Mario Puzo - Fools die

The vice-president opened it with his key and counted out the million dollars in front of Cully. Then he filled out a bank deposit slip, scribbled his signature on it and gave the slip of paper to Cully. They shook hands and Cully left. A block away from the bank he took a prepared, stamped envelope out of his jacket pocket and put the slip into it and sealed the envelope. Then he dropped it into a mailbox on the corner. He wondered how the whole thing worked, how the vice-president covered the drop and who picked up the money. Someday he would have to know.

– -

Cully and Merlyn met in the Oak Room of the Plaza. They didn’t talk about the problem until they had finished lunch and then walked through Central Park. Merlyn told Cully the whole story, and Cully nodded his head and made some sympathetic remarks. From what he could gather it was strictly a small-time grifter’s operation that the FBI had stumbled onto. Even if Merlyn were convicted, he would get only a suspended sentence. There wasn’t that much to worry about. Except that Merlyn was such a square guy he’d be ashamed of having a conviction on his record. That should be the worst of his worries, Cully thought.

When Merlyn mentioned Paul Hemsi, the name rang a bell in Cully’s head. But now, as they walked through Central Park and Merlyn told him about the meeting with Hemsi Senior in the garment center, everything clicked. One of the many garment center tycoons who came to Vegas for long weekends and the Christmas and New Year holidays, Charles Hemsi was a big gambler and a devoted cunt man. Even when he came to Vegas with his wife, Cully had to arrange for Charlie Hemsi to get a piece. Right on the floor of the casino with Mrs. Hemsi playing roulette, Cully would slip the key, its room-numbered wooden plaque attached, into Charlie Hemsi’s hand. Cully would whisper what time the girl would be in the room.

Charlie Hemsi would wander out to the coffee shop to escape his wife’s suspicious eye. From the coffee shop he would saunter down the long labyrinth of hotel corridors to the room numbered on the key plaque. Inside the room he would find a luscious girl waiting for him. It would take less than a half hour. Charlie would give the girl a black hundred-dollar chip, then, thoroughly relaxed, saunter down the blue-carpeted corridors into the casino. He would pass by the roulette table and watch his wife gamble, give her a few encouraging words, some chips, never the blacks, then plunge joyfully back into the wild melee of the crap tables. A big, bluff, good-natured guy, a lousy gambler who nearly always lost, a degenerate gambler who never quit when he was ahead. Cully had not remembered him immediately because Charlie Hemsi had been trying to take the cure.

Hemsi had markers out all over Vegas. The Xanadu casino cage alone held fifty grand of Charlie Hemsi’s IOU’s. Some of the casinos had already sent dunning letters. Gronevelt had told Cully to hold off. “He may bail himself out,” Gronevelt said. “Then he’ll remember we were nice guys and we’ll get most of his action. Money in the bank when that asshole gambles.”

Cully doubted it. “That asshole owes over three hundred grand around town,” he said. “Nobody has seen him in a year. I think he’s going the claim agent route.”

“Maybe,” Gronevelt said. “He’s got a good business in New York. If he has a big year, he’ll be back. He can’t resist the gambling and the broads. Listen, he’s sitting with his wife and kids, going to neighborhood parties. Maybe he hits the hooker in the garment center. But that makes him nervous, too many of his friends know. Here in Vegas it’s all so clean. And he’s a crap-shooter. They don’t leave the table so easy.”

“And if his business doesn’t have a big year?” Cully asked.

“Then he’ll use his Hitler money,” Gronevelt said. He took note of Cully’s politely inquiring and amused face. “That’s what the garment center boys call it. During the war they all made a fortune in black-market deals. When materials were rationed by the government, a lot of money passed beneath the table. Money they didn’t have to report to Internal Revenue. Couldn’t report. They all got rich. But it’s money they can’t let show. If you want to get rich in this country, you have to get rich in the dark.”

It was that phrase Cully always remembered. “You have to get rich in the dark.” The credo of Vegas, not only of Vegas, but of many of the businessmen who came to Vegas. Men who owned supermarkets, cash vending businesses, heads of construction firms, shady church officials of all denominations who collected cash in holy baskets. Big corporations with platoons of legal advisors who created a plain of darkness within the law.

– -

Cully listened to Merlyn with only half an ear. Thank God Merlyn never talked much. It was soon over, and as they walked through the park in silence, Cully sorted everything out in his bead. Just to make sure, he asked Merlyn to describe Hemsi Senior again. No, it wasn’t Charlie. It must be one of his brothers, a partner in the business and, from the sound of it, the dominant partner. Charlie had never struck Cully as a hardworking executive. Counting down in his head, Cully could see all the steps he would have to take. It was beautiful, and he was sure Gronevelt would approve. He had only three days before Merlyn appeared before the grand jury, but that would be enough.

So now Cully could enjoy the walk through the park with Merlyn. They talked about old times. They asked the same old questions about Jordan. Why had he done it? Why would a man who had just won four hundred grand blow his brains out? Both of them were too young to dream of the emptiness of success, though Merlyn had read about it in novels and textbooks. Cully didn’t buy that bullshit. He knew how happy “The Pencil,” the complete one, would make him. He would be an emperor. Rich and powerful men, beautiful women would be his guests. He could fly them from the ends of the world free, the Xanadu Hotel would pay. Just by his, Cully’s, use of “The Pencil.” He could bestow luxurious suites, the richest foods, fine wines, beautiful women one at a time, two at a time, three at a time. And really beautiful. He could transport the ordinary mortal into paradise for three, four, five days, even a week. All free.

Except, of course, that they had to buy chips, the greens and blacks, and they had to gamble. A small price to pay. They could win, after all, if they got lucky. If they gambled intelligently, they would not lose too much. Cully thought benevolently that he would use “The Pencil” for Merlyn. Merlyn could have anything he wanted whenever he came to Vegas.

And now Merlyn was crooked. Or at least bent. Yet it was plain to Cully that it was a temporary aberration. Everybody gets bent at least one time in his life. And Merlyn showed his shame, at least to Cully. He had lost some of his serenity, some of his confidence. And this touched Cully. He had never been innocent and he treasured innocence in others.

So when he and Merlyn said their good-byes, Cully gave him a hug. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. Go into that grand jury room and deny everything. OK?”

Merlyn laughed. “What else can I do?” he said.

“And when you come out to Vegas, everything is on the house,” Cully said. “You’re my guest.”

“I don’t have my lucky Winner jacket,” Merlyn said, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” Cully said. “If you sink too deep, I’ll deal you a little blackjack personally.”

“That’s stealing, not gambling,” Merlyn said. “I gave up stealing ever since I got that notice to the grand jury.”

“I was only kidding,” Cully said. “I wouldn’t do that to Gronevelt. If you were maybe a beautiful broad, yes, but you’re too ugly.” And he was surprised to see Merlyn flinch again. And it struck him that Merlyn was one of those people who thought of themselves as ugly. A lot of women felt that, but not men, he thought. Cully said his final good-bye by asking Merlyn if he needed some of his black cash stashed at the hotel, and Merlyn said not yet. And so they parted.