"Now don't ask me to sign this, but I think they need a Frontal Lobe show with a broad base of family appeal on a week night. They need a spacious universe type show. Something more galactic, with meaning." "With meaning," Lennox repeated in an ominous voice. He looked at Gabby. "It's awesome. How does it feel to have lunch with a frontal lobe?" Audibon laughed. Lennox laughed. "Steak," Audibon told the waiter. He transferred the charm back to Lennox. "Jake, why are writers so hyper-conservative? You people are the bottle-neck of the business. Every time we try to revaluate and mock-up a new concept, you come out of the garret and say no." "And what were you thinking of slipping into our Sunday night slot?" Lennox smiled. "A galactic 'How To' show?" Audibon had worked his way up by parlaying a series of 'How To' panels through the agencies. How To Sing. How To Dance. How To Make A Dame. Every time you turned around there he was in another agency with another How To. He gave Lennox the clickety-click again. "How To Educate Writers," he said. "Present writers excluded." "You're optimistic. We gave up all hope for vice-presidents years ago. Present restaurant excluded. Tell me, Miss Calabash. Would you rather be marooned on a desert island with a mink-dyed skunk or a mink-dyed vice-president?" "Gabby," Audibon laughed. "This is Jake Lennox. I pay him to entertain at lunch." "Society's Favorite Funster," Lennox grinned. "And the lady is...?" "My wife." "That's a genuine funny. Goody for you, Roy. What's your name when he isn't dreaming galactically, Miss Calabash? Are you--" Lennox stopped. He stared at Gabby, at Audibon, then back at Gabby. "Yes?" he asked quietly. She nodded. Jake's face turned black. He shoved our table out, knocking glasses and rolls all over the place. He stood up, grabbed a corner of Audibon's table and slewed it into the aisle. He seized Gabby's arm. "Out!" he said. "Jordan!" "Out." "Behave yourself." "Come on. Out!" "Lennox! What the hell is this?" Audibon demanded. "One more word out of you and I'll kill you," Lennox growled. He pulled Gabby to her feet and went out of the restaurant with her. Heitor saw the fuss and bustled up, ready to give Lennox a hard time. He took one look at his face and backed away. On the street, Lennox pushed through the lunch hour crowds, never relaxing his grip on Gabby's arm. Both of them were too angry to speak. Finally Lennox spat: "Married? To him?" "We're separated." "How long?" "A year." "How long were you married?" "Eight months." "To him! Married to that--" "Thank God it wasn't to you." "Thank Roy, dear. He's our local god." Gabby suddenly clutched his arm and dragged him to a stop before a sidewalk pitchman demonstrating a silver-plating fluid. The pitchman lost his audience. "You listen to me," Gabby said, "You answer me first. Why didn't you tell me?" "When?" "Last night." "When you were so charming? The way you're acting now?" "I mean later."