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.