A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [141]
“You look absolutely delicious,” he replied.
Greer touched his cheek and let her fingers run through Quinn’s hair. Was she saying, “Fasten your seat belt?” Not necessarily. The two on occasion had been at political or media or civic affairs. Otherwise, neither attempted to contact the other on a personal basis.
Greer Little-Crowder had risen to be one of the top women executives in the country. She was a media wizard, a CEO of Warren Crowder’s conglomerate, a queen of the world.
“Can I get you something, ma’am?” the bartender asked.
“Vodka rocks with a twist,” she said.
As some reporters and photographers drifted in, Quinn pointed at a booth out of their sight line. The bartender became so excited, he half spilled her drink. “Hey! You’re Governor O’Connell!”
Quinn held his finger to his lips. Their secret. “Your money is no good here, sir.”
Greer dipped the tip of her little finger into the vodka and slowly traced it about her fawning lips.
“Knock it off,” Quinn said.
“Quinn, have you forgotten we did it once in a little hallway between the bar and the kitchen…what was the name of that restaurant?”
It still rang a bell. “There’s a buffalo herd of media coming in looking for someplace to stampede,” she went on. “Did you think I might show up?”
“Always passes through one’s mind. But Waterloo?”
“That’s where the action is, bubba.”
“Run, Quinn, run,” he said. “See Quinn run…see Quinn jump…jump, Quinn, jump. I am acting out the role of reluctant candidate…or am I that reluctant?”
“Glad to see me? Mad? Sad? Thinking bad?”
“All of the above,” he said, taking her hand but avoiding her eyes. “Mostly sad,” his voice croaked.
“It’s been ghastly,” she said. “You should have been in the newsroom over the holidays. The land is permeated with fear and grief. It has been as though one of those black holes in the universe sucked us in. This tragedy was so terrible you start thinking that the day of a nuclear bomb has got to follow.”
“We lost thirty scouts and scoutmasters from Colorado. In the middle of singing the anthem or at a cocktail party, people suddenly break into convulsive weeping. It was when the parents begged me: ‘Governor, is there anything left of my son? Just a finger, anything?’ I, uh, got a little bit unsteady, I have to admit. You remember Dan’s Shanty? I just sat crumpled in a corner, getting close to the edge of losing it. I was a madman in a cell tying on the biggest drunk in the Guinness Book of Records. I told Rita I wasn’t coming out until I could walk out and function as their governor…look, you hear this story all over the country.”
Greer caught sight of the bartender heading toward them with another man and patted his hand to be quiet.
“I just had to tell the boss,” the bartender said.
“What an honor,” the owner said.
“My pleasure,” Quinn said, giving him a hearty handshake.
“Governor,” the man said, “you have to get us through this Four Corners Massacre.”
The words blistered Quinn’s ears. He managed a sigh and a wan grin.
“Governor O’Connell, the restaurant will be filled with press people soon. I would be honored if you’ll let me prepare a special dinner for you and the lady. I’ll bring it up to your room.”
Quinn looked at Greer, who nodded.
“You’ve got a deal.”
“And I’ve got to tell you something, Governor,” the owner said. “This here was my father’s booth, God rest his soul.” He pointed at a photo on the wall. “Nobody’s got their picture on this wall except for my father with Joe DiMaggio. I want yours, too.”
Quinn scribbled the owner’s address and promised a personalized signature.
“Go by the side door. There’s an alleyway to the hotel. Leave your drinks, I’ll send up a couple of pitchers.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Quinn said.
The penthouse suite of the Millard Fillmore Hotel was not all that corny. Old, deep window seats and high molded plaster and mahogany furniture and clanking radiator pipes all seemed in rhythm with a new snowfall outside. It was lovely.
Quinn changed into a running suit and woolly slippers. In a few moments Greer appeared in chic comfort. She went to