Free Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) by Robert Rodi Page A

admitted, blushing at the comparison.
    She put down her soup spoon and placed her right hand over her chest. “Oh, my word. My word.”
    “Should we watch for you on television, son?” the colonel asked, not even caring that he was demonstrating a shared enthusiasm with Ramona, something he was usually loath to do.
    “Course not,” Lionel replied with a little laugh. He adjusted his napkin on his lap, embarrassed by the naiveté of the question. “These are just local awards, for the Chicago advertising community.”
    “Oh, won’t there be, won’t there be any stars there?” Aunt Ramona whimpered, moving closer to the edge of her seat.
    “Well, no — I mean, unless you consider Franklin Potter a star. He used to be a copywriter at an agency here in town, so he’s coming back to be master of ceremo—”
    “Franklin Potter, Franklin Potter,” she gasped, clapping her hands to her face so forcefully that her left elbow almost upset the Eiffel Tower-shaped salt shaker.
    Colonel Frank grimaced and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Who in God’s holy name is Franklin Potter?”
    Ramona, almost bouncing up and down in her chair, blurted out the answer before Lionel could even part his lips. “Franklin Potter plays Toby on Breadside Manor,” she squealed. “You know, that show about, that show about those three brothers who own a bakery, and one of them is divorced with a little nine-year-old girl with a dirty mouth? Well, that’s Toby, that’s Toby  — that’s Franklin Potter! And besides which, besides which he’s dating Helena Clement, who starred in that movie that got nominated for a People’s Choice award with the name I can’t remember — you know, the one about the girl C.E.O. with polio and cute clothes who marries the circus acrobat who doesn’t believe in God? What was it called? I think it was, I think it was The Wind at My Back. Maybe he’ll bring her to the awards ceremony! Oh, Lionel — oh, Lionel  — hold on !” And she heaved her bulk out of her chair and careened out of the kitchen, like a Velikovskian planet hurling recklessly through space.
    “Stop shaking the floor!” the colonel called after her. “You’ll disturb the chinchillas, and just when Eisenhower and MacArthur are mating!” He sighed in exasperation, picked up his spoon, and, before turning his attention back to his meal, cocked an eye at Lionel and said, “You appear to have impressed your aunt, son.” Then, a beat later, “Please keep in mind how easily this done.” After a mouthful of bisque, he added, with a barely perceptible grin, “Proud of you, boy.”
    Lionel must have beamed at this, for Greta pursed her lips and said, “Pride goeth before a fall,” then angrily stuck her jet-black fingernails into a hunk of lobster to extract a tiny speck of some alien nature. She examined it closely, then flicked it away and ate the remainder.
    Lionel couldn’t really expect congratulations on his success from the rhythm guitarist in a thrash metal band that in two years had managed to play only Saturday afternoon church socials. But Greta’s snarling admonition was a clear indication of jealousy, and Lionel, gratified, decided to take advantage of that.
    “I know, I know,” he said to her, “but who’s proud? Man, not me. I deal with celebrities every day of the week; it’s not like there’s anything special about them. It’s not like it makes me better than anyone else.” He dipped his spoon back into the bisque, and from the corner of his eye could see Greta regarding him hungrily. She was plainly dying to ask which celebrities he meant, but of course she wouldn’t dare to, now.
    Ramona vaulted back into the kitchen carrying a clothbound book. She shoved it at Lionel, upsetting a spoonful of bisque that had been on its way to his mouth — a spoonful with a succulent chunk of pristine white lobster tail arching up at him tantalizingly, as if to greet him. He almost groaned at the