Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

Quinn heard her, smelled her, and felt her touch on his shoulder. He turned on his bar stool and smiled apprehensively. Greer Little-Crowder, wearing exquisite pearls, wore no man’s tailored jacket. Her dress was soft and luscious, see-through violet, and gold bracelets anchored her wrists. She was still very slender in her fifties, and had never forgotten how to focus on her endowments.

Quinn’s eyes flashed on her tiny, volcanic breasts, then the hair, not straight anymore, but coiffured with stunning highlight streaks. Quinn opened his arms, and she tucked in. Thin girls wrap up so neatly, he thought.

“Jesus,” Greer said, “you look lousy.”

“You look absolutely delicious,” he replied.

Greer touched his cheek and let her fingers run through Quinn’s hair. Was she saying, “Fasten your seat belt?” Not necessarily. The two on occasion had been at political or media or civic affairs. Otherwise, neither attempted to contact the other on a personal basis.

Greer Little-Crowder had risen to be one of the top women executives in the country. She was a media wizard, a CEO of Warren Crowder’s conglomerate, a queen of the world.

“Can I get you something, ma’am?” the bartender asked.

“Vodka rocks with a twist,” she said.

As some reporters and photographers drifted in, Quinn pointed at a booth out of their sight line. The bartender became so excited, he half spilled her drink. “Hey! You’re Governor O’Connell!”

Quinn held his finger to his lips. Their secret. “Your money is no good here, sir.”

Greer dipped the tip of her little finger into the vodka and slowly traced it about her fawning lips.

“Knock it off,” Quinn said.

“Quinn, have you forgotten we did it once in a little hallway between the bar and the kitchen .. . what was the name of that restaurant?”

It still rang a bell. “There’s a buffalo herd of media coming in looking for someplace to stampede,” she went on. “Did you think I might show up?”

“Always passes through one’s mind. But Waterloo?”

“That’s where the action is, bubba.”

“Run, Quinn, run,” he said. “See Quinn run .. . see Quinn jump .. . jump, Quinn, jump. I am acting out the role of reluctant candidate ... or am I that reluctant?”

“Glad to see me? Mad? Sad? Thinking bad?”

“All of the above,” he said, taking her hand but avoiding her eyes.

“Mostly sad,” his voice croaked.

“It’s been ghastly,” she said. “You should have been in the news room over the holidays. The land is permeated with fear and grief. It has been as though one of those black holes in the universe sucked us in. This tragedy was so terrible you start thinking that the day of a nuclear bomb has got to follow.”

“We lost thirty scouts and scout masters from Colorado. In the middle of singing the anthem or at a cocktail party, people suddenly break into convulsive weeping. It was when the parents begged me: “Governor, is there anything left of my son? Just a finger, anything?” I, uh, got a little bit unsteady, I have to admit. You remember Dan’s Shanty? I just sat crumpled in a corner, getting close to the edge of losing it. I was a madman in a cell tying on the biggest drunk in the Guinness Book of Records. I told Rita I wasn’t coming out until I could walk out and function as their governor .. . look, you hear this story all over the country.”

Greer caught sight of the bartender heading toward them with another man and patted his hand to be quiet.

“I just had to tell the boss,” the bartender said.

“What an honor,” the owner said.

“My pleasure,” Quinn said, giving him a hearty handshake. “Governor,” the man said, “you have to get us through this Four Corners Massacre.”

The words blistered Quinn’s ears. He managed a sigh and a wan grin.

“Governor O’Connell, the restaurant will be filled with press people soon. I would be honored if you’ll let me prepare a special dinner for you and the lady. I’ll bring it up to your room.”

Quinn looked at Greer, who nodded.

“You’ve got a deal.”

“And I’ve got to tell you something, Governor,” the owner said. “This here was my father’s booth, God rest his soul.” He pointed at a photo on the wall. “Nobody’s got their picture on this wall except for my father with Joe DiMaggio. I want yours, too.”

Quinn scribbled the owner’s address and promised a personalized signature.

“Go by the side door. There’s an alleyway to the hotel. Leave your drinks, I’ll send up a couple of pitchers.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Quinn said.

The penthouse suite of the Millard Fillmore Hotel was not all that corny. Old, deep window seats and high molded plaster and mahogany furniture and clanking radiator pipes all seemed in rhythm with a new snowfall outside. It was lovely.

Quinn changed into a running suit and woolly slippers. In a few moments Greer appeared in chic comfort. She went to him and deployed her body against his for maximum contact. They kissed deliciously. Her hand took his and guided it down, between her legs. Quinn held up his other hand weakly to stop.

“That’s got to be it,” Quinn said.

“Before we won’t do again what we won’t do,” she said. “Oh, brother, could we create a scandal.”

“I had hoped that after the humiliation of Clinton, America might have gone beyond such things, but oh, boy, would we sell newspapers. I say, not with a great deal of pride, that we of the boomer generation wanted American society to come out of the closet: stop hypocrisy, be politically correct, no N word, no heroes, no goals, except money. Well, my son understood what homosexuality was in the fourth grade and listened to language on TV that the Marines wouldn’t even use. I think we’d better go back into the closet on some things. Greer, you own a piece of me, forever, but Rita is my life. That’s the real reason.”

The rebuff to Greer was soft and simple but, she knew, final.

“So how’s life by Greer?” he asked.

“Mrs. Warren Crowder or Ms. Greer Little-Crowder? I’ve always given you a wide berth because moments like this one can lead to self-destruction. Anyhow, when your mother and father came to New York and patched me up, years ago, there was no stopping me. Brilliant as he is, Warren was an ignorant innocent about a lot of things, including the birds and the bees.”

“Hadn’t he shed a couple of wives?”

“That’s right, but Greer baby came to play and to stay.”

Pitchers of martinis and vodka came with a lovely bottle of Chianti.

Greer sipped and looked sad like a torch singer at the piano. “Warren wanted a tour guide through the hellfire clubs. I was better than good. I did things to please him and fetched my price:

Mrs. Crowder, stock options, and the top woman in media in the country. You cannot imagine how rich I am, Quinn. Actually, Crowder owes more money than most third world countries .. . but wealth is counted not by what you have, but by what you owe. You see, his banks have to keep him solvent because if he ever defaults, he will take down a dozen banks with him and shake a number of economies.”

“Well, now, that’s power, isn’t it?”

“I care for Warren. I love his ruthlessness. So what if he found a little of his lost youth in menage^ He was a voyeur and we touched the edge of the drug scene, but Warren didn’t want anything that would fuzz his mind. After a while, even my dance of the seven veils became a bit static, so we drifted into a real marriage with a real calling, making hundreds of millions. I’m pretty straight now. I go into heat every once in a while. Maybe I’m still looking for Quinn.”