Six Point Bombshell

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.”

“About you. Here I am engaged to you — and I know practically nothing about you!”

“Well… I like Count Basie’s records and blonde hair; apple pie with vanilla ice cream… and blonde hair—”

She poked him with her elbow. “I mean… your family. You’ve never told me a thing about them.”

“Not much to tell. My old man isn’t an airplane engineer like yours — he’s just a sawyer.”

“A… what?”

“Boss sawyer. In a lumber mill. He’s a good one, too. And he’s still got all his fingers after thirty years of it. You’ll like pop. He’s rough and tough, but you never have any trouble figuring out what he thinks.” Dan looked at her. “He’ll like you, too. Plenty.”

“And your mother, Dan?”

“Ah now, there’s quite a party, that mom.” His smile broadened. “She’s got it to spare. Her last letter asked me about ‘this Marla girl you’re so interested in.’ I’m gonna send her one of those snaps I took up in Griffith Park.”

“Let me, Dan. I want to write her, anyway.”

The girl came for their trays. He was glad of the interruption. He hadn’t figured out what to tell Marla if she asked for his home address.

Sooner or later, he’d have to reach a decision about that.

But maybe he could put it off just a little longer.