old manuscript folders on the bottom of the clothes closet. A thriving business which could make my fortune unless the whole racket blew up or there was some worldwide accommodation that made the big powers stop spending so much money on their armies. For the first time I understood how the war industry bigwigs and industrialists and the army generals felt. The threat of a stabilized world could plunge me back into poverty. It was not that I wanted another war, but I couldn’t help laughing when I realized that all my so-called liberal attitudes were dissolving in the hope that Russia and the United States didn’t get too friendly, not for a while at least.
Vallie was snoring a little, which didn’t bother me. She worked hard with the kids and taking care of the house and me. But it was curious that I was always awake late at night no matter how exhausted I was. She always fell asleep before I did. Sometimes I would get up and work on my novel in the kitchen and cook myself something to eat and not go back to bed until three or four in the morning. But now I wasn’t working on a novel, so I had no work to do. I thought vaguely that I should start writing again. After all, I had the time and money. But the truth was I found my life too exciting, wheeling and dealing and taking bribes and for the first time spending money on little foolish things.
But the big problem was where to stash my cash permanently. I couldn’t keep it in the house. I thought of my brother, Artie. He could bank it for me. And he would if I asked him to do it. But I couldn’t. He was so painfully honest. And he would ask me where I got the dough and I’d have to tell him. He had never done a dishonest thing for himself or his wife and kids. He had a real integrity. He would do it for me, but he would never feel the same about me. And I couldn’t bear that. There are some things you can’t do or shouldn’t do. And asking Artie to hold my money was one of them. It wouldn’t be the act of a brother or a friend.
Of course, some brothers you wouldn’t ask because they’d steal it. And that brought Cully into my mind. I’d ask him about the best way to stash the money the next time he came to town. That was my answer. Cully would know, that was his metier. And I had to solve the problem. I had a hunch the money was going to roll in faster and faster.
The next week I got Jeremy Huller into the Reserves without any trouble, and Mr. Hiller was so grateful that he invited me to come to his agency for a new set of tires for my blue Dodge. Naturally I thought this was out of gratitude, and I was delighted that he was such a nice guy. I forgot he was a businessman. As the mechanic put new tires on my car, Mr. Hiller in his office gave me a new proposition.
He started off dishing out some nice strokes. With an admiring smile he told me how smart I was, how honest, so absolutely reliable. It was a pleasure to have dealings with me, and if I ever left the government, he would get me a good job. I swallowed it all up, I had had very little praise in my life, mostly from my brother, Artie, and some obscure book reviewers. I didn’t even guess what was coming.
“There is a friend of mine who needs your help very badly,” Mr. Miller said. “He has a son who needs desperately to get in the six months’ Reserve program.”
“Sure,” I said. “Send the kid in to see me and have him mention your name.”
“There’s a big problem,” Mr. Hiller said. “This young man has already received his draft notice.”
I shrugged. “Then he’s shit out of luck. Tell his folks to kiss him good-bye for two years.”
Mr. Huller smiled. “Are you sure there’s nothing a smart young man like you can do? It could be worth a lot of money. His father is a very important man.”
“Nothing,” I said. “The Army regulations are specific. Once a guy receives his draft notice he can no longer be enlisted in the Army Reserve six months’ program. Those guys in Washington are not that dumb. Otherwise everybody would wait for his draft notice before enlisting.”
Mr. Hiller said, “This man would like to see you. He’s willing to do anything, you know what I mean?”
“There is no point,” I said. “I can’t help him.”
Then Mr. Hiller leaned on me a little. “Go see him just for me,” he said. And I understood. If I just went to see this guy, even if I turned him down, Mr. Hiller was a hero. Well, for four brand-new tires I could spend a half hour with a rich man.
“OK,” I said.
Mr. Hiller wrote on a slip of paper and handed it to me. I looked at it. The name was Eli Hemsi, and there was a phone number. I recognized the name. Eli Hemsi was the biggest man in the garment industry, in trouble with the unions, involved with the mobs. But he also was one of the social lights of the city. A buyer of politicians, a pillar of support to charitable causes, etc. If he was such a big wheel, why did he have to come to me? I asked Mr. Hiller that question.
“Because he’s smart,” Mr. Hiller said. “He’s a Sephardic Jew. They are the smartest of all the Jews. They have Italian, Spanish and Arab blood, and that mixture makes them real killers, besides being smart. He doesn’t want his son as a hostage to some politician who can ask him for a big favor. It’s a lot cheaper and a lot less dangerous for him to come to you. And besides, I told him how good you were. To be absolutely honest, right now you’re the only person who can help him. Those big shots don’t dare step in on something like the draft. It’s too touchy. Politicians are scared to death of it.”
I thought about the congressman who had come in to my office. He’d had balls then. Or maybe he was at the end of his political career and didn’t give a shit. Mr. Miller was watching me carefully.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m Jewish. But the Sephardic you have to be careful with or they’ll just outwit you. So when you go to see him, just use your head.” He paused and anxiously asked. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I thought then how I felt about orphans. We were all freaks. Not knowing our parents, we never worried about the Jews or the blacks, whatever.
The next day I called Mr. Eli Hemsi at his office. Like married men having an affair, my clients’ fathers gave me only their office numbers. But they would have my home number, just in case they had to get in touch with me right away. I was already getting a lot of calls which made Vallie wonder. I told her it was gambling and magazine work calls.
Mr. Hemsi asked me to come down to his office during my lunch hour and I went. It was one of the garment center buildings on Seventh Avenue just ten minutes away from the armory. A nice little stroll in the spring air. I dodged guys pushing hand trucks loaded with racks of dresses and reflected a little smugly on how hard they were working for their paltry wages while I collected hundreds for a little dirty paperwork, at the crossroads. Most of them were black guys. Why the hell weren’t they out mugging people like they were supposed to? An, if they only had the proper education, they could be stealing like me, without hurting people.
In the building the receptionist led me through showrooms that exhibited the new styles for the coming seasons. And then I was ushered through a little grubby door into Mr. Hemsi’s office suite. I was really surprised at how plush it was, the rest of the building was so grubby. The receptionist turned me over to Mr. Hemsi’s secretary, a middle-aged no-nonsense woman, but impeccably dressed who took me into the inner sanctum.
Mr. Hemsi was a great big guy who would have looked like a Cossack if it had not been for his perfectly tailored suit, rich-looking white shirt and dark red tie. His face was powerfully craggy and had a look of melancholy. He looked almost noble and certainly honest. He rose from his desk and grasped my hands in both of his to greet me. He looked deep into my eyes. He was so close to me that I could see through the thick, ropy gray hair. He said gravely, “My friend is right, you have a good heart. I know you will help me.”
“I really can’t help. I’d like to, but I can’t,” I said. And I explained the whole draft board thing to him as I had to Mr. Hiller. I was colder than I meant to be. I don’t like people looking deep into my eyes.
He just sat there nodding his head gravely. Then, as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said, he just went on, his voice really melancholy now.
“My wife, the poor woman, she is in very bad health. It will kill her if she loses her son now. He is the only thing she lives for. It will kill her if he goes away for two years. Mr. Merlyn, you must help me. If you do this for me, I will make you happy for the rest of your life.”
It wasn’t that he convinced me. It wasn’t that I believed a word he’d said. But that last phrase got to me. Only kings and emperors can say to a man, “I will make you happy for the rest of your life.” What confidence in his powers he had. But then, of course, I realized he was talking about money.
“Let me think about it,” I said, “maybe I can come up with something.”
Mr. Hemsi was nodding his head up and down very gravely. “I know you will. I know you have a good head and a good heart,” he said. “Do you have children?”
“Yes,” I said. He asked me how many and how old they were and what sex. He asked about my wife and
