch up to him, not even caring if she saw the splatter of tears on his cheeks. If she did, she wouldn’t comment.

“You didn’t
stay
,” Greta whined into the telephone. “I looked for you after the set, but you didn’t
staaay
.” She sounded like a particularly interruptive school fire alarm.

Lionel swiveled around in his chair and faced away from his office door. He still hadn’t come to terms with what had happened the night before. In a burst of filial affection, he’d gone to Greta’s gig, and had even worried openly about her doing well … only to be rewarded by her performance of a song he could only term assaultive. He ought to have it out with her right now — clear the air. She was his sister, she deserved nothing less.

“My friend Yolanda had a headache,” he said, losing his nerve. “Nothing against the music. I think she’s having her period, truth to tell. Anyway, I had to take her home.”

“When? How soon did you leave?”

“About twenty minutes in.”

“I mean, what
song
? I want to know which ones you heard.”

“Oh — uh — I think it was — the one about the abortion.”

“Oh,
fab
. I’m proud of that one. I wrote some of the lyrics myself.”

“I didn’t say I li —”

“Wasn’t the Lord
with
us, Lionel? Wanda thought it’d be an uphill battle, but the crowd just
opened up
to us. It was like we just
filled
them with the love of Christ.”

He sighed. “Uh-huh.”

“Of course, it’s the same old story … first taste of success, everyone’s ego goes nuclear. Now Donna wants to, like, get different costumes and Heather wants to, like, do some lead vocals herself and Wanda wants to change our name to Stigmatarama. Because it’s ‘more fun.’ Which is
so not the point.
”

“Mm-hmm,” said Lionel. He picked up his pen and started scribbling on his notepad. HANG UP, he wrote in a broad, authoritative hand. JUST HANG UP.

“After the show we were all, like, so
pumped
and these new ideas just kept
coming
? ... And I don’t know what went down … all of a sudden all that joy just turned into this, like, horrible
anger
. We had this huge fight out on the street, where everyone could hear us? And I’m sure they were, like, Huh, some
Christians
. In the end we had to calm ourselves down and force ourselves to pray together, but it was rough going there. For a few minutes I thought the band was not gonna survive.”

“Oh, dear.” He put a big exclamation point after HANG UP!

“Everything’s okay now, and we’re working on getting our next gig. Wanda says …”

“Greta, listen, I have to go. My boss just stuck his head in my office for the third time since you called.” A complete lie, but she’d never know.

“Okay. Well, thanks for coming. Stay longer next time. And bring more friends.”

He uh-huhed her until she got off the line, after which he finally replaced the receiver and went back to work. An upsetting night, but not a tragic one. He’d only just begun renewing his relationship with Greta; it wasn’t a huge loss to dump it back on the scrap heap again. Some families just weren’t meant to be close.

Suddenly, as if fate were conspiring to make him not
too
much of a liar, Julius Deming did indeed stick his head past Lionel’s door. “You order those reprints of the sandblaster flyer?” he asked.

“I’m having Cindy do it.” Cindy was the production manager.

“Make sure she doesn’t fuck it up.” No one in the Deming, Stark & Williams hierarchy trusted a woman with even the most simple task; sometimes Lionel wondered how Cindy, the only managerial-level female in the office, had even gotten hired. She must have agreed to work for a ridiculously low salary. Or shown off her legs during the interview.

“I’ll ride herd on it,” Lionel promised.

Deming nodded, then grinned. “Just talked to a friend who’s got a house up near Madison. Said, this time of year? Bring mosquito spray by the gallon.” And then he ducked out.

They were working out what to
pack
already! Lionel hadn’t even come up with a date yet, and his bosses were putting together their checklists of necessities. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

“Lionel?” It was Alice’s voice, over the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Bob Smartt on four for you.”

Bob? Calling
here
? For
him
? ... Alarmed and intrigued, he reached over to the phone, then noticed that while a half dozen lines were in fact blinking, none was line four. He got Alice back on the intercom.

“Alice, for God’s sake,” he said. “Which line?”

He heard her hastily dismiss another caller, then say, “Sorry, Lionel, it’s crazy here this morning. What do you need?”

“My call is not on line four. Which one is it?”

A pause. “Lionel, what?”

“I said, which line? You said Bob Smartt on four for me —”

“No, I said Bob Smartt
in the foyer
for you.” Beat. “He’s
here
.”

Of course, today would be the day Alice decided to say
foyer
instead of
lobby
. She probably watched some TV costume drama about Edwardian aristocrats last night, just so that today she could add to his general attack of disorientation.

He made his way out to the reception area, where Bob stood in an olive Armani suit, a cubist-pattern tie, and black opera slippers. He was slightly hunched over, his lips pursed and his eyes wide, clearly tickled pink by Lionel’s misunderstanding with Alice, which he must’ve overheard. No doubt he’d hoot with laughter the moment Lionel got him around the corner.

And in fact he did, long and hard, replaying the conversation periodically to prop up his amusement if it started to flag. So many people looked out into the hall as he passed, wondering what the hell all the cawing was about, that when Lionel finally had him ensconced in his office, he shut the door to keep the curious from peering in.

Bob fell into the chair in front of Lionel’s desk, and clutched his stomach, helpless with mirth.
“Not on four, in the foyer,”
he gasped, then broke into braying laughter again. Lionel sat and waited for this fit of merriment to subside, not entirely certain the original mishap was worth even a tenth of the glee with which he was showering it.

Eventually, Bob plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the corners of his eyes. Then they sat staring at each other, grinning courteously. Lionel, whose previous night salivating into his receiver during a call to 1-900-HOT-GUYZ had done little to quell the still unreleased sexual frenzy within him, began to feel a hint of arousal now that Bob was in repose before him, no longer cackling and looking at least
serviceably
hot. He couldn’t help noticing the long lock of blond hair that curled under his ear and brushed his collar; why did he find that so powerfully erotic?

He had to snap himself out of this; it was embarrassing. He shrugged and said, “So, Bob.”

“So,
Lionel
.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Been a bit.”

“Too
long. We gotta get together more often. You, me, Yolanda.”

Something in his voice alarmed Lionel. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have almost thought Bob had
meant
that. “Well, busy schedules and all,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Bob rolled his eyes and groaned theatrically, implying that no one,
no one
, could tell
him
a thing about busy schedules.

Being careful to phrase it in as friendly a manner as possible, Lionel said, “What brings you my way?”

Bob sighed and grimaced. There was a long silence, and Lionel noted with alarm that his eyes were misting. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve got a problem.”

No way am I involved in this conversation,
thought Lionel.
Wait till Yolanda hears!
“What problem’s that?” he asked cautiously.

“Yolanda,” Bob answered glumly. “I’m pretty sure she’s two-timing me.”

Lionel’s heart drop-kicked into his stomach, and he thought,
Maybe Yolanda better
not
hear this.
“Bob, I’m sure you’re wrong. I live right above her, remember.”

“I know,” he said. His voice cracked pathetically. “That’s why I came to see you. You haven’t … well,
seen
her with anyone else, have you?”

“No, of course not. And odds are I’d have picked up at least a
few
clues. I mean, I’m not stupid.”
Plus,
he thought,
she’d have told
me. She tells me everything.

“And you haven’t? Noticed anything odd?” His tone was desperate. He was virtually pleading for reassurance.

“No!” Lionel said, half-laughing. “Swear to God!”

Bob ran his hand through his hair and sighed. He picked up a snow globe from Lionel’s desk (it was an old All-Pro giveaway; inside was a tiny model of a snow-blower) and shook it. White plastic granules whirled around its perimeter. “I wish that made me feel better,” he said.

“It
should
make you feel better.”

“I know.” He held the globe upside-down and watched the flakes drift down and collect at the tip of the dome. “But, goddarn it, Lionel! I haven’t seen her in
days
. Every time I call, she’s got some elaborate excuse why she’s not available. She’s either meeting an old friend who’s got a layover at O’Hare, or going to a one-night-only booksellers’ seminar, or getting together with a bunch of her girlfriends, or …
any
damn thing. It never ends.”

“But she
did
go out with her girlfriends,” Lionel said, lifting his palms in the air. “I stopped and talked to her while she was getting ready.”

Bob squinted at him, as though not quite trusting him. “What night would that be?” he asked, in the tones of an expert prosecutor trying to catch a witness lying.

“Night before last.” He crossed his arms and sat back.

Bob sighed in defeat, then rallied and said, “Well, what about last night?” He gestured wildly with the hand that held the snow-globe, so that a blizzard kicked up. “I called her repeatedly
,
all night long, and she wasn’t home! She’d told me only
that morning
that she didn’t have any plans!” He scowled. “I was going to surprise her — just show up with roses — but she was out till all hours, doing
God
knows what with
God
knows whom.”

Lionel leaned across the desk, shaking his head. “Buddy,
relax.
She was with
me
last night.”

“You?”
he asked, looking at Lionel’s conservative suit and wrinkling his nose at the idea.

“Yeah. I ran into her on the stairs, buried under a pile of laundry. She looked miserable so I invited her to drop it and come see my sister’s band play at Cabaret Metro.” He shook his finger at Bob. “And you
didn’t
keep calling all night, because I had her back home by nine-thirty. You just gave up too soon.”

He scowled. “You sure she didn’t just turn around and go out again after that?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bob.”

He returned the snow globe to Lionel’s desk and wrung his hands. “I guess I’m just being paranoid. But Lionel, I don’t know if I could control myself if I found out she’s been cheating on me. It’d be just too much to handle, having that happen to me
twice.
” This was one of the only times Lionel had heard Bob refer even glancingly to his faithless ex-wife. “I’d go off the deep end, I really would. I’d end up doing something crazy and … well,
crazy
.”

Lionel conjured up a picture of Bob bursting in on Yolanda and her alleged new boyfriend, then leaping at his rival, scratching wildly, his head turned and his eyes clamped shut. A laugh burbled out of his mouth; he quickly turned it into a cough.

“And I’m not imagining Yolanda’s behavior,” Bob continued. “She’s different lately. Cold. Stand-offish.”

Lionel cocked his head. “Maybe you’re the one who’s different.”

He bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, not to tell tales out of school or anything, but I know Yolanda was feeling a little jealous of your buddies from your — whatever you want to call it. Your men’s group. She says you see quite a lot of them now.”

“Not ‘quite a lot’! Oh, that
witch
!” He balled his fists and gave his thighs a pair of swift punches. “I’ve
begged
her to try to understand, but
oh
, no …”

Now I’ve gone and done it,
Lionel thought.
Time for some damage control.
“Maybe I misheard her,” he said. “Anyway, the thing is, she probably thinks
you’re
the one neglecting
her
.”
I can’t believe I’m playing Cupid for Yolanda and this jerk,
he thought.

Bob’s nostrils flared. “You didn’t misunderstand her. She said what she meant, and she meant what she said.”

Lionel filched a stray paper-clip from his desktop and started unbending it, trying to funnel his nervous energy into the task. This whole scene was becoming awkward and difficult.

“All we guys do is get together and
drum
,” Bob said. “That’s all.
Maybe
once a week.
Tops
.”

“You … drum?” said Lionel.

“Yes. You know. Bang on things. It’s very therapeutic — a very
masculine
kind of therapy. You mean to say you’ve never tried it?”

“Not since I was four and drove my Aunt Ramona crazy pretending to be Charlie Watts.”

Bob threw his arms in the air. “What an opportunity! Let’s do it now!”

Lionel’s heart froze. “Here? In my place of business? Are you crazy?”

“Yes! Yes, I am! That’s just the point! Yolanda’s got me crazy, so I need to bring myself down! This is the natural way to do it, Lionel — to work through the aggression, ease the pain of being a man.”

“Pain?”

“Yes, yes, yes! The pain of being misunderstood, of not being able to express ourselves, of knowing we disappointed our fathers, of knowing our fathers disappointed
us
.”