“Exactly,” the General told him. “Past history, but that’s exactly right.”
“Then it can be justified.”
“Of course,” Putnam continued. “More than justified. It will divert attention from our anti stand in the E.R.A.20 “
“Is that still around?” the Golfer wondered.
“I don’t think it’s going to go away,” the Arab told him. “The houris of my harem had a bonfire the other night to burn their veils.”
“My wife burned my dinner,” the Governor remembered, “when she found out the legislature tabled the vote on the amendment.”
“I can see it now.” The General looked to Putnam for approval. “The headlines in the papers, I mean. ‘Elite Group of Baroquian Club Members Sponsor First Woman Quarterback in Professional Football’!”
“ ’The Right to Organizational Privacy Does Not Mean the Right to Discriminate, Vow Baroquians’!” The Golfer picked up on the theme.
“ ‘A Woman’s Place Is in the Huddle, Not the Baroquian Club, Pro Fem Lib Members Declare’!” Even Fat Cat became part of the general enthusiasm.
“We will steal the fire away from them!” The Arab’s eyes were aglow. “While the activists talk, we Baroquians will act!”
“Wait a minute!” Only the Governor had reservations. He smoothed his body stocking nervously over his padded bosom. “Last year, we invited the team to our annual show. Does this mean this quarterback will be invited this year? I mean, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing my wood nymph erotic dance with some woman watching! Besides, it wouldn’t be right for a lady to hear all those dirty jokes on the program.”
I thought of Terry Niemath and swallowed a laugh.
“Miss Niemath will not be invited to the show,” Charles Putnam reassured him. “Mr. Dubrowski will see to that. Won’t you, Mr. Dubrowski?”
“Sure. But there’s one other thing that ought to be --”
And you’ll take care of all the other details, won’t you, Mr. Dubrowski?”
“Well, yeah. But I’m trying to tell you there’s another—”
“Then it’s all settled.” Putnam stood up. “And since we have other matters to discuss, I wonder if Mr. Dubrowski and Mr. Victor would mind excusing themselves now?”
“You’re not listening, Mr. Putnam,” I told him. “Rhino here is trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you there’s another problem. Another sex problem.”
“Another sex problem?” Putnam sat down. “Explain, please, Mr. Victor.”
“Our lady quarterback has an over-developed libido,” I told him succinctly.
“You mean --?”
“She’s a nymphomaniac,” Rhino defined, not having to worry about what Stephanie Greenwillow might think.
“Insatiable,” I confirmed.
There was a long silence broken by the Arab and the General, speaking together. “Allah save us!” said the Arab. “Oh, shit!” said the General.
“I don’t see where her private life need concern us.” Fat Cat was calmer.
“If we’re worried about our image,” pointed out the Governor, biting his knuckle and smearing his lipstick, “it sure as diddly-poo has to concern us.”
“Couldn’t we get one of our Moral Majority preachers to have a talk with her and make her see that virtue is its own reward?” suggested the Golfer.
“I don’t think that would work,” I told him.
“I’ve got it!” The General sprang to his feet. “We’ll have her spayed!”
“I don’t think she’ll go for that either,” was my opinion.
“Why not?” The General pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand excitedly. “I once had this bulldog bitch, horniest critter you ever saw, and we took her to the vet and, after he altered her, she was chaste as Maggie Thatcher.”
“I don’t think she’ll go for it.” He obviously hadn’t heard me the first time.
“Hell, we didn’t ask this bulldog bitch! We just hauled her on down to the vet and did it!”
“I wouldn’t suggest you try that, General.” Rhino spoke up. “This female canine is one tough football player.”
“What do you suggest, Mr. Victor?” It was Putnam who spoke, but now all eyes turned to me, the Man from O.R.G.Y., the sex expert.
“Somebody will just have to ride herd on her every minute of the day and night. Otherwise, the papers will get hold of it, and you gentlemen will look more foolish than you do because of the waitress brouhaha.”
“Would you be willing to take on that job for us, Mr. Victor?”
“Hell, no!”
“We sure would be appreciative, Mr. Victor.” The Governor batted his false eyelashes at me.
“And generous too, Mr. Factor,” Fat Cat added.
“Victor!”
“Very generous.” The Arab’s eyes measured my weakness. “Doesn’t that interest you?”
Chivas Regal. . . beautiful women . . . lots of money... these are a few of my favorite things.
“Yeah,” I surrendered. “It interests me.”
“It will not be a problem.” Charles Putnam brought the discussion to a close. “We will work out the details between us later, Mr. Victor, and then you and Mr. Dubrowski and Ms. Niemath can proceed to Whittier to join the team. Will that be satisfactory?”
It would be. Rhino and I were eased smoothly from the room and entrusted to another formally dressed butler whose job it was, I presume, to be sure we left the premises. As we went out the front door, I glanced back over my shoulder.
Two middle-aged men in Shirley Temple dance outfits stood licking giant lollipops. “Dig those hoofers.” Rhino had also spotted them.
“Hoovers21 , not hoofers,” I told him. “One of those guys is top ranking FBI, and the other’s a CIA bigwig.”
“That kind of excretion going down sort of makes me curious,” Rhino remarked.
“Curious? Curious about what?”
“Well,” he answered, “I wonder who’s Kissinger now?”
CHAPTER SIX
The first challenge of my new job presented itself sooner than I expected. Terry Niemath, Rhino, and I had taken a night flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Another rental car, this one a Porsche (why, I wondered, did Charles Putnam always lean towards German products?), was waiting for us at the airport. I drove it thirteen miles east to the slopes of the Puente Hills, where the expanding city of Whittier once nestled but now sprawls.
Whittier was founded in 1887 by Quakers. The Quakers who followed were mostly farmers, and so Whittier became a farming community. World War II changed both the pacifist solidarity of the area and its bucolic ambience. The farms were replaced by factories manufacturing oil well equipment, machine parts and products made of various steel alloys, car radiators, oil burners, chemicals, plastics, cutlery, and parts for commercial and military aircraft. A miniature Pittsburgh of the Far West, Whittier today has grown to a metropolis of over three hundred thousand people.
I drove through it towards the northwest section, which is bounded by Ross Hills Memorial Park, one of the largest cemeteries in the United States. Not far from it was the residence hotel where the Whittier Stonewalls were lodged during the training season and during the regular season when they weren’t on the road. It was a large, squarish structure on a quiet, tree-lined street near the stadium. The inside lobby was clean, airy and unpretentious. It was after midnight, and the desk clerk was sleepy but polite. He didn’t chew gum—always the mark of a class hostel. He was expecting us and had our room assignments and keys ready.
Rhino and I were sharing room 310. Terry was in room 318, down the hall. Naturally, I assumed that hers was a private room, and that she’d be alone in it.
Lesson One for the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth: Never assume!