Man Who Loved God

Durocher.

He wasn’t really all that “old.” Somewhere in his early fifties, she guessed. Although she and Lou had been intimate, they’d never gotten personal. While she was familiar with the others’ backgrounds, she’d never delved into Lou’s. She had always assumed it wouldn’t prove to be fascinating-after all, he wasn’t. Hell, she could probably get him to admit he was her baby’s father even if she’d never had intercourse with him! She laughed and blew water away from her face.

She began to take stock: what did she know about Lou and what could she speculate about with reasonable certainty?

Lou Durocher was walking proof of the Peter Principle: He had risen to the level of his incompetence. He would have made a good … what? Golf pro-though not under tournament pressure. No, just about competent to instruct men and women who wanted to improve enough to qualify as duffers.

He was good at glad-handing, acquaintances and strangers alike. He was good at meetings, as long as he didn’t have to chair them. He was trim and fit, blond and usually bland. He was enthusiastic once he knew that was the appropriate response. Hell, he even looked like Dan Quayle.

But most of all, Lou was Catholic. She was convinced that was what had triggered “the grand experiment.” At first, Tom Adams had been willing to let nature take its course. Greed, ambition, backbiting, backstabbing, dirty dealing-the natural selection of those who were aggressively proficient at these enterprises composed most of the hierarchy of Adams Bank and Trust.

For no rationally sound reason-was it that so few Catholics were really good at these capitalistic, winner- take-all games? — Adams set out to place a fellow Catholic into a position of power.

Why he had selected Lou Durocher as the guinea pig was unclear. But select him and stick with him Adams had. Adams also took the blue ribbon for bullheadedness in believing-as no one else did-that Durocher one day would make it.

Of course Barbara saw through all this from the beginning. Except that Lou Durocher was one of the three execs, Barbara would never have given him a second look. She needed him to fill out her hand.

The doorbell! He must be more nervous than usual; he was almost half an hour early.

It wouldn’t do to go the door nude. Lou became confused too easily as it was. She threw on an opaque white robe. With that, she could go in any number of directions.

She opened the door to a visibly shaken Lou Durocher. “Barbara! Barbara!” he exclaimed before even entering the apartment.

“Get in here,” she said in a peevish tone.

He did, depositing his hat and coat on a nearby chair.

“Sit down,” Barbara commanded, “and get hold of yourself. This isn’t the end of the world.”

“It could be the end of my world.” It was an overstatement to be expected from this emotionally slight man. “Are you sure … I mean, are you certain you’re pregnant?”

“Yes. The doctor and I are certain I’m pregnant. Not just a little pregnant-completely pregnant, and a bit more than seven months till delivery.”

“That’s all the time we’ve got!” He was breathing heavily and perspiring profusely.

“What do you want? The most you can have is nine months for gestation. Given that, we’ve got about as much time as we could possibly have.”

He slumped into a chair and began wringing his hands.

This not unexpected behavior she could handle coming from Lou. Now that she was dealing with a distraught weakling, she contrasted his reaction with that of Martin Whitston and Jack Fradet.

Both the latter had been cool from the outset. And why not? Each knew he could not be the father. Now near to hyperventilating, Lou certainly hadn’t even considered that he might not be the father.

She decided not to wait any longer to settle this matter. Her recent experience with Martin and Jack had taught her not to waste time on secondary issues. Cut to the chase: somebody was the goddamn father of her baby! It wasn’t Martin or Jack. And it wasn’t the presently deceased Al. It had to be either Lou or Tom.

My God, she thought, what a lineup! Could she have overstocked her pool of lovers?

No pussyfooting! “Okay: How did you do it?”

“What?”

“You heard me: How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get me pregnant. I’m not the Virgin Mary. God didn’t do it and I didn’t do it all by myself. So don’t stand there and tell me you’re sterile or something. How did you do it?”

“Sterile!” He was indignant. “Of course not! How can you, of all people, say a thing like that? When have I not been ready for you? Why it’s all I can do to hold on without premature ejaculation! I’d rip that thing off you and take you on the floor right now if we weren’t talking about a really serious matter.”

Sure, sure, she thought. If he tried the floor bit, he’d probably trip and fall through a window.

She had to admit he had no trouble with erection. But that, of course, wasn’t the question. “I’m not talking about getting a hard-on. I’m talking about getting a baby. Your baby. From your sperm.” She shook her head. “You must have one helluva sperm count.”

He smirked. “Yeah … how ‘bout that? I’ve got ’em, I can tell you that. The sperm count is part of my annual checkup. I insist on it. And you know, babe: I’m all man!”

Her reaction was a silent but heartfelt, Ha!

“Okay then,” she said, “we know you’re always hot to trot. That’s not the point. The point is: how did I get pregnant?”

“I don’t know. God, I don’t know. You took every precaution. We both did. What more could either of us have done? Even with’ everything we did, something must’ve gone wrong. “Yeah, that’s it.” He nodded vigorously. “Something went wrong.”

It was a puzzle, she had to admit. Not unheard of, but most rare, given the amount of protection she and her partners always used.

Of course this didn’t prove that Lou actually was the father of her child, just that there was no cogent argument against that possibility. But what a relief after yesterday’s shutout!

It was such a relief that Barbara almost was willing to forgo the other two areas of inquiry. But what the hell; she’d gone this far, might as well go the distance.

She stretched out on the sofa. He didn’t stir from the chair he occupied, his head drooping as if he were a boy about to be lectured.

“Well, Lou, look at it this way: it could be worse.”

“‘Worse.’“ He raised his head and looked at her incredulously. “How could it get worse than this?”

“Al really should’ve lived. And if he had, pretty soon he’d be nailing your hide to the wall. You’d be the other man in a divorce complaint. He would’ve seen that you paid not only child support, but with your reputation too.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Al’s death” — she paused for effect-” appears to be more than a coincidence. It’s downright convenient!”

“Huh?”

“Convenient that he’s not here to point his finger at you.”

Lou didn’t respond.

“Not only is he not here to accuse you, he’s also not here to displace you.”

“What?”

“You must have heard it, Lou.” She sat upright on the sofa. “There’s been a lot of talk about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

“What?”

“The way the talk went, if Al had made a success of the new bank venture-and he would have-he would have been promoted. He would have been given an exec’s position.”

Lou smiled nervously. “There’s only three executive positions. And they’re all filled.”

Barbara smiled in return. “Then one of them would have to be vacated.”

His perspiration increased. “What are you saying?”