A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [36]
“Professor? What do you mean, professor?”
“Well, Dad, go into a gallery, any gallery, and tell them you want a Reynaldo Maldonado.”
“I’ll be damned. I thought he was just painting naked women down there.”
“He does those, too.”
“I’ll be go to hell. Are you after coming home, Quinn? It’s been a long time, over two years.”
“I want to,” Quinn said with a shaky voice. “I uh, have lots of friends here, sometimes a new girlfriend.”
“I see what you mean. Christ, kids are advanced these days. I mean, shacking up isn’t any more sinful than drinking a beer. That’s part of my problem, son. It’s hard for me to equate my, you know, squeakyclean life with all this stuff going around. I mean loose women, the kind you don’t marry.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, Dad.”
It worked somewhat. Quinn didn’t come too often and brought home a girlfriend even less frequently. Quinn and the girl of the moment usually jeeped up to Dan’s Shanty, a lonely cottage on the ranch at the tip-top of Ivory Pass by some hot springs. On those weekends anyone standing close to Dan could see him look up the hill to Dan’s Shanty and hear him emit a gurgle of displeasure.
However, when they all sat down for dinner, Quinn’s girlfriends were pleasures. Imagine, this one studying law and that one studying engineering. Brave new world, they call it. Father Sean says even Catholic kids shack up.
Well then, maybe Quinn will find a good girl, one interested in her personal dignity. Holy Mother!
Quinn fungoed fly balls to the outfielders. A potbellied Coach Hoy stood with hands on hips, bellowing to his fielders to peg the ball home.
When Quinn changed buckets of balls, he realized he was putting on a tad of a show for the same girl who had been watching practice for three days now.
She wasn’t all that much to look at. She was thin but moved in a manner that said that being lean didn’t cost her too much. She moved it all in concert when she walked. That was good stuff. Cute, about a seven on the female scale. Date? Maybe.
Coach Hoy called an end to the outfielders’ drill, and as they jogged toward the dugout and locker room, Hoy whistled and waved for the girl to come over.
“Quinn, I want you to meet this young lady, here.”
“I’m Greer Little.”
“Greer writes for the Bison Weekly and is doing an in-depth piece on someone from each of the teams. You’re the baseball interview.” His bow legs disappeared into the dugout.
“All yours,” Quinn said.
They took a front row seat in the stands, and she took down the vitals. Junior year, rancher’s son, general humanities courses, some politics, some lit. He seems a little light on drugs, sex, and rock ’n’ roll. Close personal friend with the illustrious Professor Maldonado.
Vibes! Quinn thought. I’m getting vibes.
The first thing Quinn noticed was a very light olive skin that seemed too smooth to be skin. She let her clothing work for her, enfolding her little highlights with a drifty material that picked up her salient points. Knockout jewelry, not expensive but explosive. Her body language was speaking but not tauntingly. Aware but not aware.
“I’m going to need at least another two or three sessions,” she said.
“Anything for my country.”
“Men’s locker rooms smell,” she said. “My apartment has two other girls in it who are messier than boys. Library?”
“How about a working dinner?”
“Yes,” she said, “and yes again. The damned football players think you can suck on a beer all night.”
“Let’s go off campus,” Quinn said. “There’s a restaurant a little ways up the valley.”
With a nearby motel handy, Greer thought.
Greer ate more than her size would indicate. And afterward. Three milk shakes. “Let’s see, Daddy’s a state senator. Mind if I say, off the record, he’s a terrible reactionary?”
“He’d be the first to agree with you. He still undresses with his clothing on.”
“Tell me about the orphan business?”
Quinn’s eyes instantly became moist, and he shook his head. “Pass.