A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [38]
“I can’t,” Quinn said.
“Why?”
“You’ve given me a hard-on.”
“Well, I do declare, Mr. Quinn Patrick O’Connell.”
They teetered thusly for a moment, and Greer stepped away. “I know I’ll forget this. Don’t line your fingers up on the bat. I want you to move the knuckles of your left hand about an eighth of a turn. All kinds of control falls into place.” She went back to the ball machine.
Sonofabitch! Whack! Whack! Whack!
“Go down with it! Lay off it! Step in the bucket and pull!”
She smiled, and her eyes were big brown muffins.
“Oh, that last batch of swings felt sweet. How many little boys have you lured to the ball field?”
“Dozens. I had to learn to play ball or starve. My daddy’s Little League team, the John Deere Tractors, won one state and two local championships.”
Quinn debated with himself as he came to the verge of doing something really stupid.
“You still need fixing,” she said.
“I was afraid you were going to discharge me. Greer, you scare the hell out of me.”
“And you make me hot,” she said.
“Nobody from Grand Junction gets hot.”
Quinn’s apartment was a very desirable two bedroom flat, but it didn’t brag. It was startlingly tidy, jammed with books and filled with touches.
“That’s Mal’s bedroom at the end of the hall.”
“Hmmm.”
“His daughter comes in often. When she does, she sleeps on the air mattress in the living room.” Nice. It was covered with an embroidered bushkashee spread, and every place was inundated with fuzzy and leather pillows.
“You could use a few mirrors. We can’t have an alcove without mirrors. Hark, what’s this? Madame Butterfly, La Bohème?” she said, thumbing through his LPs.
“My buddy, Carlos Martinez, taught me this.”
“Mozart, Glenn Miller, Satch. Neat, but no Beatles?”
“The beginning of the end of music in this century.”
“I hate to say it, but I agree. Between the frantic tribal ritual and the pot and an obvious lunatic shrieking at you; hey man, maybe you and I are not tribal. Had many girls here?”
“I’ve got them marked off and graded on a calendar somewhere. I’ll see if I can find it.”
“I want something serious to drink,” she said.
“I keep a few bottles for the priests.” He opened the cabinet. Ah, here was something to shiver her timbers. Lemon Hart, a Polish paint remover sold as liquor. Plunk, plunk and some grenadine so she wouldn’t have heart failure. Greer, cowboy style, said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, pardner.”
Her eyes widened as she tore to the sink and filled herself with water.
“You son of a bitch!”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, taking a nip of the Lemon Hart and purring, “Ahhh, smooth!”
She threw her arms about him. “Oh, boy, you’re fun. You should have seen that hairy Iranian left tackle I had to do a bio on.”
“Best seat is on the mattress,” Quinn said. “It’s also the safest. I don’t make passes. I just put on my Sunday best manners and wait to be invited.”
Greer flopped on her back and stretched in every direction as he fixed her a sweet, humane gin and tonic. “I feel wonderful. You got a rich daddy?”
“So-so.”
Quinn fixed some of the little pillows around his back to full comfort. Greer sat up, tried her new drink, then tucked her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms about them.
“So, where do you go from here?” she asked.
“Into my senior year. I’m a Maldonado junkie for sure. Aside from his class he does a semi-private ethics course with four students. He has a great way of explaining the human condition in relationship to civilization and Eros. And you?”
“Me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just a skinny ole gal from Junction on a pit stop en route to New York. I’m going to the top in the media. I’m going to be a boss, a giant. I was born with all kinds of wigglies driving this little engine. Maybe Professor Maldonado can explain them to me next semester.”
“You try to shock people with your jock talk. What are you covering up?”
“Ninety-eight pounds and