Quinn (17 page)

Harvey eyed Will's sodden pantlegs. “I don't know if … well, maybe Leroy's got something,” he said tentatively.

Will knew that the man who shared Harvey's mother's bed was vain about his clothing and would never allow anyone to touch his things, certainly not soggy white folks.

“We'll take a cab from here, Harve,” Will said. “Be back on campus in a few minutes. But thanks.”

“You caught your family some fine dinner,” Quinn said. She held out a near-frozen hand. “I'm proud to know ya'.”

Harvey took it, and the two grinned at one another. Then the boy gave Will an affectionate rap on the arm and went clattering up the stairs with his fish carefully cradled in its newspaper blanket.

“Well, then, it was worth it,” Quinn said with a shiver. “You poor guy, you must be a block of ice.”

Will dug into his clammy jeans to check the money supply. “I have to tell you that my enthusiasm for fishing's somewhat dampened.”

“Glad to hear it,” Quinn said.

Between the two of them they scraped together enough for the long ride back to campus, then took long, hot showers to get their frozen blood circulating again, and recovered without even so much as a runny nose.

Will had reluctantly agreed to accompany Quinn to New York. Heading south on the bus, he asked himself how it had happened. Maybe it was the sad desperation in the way she had asked him, with none of her usual cracks about how she'd written ahead to make sure all the thieves had left town for the annual Mugger's Convention in New Jersey. When he said all right, her eyes had welled up and she buried her face in his sweater.

As they left the Berkshires behind, the snow outside the window seemed to melt away, as if they were watching a series of time exposures. Neither of them had spoken for nearly an hour.

“What about your mother?” Will asked.

“What?” She had been trying to anticipate the questions Ted Manning might ask her tomorrow.

“If you get the job, what about Ann?”

“She's doing so much better. I think it's happening for her, Will. I talked to Jake this morning and they're even going to a party at the O'Malleys' tomorrow night. And I can commute home every weekend.”

He was silent.

“I know you don't want me to get it.”

“That's not fair.”

“It's something I've wanted for, well, forever. I'd be right in the middle of everything, I'd be involved with people who make things
move
, Will.”

“Where the action is.” The words were uncharacteristically sarcastic.

She winced, and he took her hand in apology.

“I hope you snow the hell out of him. Who knows, maybe I'll love it so much you won't be able to force me back to school.”

Quinn lifted his hand to her mouth and held it there. “I'd be your devoted slave forever,” she murmured against his fingers.

The Port Authority terminal was teeming with rush-hour bustle. A stampede of commuters heading for the New Jersey buses hurried past. People jammed against stairways marked “Subway,” pressing impatiently against one another. In the center of the station bewildered tourists turned around and around like windup toys, hoping for a shove in the right direction.

Quinn set down her bag. “Isn't it wonderful?” she exclaimed.

“Let's try this way,” Will said. He steered her toward the nearest exit.

As they emerged onto Eighth Avenue, panhandlers sidled over to them with their grimy hands extended. Quinn looked at them curiously, but Will prodded her past and began walking uptown toward Forty-second Street.

“Manning did a thing on those guys a few weeks ago,” she gasped. “You know, some of them make over a hundred a week, tax-free. Jesus, you can move when you want to. This is the wrong direction, you know. The hotel's downtown.”

At the curbside an elderly man stood beside them with his hand clutching the door handle of a taxi. The door was stiff and the old man was feeble, but finally he pried it open. As he let go to pick up his suitcase, a man in a trench coat, henna toupee askew, hurtled into the backseat and slammed the door behind him. The taxi sped away, and the old man's fingers, still outstretched for the door, trembled.

“We'll get you a taxi,” Quinn said. Then she stepped out onto Eighth Avenue, flagged down a Checker cab, and ushered the old man into the backseat with his suitcase.

Will gaped at her.

“I wish I'd had the presence of mind to snatch the wig off that bastard's head when he flew by,” she said. She spun around on the pavement. Lights flashed, advertising peepshows and pizza. “I love it, I love it, I love it!” she yelled. Pedestrians, unfazed, merely adjusted their paths to accommodate her swirling arms and moved on down the sidewalk. Will shook his head.

The lobby of the Hotel McAlpin on Thirty-fourth Street was humming. Groups of students, knapsacks drooping from overload, stood jabbering in Italian, French, and something liltingly Scandinavian. Perfectly coiffed airline stewardesses threaded their way through the tumult with their automatic smiles.

“I hate to go upstairs,” Quinn said.

Will signed the register. “I hope you gave us a quiet room,” he remarked to the clerk.

While they waited for the bellboy, Quinn's head swiveled from one point of interest to the next, as if she were watching a crazy tennis match. Will leaned against the reservations counter and stared at an empty corner of the lobby near the Thirty-third Street exit. It was good to look at something that didn't move.

In the elevator two young women with heavy makeup kept up a dialogue punctuated with the snap of chewing gum.

“So I walked troo duh door and it's rainin' like a pump,” said the tall girl with the maroon lips. “Like a
pump.”

“Ya shoulda went right home,” answered the round girl, who exuded a cloud of Ambush with every ripple of her jaw muscles.

“Yeah, but I din't.”

The elevator stopped on Nine. Will and Quinn followed the impassive bellhop out into the hallway.

“Was that English, or were they with the foreigners?” Quinn whispered.

“That's what happens after a couple of months in this town. Renders you completely unintelligible.”

Their room was small and dark. Will tipped the bellhop while Quinn plunked her overnight case down on one of the twin beds.

“Let's go over to the Empire State Building,” she said. “It's just down the block, in person.”

Will flopped onto the other bed and kicked off his boots. “Go ahead. The view suits me fine right here.”

“Ugh,” Quinn said, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. “I don't want to go without you.”

“Aren't you worn out?”

“No. This place gives me energy.”

“As if you needed extra.”

Will's voice had begun to fade, and Quinn knew he was already drifting into sleep. “Take a nap and then maybe you'll feel like going. We've got to eat anyway.” She bent to give him a kiss. He draped his arm around her shoulders, pinning her down, but she extricated herself. “Oh, no, you don't. We mess around now and we won't get out of this cave until tomorrow.”

“Yrm,” Will said.

When he woke up, Quinn was sitting at the window staring down at Thirty-fourth Street. Even her back looked eager.

“Don't jump,” he said.

“They're making a movie or something out there, right in front of Macy's. Nobody even pays attention.” She sat down on the edge of his bed and opened her mouth to speak, but before the words could come out, her stomach interrupted with a long, delicate arpeggio. They both listened in fascination.

“Care to repeat that for the nice folks in Staten Island?” Will said, poking her navel.

Her stomach retorted with a short, erratic
harrumph.
They laughed.

“All right already. I'm coming,” Will said, and reached for his boots with a groan.

The desk clerk glanced at their faded denims and recommended a health food store around the corner on Thirty-third Street. It was packed with foreign students who puzzled over their menus, trying to decipher the Swedish or Thai equivalent of “ambrosia deluxe.” Will and Quinn waited a quarter of an hour for two seats together at the counter.

Finally a wheezing waitress plodded toward them carrying menus and a soggy towel that had met misfortune in the carrot juicer. She swiped at the Formica, catapulting crumbs onto Will's lap. Then she coughed on Quinn's menu and retreated to the assorted salads.

“I think I'll have the tuberculosis special,” Quinn whispered. “Look at that chef.”

At the far end of the counter the cook alternated between stuffing pita bread with bean sprouts and blowing his nose. His neck was scaled with a mean-looking skin affliction.

“Let's get out of here before we catch something fatal,” Will said. As they were on their way out the door a janitor struggled to sweep the rubble from under the seats. He was missing half an arm, the left one severed at the elbow. Quinn and Will spotted him at the same moment and flung themselves out onto the street before they burst into laughter.

“It's not funny,” she gasped. “Poor man.”

Will grabbed her hand. “I don't think health food has much of a future. For Christ's sake, let's go find a Howard Johnson's.”

They set the telephone on the floor, removed the table, and slid the beds together. Lying crossways they could avoid sinking into the crack.

She traced the outline of his ear. “It was fun tonight, wasn't it?” she said.

“Yes.”

“It's not so bad, then.”

He didn't respond. Instead he kissed her low on the neck, knowing her nipples would stiffen. His fingers slipped under her blouse to confirm it.

Quinn squirmed against him. “I feel like doing something really sinful.”

“I'm never averse to debauchery in any form,” Will murmured. There was a sprinkling of freckles under her right ear that formed the rough shape of a star. He traced it with his tongue and felt her shiver. Then she rolled away from him and stood up on the bed.

“Whistle me a tune and I'll be Gypsy Rose Lee.”

Will propped himself up on an elbow and began to whistle
The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

“No, you jerk, something sexy.” She began to hum a slow, madeup tune and pulled her sweater off, an inch at a time. The blouse underneath hitched up for a moment as she arched her back, revealing a patch of bare stomach. Her face was hidden by tousled hair, but Will caught a glimpse of mischievous eyes glinting at him. He decided to humor her.

To his whistled rendition of David Rose's
Stripper
, she turned her back and watched him over her shoulder. He knew she was unbuttoning her blouse. To keep her balance on the mattress, she had spread her legs wide apart. The blouse unbuttoned, she let it creep down her back, then gathered it into a ball and turned, half covering her breasts. Her face was flushed and she was not smiling anymore. She tossed the blouse onto the floor, closed her eyes, and clasped her arms behind her head. Her nipples had shrunk into hard little knots, and Will could whistle no longer. He lowered the zipper on her pants, and slid them off her hips. When his hands touched her skin, he could feel her shudder. He held her from behind and buried his face in the pale hair between her legs. She sighed and dropped slowly to her knees. Lying back on the bed, she grasped her thighs with her hands and pulled them farther apart, opening herself wide for him. He stayed with her, moving his tongue against the swollen curls of flesh. He pressed his mouth against her in a deep kiss. She cried out, and he felt her muscles contract in spasms against his lips. Before she was finished, she was urging him up. He pulled off his clothes and lifted himself on top of her. He was so engorged he was afraid of hurting her, and penetrated her slowly. But she wrapped her arms and legs around him and pressed him close to her. Her face was wild and full of pleasure. When she felt him all the way inside, tears spilled down her cheeks, and she said in a choked voice, “I love you. Oh, Will, how I love you.”

Friday morning Quinn dressed for her interview with Ted Manning. Will was lounging in bed watching the weather report on the
Today
show.

“Why is Frank Blair crying?” he wanted to know. “Listen, the man is sobbing on every word.”

Quinn checked her stockings for runs. “The weather report's giving him a frog in his throat. It'd do the same for you.”

“Maybe something tragic happened in his life.”

“Will, you're not going to lie there in bed all day, are you?” She stood at the edge of the bed in her tweed suit and trench coat. He hooked his finger in her belt and pulled her down next to him.

“The young professional woman on the make in the big city,” he commented.

She was pleased. “Is that what I look like?”

“Yup.”

“Really, you're not going to stay here all morning.”

“There's a classic Errol Flynn movie on.”

She pulled away from him and stood up. “You're supposed to be out there on the streets learning to love it.”

“Good luck this morning. Nervous?”

“Yes. Are you going to get off your ass?”

“I'll go, I'll go. You can trust me.” She looked dubious. “A man has to eat breakfast.”

“You'll poke your nose out as far as the health food store and come right back to the room and vegetate by the boob tube.”

“I wouldn't risk my life entering that pit of disease. The only healthy creatures in there are the cockroaches.”

Quinn studied him carefully for a moment, then leaned down for a kiss. He watched her walk to the door. She moved comfortably in high heels. If she would teeter a little, maybe he wouldn't feel so uneasy. He preferred the faded jeans and sneakers.

“I'll see you at the Museum of Modern Art. Twelve thirty.” She waved and disappeared into the dark hallway. Will felt a shock as the door clicked, a sense of loss, as if she had just boarded a ship bound for the other side of the world. Then he got angry. Who did she think she was, dancing out the door like that, Goddamn Loretta Young? A college kid had no right to look so poised and confident. For sure they'd give her the fucking job. They'd eat her up.

He lunged for the television, snapping off Hugh Downs' observations on
Zorba the Greek.
Then he went to the window and peered out at Thirty-fourth Street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Quinn. She emerged onto the sidewalk, nine floors down, newspaper folded under left arm, handbag strap over right shoulder. He watched her standing at the traffic light, then crossing with the crowd. Most everyone was hurrying, probably late for work. She fell easily into the rhythm of the street, effortlessly weaving past the old fat woman with the cane, sidestepping an unruly clutter of schoolchildren, never altering her stride. After a moment she disappeared up Sixth Avenue. He turned away from the window; the bustle on Thirty-fourth Street held no attraction for him once Quinn no longer occupied it. In fact, the idea of subjecting himself to the tumult below dismayed him. He sighed. First a shower, then breakfast. Then he would make his way on foot up Fifth Avenue and give the place his best shot.

Quinn stepped into a self-service coffee shop on Forty-second Street and Sixth Avenue. Behind the counter a Puerto Rican man smeared butter onto slices of toast with the speed and efficiency of a printing press. She imagined the sound of heavy machinery throbbing as the brown fingers churned out stacks of buttered whole wheat, white, and rye. “Next?” he shouted. His eyes remained fixed on his hands' business. No wonder, Quinn thought. A split second's loss of concentration and there'd be dry toast and buttered fingers.

“I'm next,” howled a minute old woman with blue hair whose nose barely cleared the cabinet. “Gimme a bagel, down, with cream cheese, a regular coffee, two sugars.”

Quinn let her “next” pass in the interest of observation. The ritual was a far cry from the chaotic chatter of the cafeteria line back at school. Finally hunger overcame fascination, and she carried her Danish and coffee to a table in the back of the shop. A man in a tattered gray coat hunched at a nearby table. He was unshaven, and a fragment of dirty, frayed shirt-collar poked above his coat. A low, muttering sound emerged from the toothless hole beneath a swollen red nose. Instinctively Quinn inched toward the wall. She forced her attention back to the counter, where customers marched in and out in a matter of seconds, as if they had been scrupulously choreographed.

Suddenly there was a loud snort from the next table. Repugnance succumbed to curiosity, and she glanced at the derelict. He had leaned back in his chair so that Quinn was now able to see
The New York Times
, open to the editorial page, on the table beside his coffee cup. There was another indignant snort. Quinn was too far away to determine which article was provoking such disgust, but for sure she would inspect her own copy later on and try to figure it out. In the meantime she amused herself speculating about the ragged old fellow's history. Perhaps he had once taught nuclear physics at Harvard, or maybe he had sat at the head of a multimillion-dollar conglomerate. What intrigued Quinn most was the fact that seeing the
Times
under that alcohol-ravaged nose had suddenly turned abhorrence into fascination. New York City promised to be full of tricks. It was thrilling.

She wondered if Ted Manning would surprise her too. Occasionally she admitted the possibility that she might be ignored and wind up as somebody's secretary. But in her fantasies she learned everything Manning could teach her, and then took off in a meteoric rise to produce her own program, which, unlike his, would direct its attention primarily to international political figures. More often than not Quinn's fantasies solidified into fact. She had learned to trust her dreams.

The network offices floated atop a glass tower on Sixth Avenue. Quinn felt her throat constrict as the elevator climbed to the thirtieth floor. For the duration of that brief ride she was uncomfortably aware of her status as a college undergraduate with no television experience and a talent for fixing cars. She noticed a grease mark on her trench-coat pocket. The buckle on her left shoe was loose. It would fall off. Then her shoe would fall off. Then she would fall down, probably at the precise moment Ted Manning extended his hand to shake hers.

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped out into a quiet reception area. A middle-aged woman in a soft rose sweater smiled pleasantly at her from behind a typewriter. Quinn felt encouraged.

“Quinn Mallory to see Mr. Manning,” she announced.

“Please have a seat. I'll let them know you're here.”

Quinn sat. She'd gotten this far by pure nerve. The worst she could do was make an ass of herself.

In a few moments a slim woman with the shortest haircut Quinn had ever seen on a female appeared in the doorway at the rear of the reception area.

“Miss Mallory?”

Quinn got to her feet, wishing she'd had her coat dry-cleaned. The woman ushered her down a long hallway.

“You will be meeting with Mrs. Smedley in Personnel. Her office is in Room 3056.”

From behind, Quinn had been marveling at the remarkable brush cut that came to a V at the base of the slender white neck. She stopped in her tracks. “But I'm supposed to have an interview with Ted Manning. Mr. Manning.” She dug into her handbag to produce the letter that was signed by the great man himself.

The woman gave her a cool smile. “Mr. Manning hasn't time for job interviews. He's about to catch a plane for Los Angeles.” She hesitated. “I will say he liked your letter.”

“Are you MK?” Quinn asked. “At the bottom of his stationery, the initials after TM.”

“Yes. Here we are. Oh!”

Around the corner hurtled a man, briefcase in one hand, suitcase in the other. He braked and tried to dodge Quinn, but in her attempt to avoid a collision, she moved in the same direction. They crashed. Quinn's handbag shot down the hall at sixty miles per hour, and the man's suitcase snapped open. Underwear and shirts tumbled out onto the marble floor.

“Christ!” Ted Manning said. He had grasped Quinn by the arms in a wild dance as they tried to regain their balance. He let go now. Her face was red with excitement and confusion.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “Are you?”

“Yes, but my intimate lingerie is all over the floor.” MK had already begun repacking, slim legs folded up like a slide rule under her compact derriere.

Carpe diem,
Quinn thought, and took a deep breath.

“I'm so glad you ran into me,” she said, carefully deadpan. “I'm Quinn Mallory. I wrote you a letter about a job.” Manning looked blank. “I have some suggestions about your show …”

“Ah, yes, the cheeky Miss Mallory. I can't resist anyone who doesn't think I'm perfect.” He appraised her face and body. “You don't look like a co-ed.”

“I'm very mature,” she said, holding eye contact.

“What do you want to do around here anyway?” he asked.

“I want you to teach me how to be you.”

Manning laughed. He bent down, stuffed the last of his underwear into the suitcase, and snapped it shut. MK rose. Quinn noticed that Manning didn't thank her.

“Tell Smedley I'm sending Miss Mallory back when I'm finished with her.” He handed Quinn his briefcase, grabbed her arm, and propelled her down the hallway at such speed that she was practically skating across the floor. “We'll do this on the run. I've got to catch a plane.”

Manning dashed out onto Sixth Avenue, hailed a cab, and ushered Quinn into the backseat. “Pan Am building. Heliport,” he said, and slammed the door. “The limo's on the fritz,” he explained to Quinn. “Lousy timing.”

Quinn's hair was disheveled and she was perspiring and breathing hard. Ted Manning, on the other hand, looked like an advertisement for Hathaway shirts.

“What?” he asked.

She blinked at him.

“I thought you asked me something.”

“Actually, I was wondering how come you don't sweat.” Quinn drew her fingers through her hair in an attempt to subdue it.

“Television personalities aren't allowed to. Look what happened to Nixon when his upper lip glistened through the Kennedy debates.”

The cab careened across Fifty-seventh Street while Manning talked in his famous honeyed voice. Quinn studied him. An ordinary-looking man, really. Mid-forties, medium build, medium brown hair. Face attentive but not intrusive. Warm hazel eyes. Only his tan and the devastating smile hinted at celebrity. And there was a peculiar electric tension surrounding him that was compelling.

Perhaps it was confidence, the prestige of his position. She wondered if the extraordinary personal dynamism preceded his fame or if it had developed as a result of his career? The image of John Kennedy's face flickered in Quinn's mind. Whatever the quality, Kennedy had been luminous with it.

Quinn was aware of being thoroughly scrutinized as well. Manning had asked her the typical questions: family, schools, hobbies, grades. If he followed his typical pattern, she expected him to zero in soon on the things that really counted. The cab began its ascent through a tall archway and up the ramp that curled around 230 Park Avenue to the heliport entrance of the Pan Am building. In just a moment the interview would be over.

“When are you going to start prying into my darkest secrets?” she asked him.

Manning smiled. “Right about now. You sound as if you're looking forward to it.”

The cab stopped. Quinn sighed. “Too bad,” she said. “Once in a while I can be incredibly interesting.”

“Oh, you're coming with me.”

“A helicopter!”

“You'll like it. Come on.” He got out and paid the driver through the window. Quinn saw him glance at her legs as she climbed out of the backseat.

“How will I get back?”

“Cab.”

Inside, the elevator whooshed up the shaft like a rocket ship. Quinn wondered if her dizziness resulted from the rapid climb or from the proximity of Ted Manning. Old cliches clicked through her head like ticker tape:
it takes my breath away, it sweeps me off my feet,
the “it” being comfortably impersonal.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, and they rushed through the glass-enclosed waiting room. A blue and white helicopter stood waiting with its huge rotary blade revolving slowly. Inside, there were only four other passengers, businessmen who looked practically identical. Three out of the four held their briefcases on their knees in precisely the same position.

The propeller whirred, and soon they lifted off the rooftop. For a moment they seemed to hover at the edge of the building like a gigantic hummingbird. Quinn stared down at Park Avenue while her heart lodged under her larynx. She tried to swallow, but the lump stuck there, thumping. Finally, slowly, they began to gain altitude, as if the city had finally relinquished its constraints on them and set them free. The massive buildings were toys constructed with blocks on a living-room floor. Down in the harbor the Statue of Liberty was a tiny friend, waving good-bye. They crossed the East River with its bridges like spider webs stretched across the water.

“What do you read?” Manning asked her.

“Nonfiction, mostly, but I want to change that.” The helicopter was loud. She had to lean close to him to make herself heard without shouting. Manning could feel her breath beside his ear.

“Like what?”

“Games People Play.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Pretty silly.”

“No novels?”

“No, except for my English course. Unless you count
In Cold Blood.”

“What did you think of that?”

“Brilliant.”

“Did you see the Capote interview a couple of months ago?”

Quinn nodded.

“Well?”