Putnam identified us to this group without introducing any of them by name. “Are we all here?” he wondered.
“Except for the Governor,” Fat Cat told him. “He had a rehearsal, but it should be over.”
“Here he is now,” the Golfer said as the door which Putnam had shut opened and closed again.
I recognized the man who entered immediately. Besides being the governor of a Southwestern state, he was one of the shakers and movers of the Republican Party. His power was so consolidated that few decisions in the areas of energy, military appropriations, or highway subsidies were taken at the national level without a representative of the President’s consulting with him first. He was wearing a body stocking with a tutu and angel wings. His legs were shaven. The Governor had really shapely legs.
“Sorry, gentlemen. I didn’t have time to change,” he greeted us.
“Perfectly all right, Governor,” the General assured him. “How’s the show going, anyway?”
“It would be going a lot better if Caspar didn’t have two left feet. If he runs the Defense Department the way he performs entrechats, the country’s in serious trouble. He’s throwing off the whole chorus line in the wood nymph number.”
He crossed his legs, flashing high thigh under the tutu, and lit a cigar. “Did I miss anything?” he inquired.
“No, Governor. We were just about to begin,” Putnam told him.
“Now, gentlemen, as I understand it—” Fat Cat, a take-over type, led off the discussion. “-our new scout here, Mr. Duworski—”
“Dubrowski,” Rhino corrected.
“Sorry. Mr. Dubinsky here has found us a quarterback. That right, Mr. Balinsky?”
“Dubrowski.”
“Whatever.” Fat Cat was annoyed. If people didn’t like the way you pronounced their name, why didn’t they go back where they came from? “But you have found us a quarterback, haven’t you, Mr. Kaminsky?”
“Dubrowski,” Rhino muttered to himself. “Yes sir, I have. And I can tell you that Terry Niemath has more potential than any new quarterback I’ve seen in years.”
“Terry Niemath!” the golfer exclaimed. “I like that name! It has a lot of promise!”
“Sounds like a serious, God-fearing fellow,” the General agreed. “Prayer breakfasts and all that. Is he born again like that other Terry? What’s his name?”
“Bradshaw, sir,” Rhino told him. “No, Terry Niemath’s not born again. As a matter of fact, Terry Niemath’s not—”
“More the fun-loving, flashy type, like Joe Namath,” the golfer supposed. “Well, we can live with that. It’s good box office.”
“I hope he doesn’t have Joe’s weak knees,” the Governor worried, plumping up the stuffing in the brassiere he was wearing under his body stocking. (I wondered if he’d snitched it from his sister.) “And I hope he doesn’t chase skirts like Joe always did.”
“The knees are fine,” Rhino assured him. “And there’s no problem with girls. The problem is—”
“Yes, tell us,” Fat Cat interrupted. “Some sort of sex problem, isn’t it? Isn’t that why we hired Mr. Vector here?”
“Victor!” I snarled.
“Umm, yeah. The problem . . .” Rhino shot me a pleading look.
I shook my head slightly, but firmly. There was no way we could pass Terry off as a man with this bunch. “Tell them,” I told Rhino.
“Terry Niemath is a chick!” Rhino blurted out.
“I beg your pardon?” The confusion on Putnam’s face spelled out poultry.
“He means a girl, a woman,” I explained.
There was a stunned silence while the all-male members of the all-male Baroquian Club raised their eyebrows at one another. The Governor lowered his eyes and contemplated his fingernail polish. The Arab, who had not spoken before, broke the silence now.
“A female quarterback,” he said in perfect English, “is against the teachings of Allah, the laws of nature, and the rules of professional football.”
“That about sums it up, Mr. Dumasski!” Fat Cat’s tone was nasty. “What the hell are we supposed to do with a woman quarterback anyway?”
“There’s nothing in the official rulebook against it,” Rhino told him. “I looked it up.” He took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t know about Allah, or nature,” he added. It was obvious that he figured he was going to be fired anyway. “And the name is Dubrowski. That’s spelled D-u-b-r-o-w-s-k-i. Pronounced Dubrowski. I get real hostile when mother-fornicators like you coitus it up!”
“What was that last?” The golfer cupped a hand to his ear.
“He called him a mother-fucker for fucking up his name,” the Governor explained.
“Oh, Grace, I just love it when you talk dirty!” The General pinched the Governor’s left buttock.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Putnam restored them to order. “We don’t have time for frivolity now.”
“Nonsense, Charles.” The General took exception. “That’s what the Baroquian Club is all about. Fun and games. Relaxation. Letting our hair down. After all, we’re all Old Boys, and Old Boys will be Old Boys!”
“Nevertheless, General, I must insist that we get back to the matter at hand.”
“Who the devil are you, Charles, to insist on anything?” The General was piqued.
“A retired government employee who has kept up his files, General.” Putnam’s smile cut his throat. “Now, may we proceed?”
“Of course, Charles,” the General muttered. “Of course.”
“All the same,” Fat Cat said, “how can we countenance a female quarterback? We, who belong to a club that not only bars women as members or guests, but won’t even let them on the premises as waitresses?”
“That’s right,” the Arab concurred. The Golfer and the Governor nodded their heads in agreement. The General looked to Putnam for a signal.
“On the contrary, gentlemen,” Putnam told them. “This may well be a God-given chance to improve the club’s image with the public.”
“What the devil do you mean, Charles?” Fat Cat wanted to know.
“The Baroquian Club has been made to look foolish because of its all-male politics.” Putnam ticked off his points briskly. “This reflects badly on us as members. It reflects on all of our members and some guests as well in their areas of expertise. Unwanted publicity revealing our practice of occasionally dressing up as women has made the public doubt our abilities to run our government, deploy our armed forces, distribute our natural resources, manufacture our automobiles, produce our motion pictures, grow our grapes, and so forth. Our image, in short, is quite tarnished. But suppose a group of prominent Baroquian Club members such as we became the driving force behind the gender integration of professional football? Overnight, gentlemen, we would become civil liberties heroes—forward looking, fair-minded, unbiased men of strong conviction! As a group, we would be likened to Branch Rickey introducing Jackie Robinson to professional baseball16 .”
“Is this woman black?” The General was confused.
“No, General. I was just drawing a parallel,” Putnam clarified. “And don’t forget, gentlemen, that we also get a competent quarterback, something the Whittier Stonewalls badly need.”
“I don’t understand, Charles.” Fat Cat was deliberately slow on the uptake. “If we won’t let women in our club, how can we be in favor of letting one play on our professional football team?”
“If we’re for democracy, how could we justify putting the Shah on the throne17 ?” Putnam responded softly.
“If we’re against welfare, how can we justify bailing out Chrysler18 ?” the Golfer reminded him.
“If we’re for conserving energy, how can we justify the use of electricity to light up outdoor advertising?” the Arab added.
“I see.” Fat Cat nodded his head. “Like our humanitarian policies in Vietnam19 .”