Dan picked up a badminton racket, experimented with keeping the feathered bird in the air. “He been mixed up with pro football very long?”
“Four or five years. You ever think about taking a crack at that, after graduating?”
“Not much.” Dan tried to keep his tone casual. “Hey, you know what time it’s gettin’ to be?”
“Around eleven.”
“Later than that. Tell by the sun…”
“What’s your hurry?” Coco sat up, surveying him curiously. “Frankie’ll be home for lunch. He’ll be sore if we don’t stay.”
“You stick around, Coco.”
“Thought you said you didn’t have any class until two!”
“Haven’t.” Dan moved across the lawn toward the house. “Just remembered. Date with dentist.” He opened his mouth wide, pointed a finger at it. “Cavity.”
“Goes right up inside your skull, you ask me. Hi-yo, Platinum!”
Dan nearly bumped into a man of forty or so with the wide-shouldered build of a wrestler and the shrewd, sharp face of a prosecuting attorney. His hair was iron gray. He wore beribboned oxford glasses which glittered in the sunlight.
“What goes, you case of retarded development,” Frank Caytron called genially, keeping his eyes on Dan. “Well, well and ding-dong bell! As I live and behave myself. Janny!”
Dan left his mouth open; opened his eyes wide enough to match it. His forehead furrowed. “Huh?” he grunted. Only thing you could do to make yourself look more like an imbecile would be to snatch at your thumbs!
The producer stared.
Coco trotted over. “Slip five to Danny Webb, Frank. He’s the stick of dynamite Stoney threw at Pacific, Sattiday.”
Dan took Caytron’s proffered palm.
The producer chuckled. “Line cracker, aren’t you, Webb?”
“Just one of the wrecking crew.” Dan knew this big shot would think it was odd if he didn’t come back with a query of his own. “Who’d you think I was?”
“For a second, there, you reminded me of a back I saw play in Chicago last year.” Caytron put his arm around Dan’s shoulders. “But that boy wasn’t as heavy as you are. He was only a ring-ding scat-back, besides. He couldn’t crack peanuts. I didn’t see your game Saturday. But I read about it. You must be the answer to the maiden’s prayer.”
“Wish you’d tell Stoney that.” Dan tried not to appear conscious of the fact that Coco was watching both of them like a kid determined not to be fooled by a magician. “Stoney thinks I’m pretty crude raw material. I’ll need a lot of drilling—” he snapped his fingers. “That damn dentist! I’ll have to scramoose, muy pronto!”
“Aw, Dan!” Coco protested. “For cat’s sake…”
“Stay to lunch,” urged Caytron. “Come on now—”
“Can’t. Wish I could. Late now. Just have time to change and buzz back. Sorry. Hope to see you again, sir.”
Dan did a fast duck.
V
The blue convertible clattered along Sunset. Nervous neons jittered through the dusk — green, vermilion, lemon. The famous eating places of The Strip.
“Where wouldst tie on the feed-bag, m’lovely?” Dan’s gesture took in the lot. “Bit O’ Sweden? Bublichki? Tail of the Cock? Larue’s?”
“So ordinary!” Marla snuggled close; there was a nip in the October air. “And I feel so sort of… special.”
“Mocambo, perchance? No? How’s about Ciro’s?” He was solicitous. “Guinea under glass, at the Players?”
“No.” Not until they’d swung southward did she see what she wanted. “There.”
He swung over to the Drive In sign.
“Chicken-in-a-basket,” she murmured. “Mmmmm!”
“Suh-well,” he agreed. “The fact that it costs just about what the tip would in one of those glitter joints, is strictly coincidental. Coke or java?”
While they waited for the girl to bring their order, Marla said:
“Now that we’re sort of engaged—”
“Whaddaya mean! Sort of!” He took measures to dispel any lingering uncertainty.
“I mean, we’re not going to announce it yet or anything…”
Dan said: “I’ll put it in writing if you prefer, Miss Gilman.”
“You dummy! All I’m getting at is, it’s my business now.”
“What?”
“The way they’re giving you the dirty end of the stick, Dan.”
“Don’t be ridic, chick. I’m not getting any raw deal.”
“Just look at it! Here it is, the middle of October. You’ve been in three games already and everyone admits you’re the mainspring of the team!”
“There might be a couple of narrow-minded critics who wouldn’t agree to that,” he waved airily, “such as Stoney Hart and Mason Boyd. But what does their opinion count among so many!”
“I’ve heard Boyd say you were the stuffaroo. And, anyway, the sport writers know who gets put in when our attack bogs down. Dynamite Daniel, nobody else.”
“Granted, granted,” he nodded magnanimously, “I’m super stupendous. Outside of the trifling fact that I’ve only played a total of twenty minutes in three full games — that I haven’t scored any points to date — that Bill Prender has it over me like a tent on defense—”
“No wonder they’re giving you the runaround, if you’re that good-natured about it!” She was indignant. “Even that glum old crumb on the News knows there’s something fishy about the setup. Hart shoving you in the game when he’s desperate for a gain, or to pull the defense in so the passes will connect, and then yanking you out the minute you get the ball down where you could score. Letting Everson or Dominque or Coco Lewis run it over and get the credit!”
“Be fair, baby.” It made him uncomfortable to talk about it; he’d done too much thinking along those lines himself. “When the bunch gets down to paydirt, Stoney’s system calls for deception rather than straight pounding. Deception means that any back who gets the ball must be able to threaten a pass — as well as a smash.”
“You can pass!”
“Not well enough to suit Stoney. He’s been hammering it into me all week. Maybe I’ll get so I can chuck it through that inner-tube at twenty yards. Coco can do it. So can Dommy. I can’t… yet.”
“Neither of them can be depended on to chew off eight yards every time their signal is called, though!” Marla paused in her Operation Drumstick. “Did it ever occur to you fraternity politics might have something to do with it?”
“Let’s don’t start that! That’s the most moth-eaten, frazzle-tazzle excuse—”
“Oh, you schmo! Everson’s a fraternity brother of Hart’s. So’s Prender. Don’t you catch wise?”
He shook his head sadly. “You oughta know better’n to fall for that mahaha. Might be a little feeling among the alumni quarterbacks, concerning their Greek letter heroes — but only difference it makes to the coaches, they lean over backwards to avoid suspicion of giving their own brothers the edge.”
“Why’s Stoney so down on you then? Why does he always let you do the hard work… and give the scoring chance to somebody else?”
“Maybe he’s holding me back for the big games,” Dan answered lightly. “Or maybe he knows I don’t care so much about racking up touchdowns as first downs. To me, football’s fun, hon. Not a business. Takes all the joy outa life, you get too sweat up about it.” He brandished a wing. “Forgetsis. Let’s talk about us.”