Mario Puzo - Fools die

I had been just a little pissed off. I had made it a policy of enlisting anybody in the six months’ program who said he couldn’t afford the money. That had happened a good many times. I charged it off to goodwill. But the transfer to a control group and beating five and a half years of Reserve duty was a special deal that was worth a lot of money. This was the first time I had been asked to give that away free. Buddy Stove himself had paid five hundred bucks for that particular favor, plus his two hundred for being enlisted.

Anyway, I had everything necessary done smoothly and efficiently. Murray Nadelson served his six months; then I vanished him into the control group, where he would be just a name on a roster. Now what the hell was Murray Nadelson doing at my desk? I shook his hand and waited.

“I got a call from Buddy Stove,” Murray said. “He was recalled from the control group. They need his MOS in one of the units that went on active duty.”

“Tough luck for Buddy,” I said. My voice wasn’t too sympathetic. I didn’t want him to get the idea I was going to help.

But Murrary Nadelson was looking me right in the eyes as if he were getting up the nerve to say something he found hard to say. So I leaned back in my chair and tilted it back and said, “I can’t do anything for him.”

Nadelson shook his head determinedly. “He knows that.”

He paused a moment. “You know I never thanked you properly for all the things you did for me. You were the only one who helped. I wanted to tell you that just one time. I’ll never forget what you did for me. That’s why I’m here. Maybe I can help you.”

Now I was embarrassed. I didn’t want him offering me money at this late date. What was done was done. And I liked the idea of having some good deeds on the records I kept on myself.

“Forget it,” I said. I was still wary. I didn’t want to ask how his wife was doing, I never had believed that story. And I felt uncomfortable, his being so grateful for my sympathy when it had been all public relations.

“Buddy told me to come see you,” Nadelson said. “He wanted to warn you that there are FBI men all over Fort Lee questioning the guys in your units. You know, about paying to get in. They ask questions about you and about Frank Alcore. And your friend Alcore looks like he’s in big trouble. About twenty of the men have given evidence that they paid him off. Buddy says there will be a grand jury in New York to indict him in a couple of months. He doesn’t know about you. He wanted me to warn you to be careful about anything you say or do. And that if you need a lawyer, he’ll get one for you.”

For a moment I couldn’t even see him. The world had literally gone dark. I felt so sick that a wave of nausea almost made me throw up. My chair came forward. I had frantic visions of the disgrace, my being arrested, Value horrified, her father angry, my brother Artie’s shame and disappointment in me. It was no longer a happy lark, my revenge against society. But Nadelson was waiting for me to say something.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “How did they get on to it? There hasn’t been any action since the recall. What put them on the track?”

Nadelson looked a little guilty for his fellow bribe givers. “Some of them were so pissed off about getting recalled they wrote anonymous letters to the FBI about paying money to enlist in the six months’ program. They wanted to get Alcore into trouble, they blamed him. Some of them were pissed off because he fought them when they tried to beat the recall.

And then down in camp he’s a very gung-ho sergeant major, and they don’t like that. So they wanted to get him into trouble, and they did.”

My mind was racing. It was nearly a year since I had seen Cully in Vegas and stashed my money. Meanwhile, I had accumulated another fifteen thousand dollars. Also, I was due to move into my new house in Long Island very soon. Everything was breaking at the worst possible time. And if the FBI were talking to everybody down at Fort Lee, they would at least be talking to over a hundred guys I had taken money from. How many of them would admit to paying me off?

“Is Stove sure there’s going to be a grand jury on Frank?” I asked Nadelson.

“There has to be,” Murray said. “Unless the government covers the whole thing up, you know, kicks it under the rug.”

“Any chance of that?” I asked.

Murray Nadelson shook his head. “No. But Buddy seems to think you may beat it. All the guys you had dealings with think you’re a good guy. You never pushed for money, like Alcore did. Nobody wants to get you in trouble, and Buddy is spreading the word down there not to get you involved.”

“Thank him for me,” I said.

Nadelson stood up and shook my hand. “I just want to thank you again,” he said. “If you should need a character witness to testify for you, or you want to refer the FBI to me, I’ll be waiting and do my best.”

I shook his hand. I really felt grateful. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I said. “Any chance of your being called up from the control group?”

“No,” Nadelson said. “I have a baby son, you remember. And my wife died two months ago. So I’m safe.”

I’ll never forget his face when he said this. The voice itself was filled with bitter self-loathing. And his face had on it a look of shame and hatred. He blamed himself for being alive. And yet there was nothing he could do except follow the course that life had laid out for him. To take care of his baby son, to go to work in the morning, to obey the request of a friend and come here to warn me and to speak a thanks to me for something I had done for him which he had felt important to him at the time and which really meant nothing to him now. I said I was sorry about his wife, I was a believer now all right, he was the real McCoy all right. I felt like shit for ever thinking that about him. And maybe he had saved that for the last because years ago, when he had kept his head down as Buddy Stove begged for him, he must have known that I thought they were both lying. It was a tiny revenge, and he was very welcome to it.

I spent a jittery week before the ax finally fell. It was on a Monday, and I was surprised when the major came into the office bright and early, for him, on a Monday. He gave me a funny look as he went on into his private office.

Punctually at ten two men walked in and asked for the major. I knew who they were right away. They were almost exactly according to literature and movies; dressed conservatively in suits and ties, wearing deadly Waspish fedoras. The older one was about forty-five with a craggy face that was calmly bored. The other one was just a little out of sync. He was much younger, and he had the tall, stringy physique of a nonathlete. Underneath his padded conservative suit was a very skinny frame. His face was just a little callow but handsome in a very good-natured way. I showed them into the major’s office. They were with him for about thirty minutes; then they came out and stood in front of my desk. The older one asked formally, “Are you John Merlyn?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Could we talk to you in a private room? We have your officer’s permission.”

I got up and led them into one of the rooms that served as a Reserve unit HQ on meeting nights. Both of them immediately flipped open their wallets to show green ID cards. The older one introduced himself. “I’m James Wallace of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Tom Hannon.”

The guy named Hannon gave me a friendly smile. “We want to ask you a few questions. But you don’t have to answer them without consulting a lawyer. But if you do answer us, anything you say can be used against you. OK?”

“OK,” I said. I sat down at one end of the table, and they sat down, one on each side of the table so that I was sandwiched.