The Sporting Club by Thomas McGuane Page A

Ontario, cases of smuggled Moulson’s ale or Cincinnati Cream or a small wheel of Black Diamond cheddar with a rind that cut away as cleanly as apple peel. This was a real service, unlike her secretarial work; and when Quinn saw the fine gold upright bottles of ale in his refrigerator next to the cloth-wrapped wheel of cheddar, he sometimes vowed to spread-eagle Mary Beth in the office and prong her devoutedly. But when he considered how he would get on with the day’s work afterward, he reneged; because the vision of Mary Beth, rumpled and wearing a bonny, sated, pioneer grin was too bright on his mind. So he kept taking the cheese, the ale and, one fall, an oppressive, oily Indian sweater, thick and environmental; and Mary Beth remained doughty, vigorous, inefficient. She wrote “cheque” for “check” like an incorrigibly mandarin stylist and said “hoose,” “roond” and “broon” for “house,” “round” and “brown.” Eventually, when she was sure that Quinn would be only considerate, she began to entertain callers, salesmen, accountants, file clerks; at first a great many, most of them in blue serge suits, the kind of shoes issued for parade dress in the armed services, and discreet crew cuts of indeterminate color. Then a steady repeating few took Mary Beth out for long lunch hours from which she returned with the sated look Quinn had been obliged once to visualize for himself. Things got quiet and Quinn found he could go to his office and get his work done, though he sometimes met strangers in the hall or found condoms hovering in the toilet. He learned at last to live with it all.
    Quinn left Mary Beth on the phone today with instructions to make a priority list of things he had to do and send it with appropriate files. He issued this directive precisely but with a sense of fighting back boredom. “Count on me,” Mary Beth told him.
    *   *   *
    He had given Olson time to sober up. He walked to the small house to learn what had come of Stanton’s visit. He cautioned himself against giving anything away if Stanton had said nothing. Olson’s pride was a touchy and complicated matter. When he got there, he found the gate ajar and a cat slumbering in the yard and the Springer spaniel nowhere in sight. Then from the interior of the porch a man materialized in a white T-shirt, its right sleeve rolled around a pack of Lucky Strikes whose red spot showed as though staring. The man was heavy, maybe thirty-five.
    â€œIs Jack in?”
    â€œJack is retired.” The man came down the steps linking his fingers behind his head and thus revealing a bevel of flaccid belly.
    â€œRetired? To where?”
    â€œHe mentioned Florida.”
    â€œFlorida—”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWhat’d he want to go to Florida for?”
    â€œHe heard about an opening for an alligator wrestler.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe man always wins. The alligator doesn’t know they’re wrestling. He allows himself to be tied in knots.”
    â€œI’m not interested in alligator wrestling as such. I—”
    â€œAll I can tell you is that he looked like he could wrestle alligators when he left. He was that mad.”
    â€œBut you say Florida—”
    â€œOh, I don’t know for sure. I’m taking a wild guess. I don’t see anything wrong with Florida. Hot in the summer they say.”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” He was suspicious.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œI’m the new manager. My name is Earl Olive.”
    â€œWho hired you?”
    â€œJack Olson!”
    Quinn stopped to take this in, swallowing it like a horse pill.
    â€œWhat did you do before this?” Quinn asked.
    â€œWhat do you want to know for?” The man leaned on the fence. His black hair was swept back on both sides and a few heavy strands fell down