The Sacrificial Circumcision of the Bronx (6 page)

Paul said what the heck, he was about to leave anyway. As the government contractor led him outside to his car, he explained he was there because of the phone call Paul had made to the Byrd & Hale assembly plant.

“Oh, yeah, about the thickness of the hull of their two-man tanks. Why, did they contact you?”

“Not officially, no. It’s just that I work with them a lot, and Shane Richards asked me what was up.”

By the casual, unassuming way Bush drove as he talked, Paul’s first instinct was that the man was there on behalf of some higher-ups in the War Department who were launching their own probe. When they entered the restaurant, the maître d’ immediately recognized Mr. Bush and showed him to his “usual table.”

In another moment, a fine bottle of French wine was uncorked and poured. Bush ordered two plates of filet mignon—both medium rare—then offered Paul an expensive Cuban cigar. Paul politely refused. That was when he first considered that the man might be representing corporate interests. Almost as soon as he thought this, Bush said, “The reason I’m here is because a group of us got heavily involved in America’s new tank project and, well, we think of it as our own baby.”

“Success has many fathers, and failure is an orphan,” Paul replied.

“Exactly, but success doesn’t come as quickly as we’d like. We’re trying to get this thing on its wobbly little feet without any problems, and at this stage, if any little thing comes up, it can have a big effect on the war effort.”

“Doesn’t it help the baby if we heal it when it’s sick?”

“We already know the hull is too thin. We’ve doubled the size of it, but we’re trying to keep it a little on the hush-hush.”

“I read that the thickness was supposed to be five-eighths of an inch, but some where measured at a quarter-inch, and if you multiply that discrepancy by the four thousand tanks which the government commissioned, that’s a whole lot of clams saved.”

“The tank in question, as you know, was put together from several different blueprints from French and English designs. So where exactly would you lay the blame?”

“Which company manufactured the hull of the tanks that blew in and killed over thirty young American soldiers?” Paul asked coolly.

Bush smiled and just stared at him as though he were a child. In the course of the next twenty minutes, as the subcontractor rattled off statistics to put the facts in a context that made them seem trivial, Paul’s food was taken away uneaten. Bush ordered a Baked Alaska and brandy, and then more brandy. Other patrons stopped by, shook Bush’s hand, and left.

“You know, these tanks were finished way ahead of deadline. No one even thought they’d make it out onto the battlefield in time. Do you know how many infantry soldiers they have saved?”

“They’re death machines for the two men inside.”

“And we’ve already taken measures out on the field to have the tanks reinforced with one-inch plates riveted to their undercarriage.”

“Then that should be made public too.”

“Maybe it will soothe your mind, Captain Moses, to know that all this has already been brought to the attention of everyone from the attorney general to the inspector general’s office.”

“Then why are you taking me out for dinner?”

“Because, frankly, there is enough stuff here to start a congressional investigation, though that in itself doesn’t worry me. There are plenty of parties who can shoot smoke in all directions. What saddens me, and the reason I’m here spending my own dime and time, is the fact that this investigation could hurt our nation’s new tank project.” Some suited older man came over and gave Bush’s hand a shake. Bush shook back without even pausing. “And I think a delay would put America at a strategic disadvantage that could affect us for the next fifty years.”

“You’re very popular,” Paul pointed out, referring to all the handshakes.

“That’s how deals get made.”

At this, Paul stood up and said, “If you can prove to me that these mistakes have been corrected and I don’t see any more reports of this type, I’ll consider sitting on it.”

Bush said that he’d send Paul documents detailing all the changes underway as well as the new procedures they were using to temper the steel. “By the way, I’m very impressed by your credentials,” he added. “I don’t know if you’d be interested, but I can make great use of someone with your qualifications.”

“I’m not a weapons inspector,” Paul said. “I sort of got sent here by mistake.”

“I know. You’re an electrical engineer. I happen to sit on the board of several companies that are looking toward electrical expansions. They could make good use of your talent, sir.”

Though he was indeed greatly interested, Paul feared that this was a veiled bribe and said that he was already committed to working at Con Ed once the war was over.

“Well, let me ask you this: Would you consider doing some freelance work for me?”

“What kind of freelance work?”

“I’ll send you diagrams and you tell me in layman’s terms how they work.”

Paul said he’d be glad to try to help the contractor.

Three days later, Paul received a package with Bush’s return address. Inside was abundant documentation from Byrd & Hale proving that the floors of tanks were being more heavily reinforced, along with a diagram of a simple artillery gun and a self-addressed envelope. The artillery piece in the diagram wasn’t new, and after researching some data in various manuals, Paul wrote a letter describing the range of shells it fired and mailed it to Bush. A week later, he received a sealed envelope with three crisp hundred-dollar bills and a folded piece of paper that said,
Consultant Fee
. After wondering what to do, Paul simply put the money in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Over the course of the next six months, he received a new design of some weapon every four weeks. Most of them were simple artillery pieces, weapons that anyone could research during an afternoon in the military library. Each time Paul wrote a report and sent it to Bush, he’d get an envelope with three hundred dollars. Initially Paul found it amusing, never spending the fee. Before long, however, he started feeling a little insulted. Was this something that Bush hoped to extort him with? On the other hand, the incident reports regarding the hull of the new American tanks had abruptly stopped. The problem appeared to be corrected.

That December, Paul received an embossed invitation to an upcoming Christmas party at the Eldridge, a swank hotel in Washington. It turned out that two other officers in the WMRU had also gotten invites and were planning to share a cab to the hotel.

“Do you guys all know this Bush fellow?” Paul asked during the ride to the party a week later. They didn’t. As Paul listened to them, it turned out each had been approached by someone in the War Department who introduced them to “how things get done here.”

“I was told I had sent the wrong report out,” said Captain Reynolds. Paul wondered if they too had been overpaid for minor consultations, though he sensed that the two guys didn’t really want to discuss it. But thinking about it, he had never heard either man complain about money, unlike most others he served with.

When they arrived, at least a thousand men, most in uniforms, were crowded together in the grand ballroom of the Eldridge. Next to a forty-foot Christmas tree, an eight-piece band was playing “Auld Lang Syne.” A large banner hanging from the ceiling read,
Merry Christmas—The Last Year of the War Thanks to You, Our Heroes in Uniform!

Paul realized that the three of them from the WMRU were vastly outranked. Generals and admirals from all branches of the armed services flanked the four bars. Waiters served hors d’oeuvres.

“No girls here,” said Reynolds to Paul and Lindquist, holding a roasted chicken leg in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other. “After I fill my gullet, I’m skedaddling.”

Paul made no objection. He simply drank soda water and walked around looking at the other revelers. After thirty minutes or so, he heard someone shout, “Peter!”

Turning around, he spotted a tuxedoed Samuel Bush wearing a newspaper folded into a commodore’s hat. The contractor squeezed out from a group of generals. Paul assumed he was addressing someone else until Bush grabbed his arm.

“Pete, how are you doing, pal?” he slurred.

“Fine.”

“You did a great job with that last report—did you get my little honorarium?”

“I’m glad you mentioned that,” Paul said. He reached into his pocket and handed Bush the six envelopes of cash he had received thus far. “We both work for the same government, so I really don’t think you should have to pay me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Samuel Bush replied with a big drunken smile. “Buy yourself a nice Christmas gift.”

“I’m Jewish, we don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“Suit yourself,” Bush said, tucking the envelopes of cash into his crest pocket. “You know I like you, Peter, you’re honest and straightforward.”

“Thanks.”

“But let me ask you something. What exactly does an electrical engineer do?”

“Well, instead of wiring machines, for example, we can assess how much electricity is needed in a region, and we can map it out. In effect, we can wire an entire landscape.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Areas with comprehensive power coverage display vast improvement in all major quality-of-life indexes, impacting everything from the economy to education and even crime rates. Numerous studies and reports have shown that—”

“Can you explain to a group of politicians why they might need things like new power plants or additional power sources?” Bush suddenly seemed to sober up.

“I suppose I can,” Paul answered with a smile.

“And diagrams and all that technical stuff, you can make heads and tails of it all?”

“I suppose so. Why?”

“This war is going to end soon and I need someone with your skills.” Bush didn’t seem to remember that he had already offered him a job.

“It sounds like a great opportunity for someone,” Paul replied, “but I’m looking to
do
electrical engineering, not just pitch it.”

“Well, if you were to take the job, I’d do everything in my power to see that you’d actually carry out some of the work. How does that sound?”

“I’m looking for something a little more civic-minded—I really want to work for city government. But I can recommend a dozen sharp engineers to you.”

“No,” Sam Bush said, “I want
you
.”

“Why me?”

“You’re an honest man and people sense that.”

“How many people did you give the envelope test to?” Paul asked.

Bush smiled. “The job pays better than anything you’re going to get in the public sector.”

“Tell you what,” Paul said. “Let me think about it.”

Bush gave him a business card and they parted ways.

Take the damn job!
Uli thought, then pinched himself through to the moment. The upper part of his body had squeezed out of the underwater netting, but the oxygen tank strapped to his back had gotten stuck in the ropes. When he turned to free it, it snapped loose and shot forth into the dark pipe. He needed to breathe. There was only one way to go—up. Fighting against the water pressure pushing him forward, he hauled himself up along the netting toward the circle of light.

11

A
n oval of dull light overhead was like a message coming closer:
Your friend Carl from Mexico called to say he is in Washington but can’t be reached anywhere by phone. He promised he would call back at the end of the day.
It was a note from the switchboard operator.

How the hell could he have tracked me down here?
Paul wondered. He realized that his old comrade from Mexico must have passed through New York. Without even registering that he hadn’t spoken to his mother in months, Paul immediately called her.

“Did you get a phone call from someone named Carlo?” he asked tensely.

“Paul?” she replied. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Mom. I’m sorry for being abrupt but—”

“You run off, join the army, then you call me one day hollering?”

“I’m sorry, Mom, I’m just a little tense.”

“Since you left, I haven’t had a full night of sleep. Every day I’m reading about young boys being sent to slaughter.”

“The only way I’m going to die is if I get bored to death.” He knew his sister had already told her, but to regain some good will he explained that he had a comfortable desk job in Washington.

“Well, I know I usually only say this about your brother, but to be honest, son, I’m proud of you.”

“I haven’t done anything to be proud of.”

“People say Jews aren’t fighters, but it makes me proud to say my son joined and he’s an officer in the United States Army.”

“Thanks, Mom. But listen, I need to know, did someone named Carlo Valdinoci call you?”

“I don’t remember the name, but someone did call and say he knew you through Princeton.” It sounded clever, like something Carlo would do. He knew that Paul had attended the university.

“What did you tell him?”

“I think your father said you were stationed in Washington and told him how to get ahold of you. Why?”

“No reason,” Paul said, sighing. “I was just surprised to hear from him is all.”

“You’re a bright boy. Is it any wonder people would want to be friends with you?”

“No, Mom.”

“I’m not ashamed to say that this sharp brain of yours is what has probably spared you from being killed like so many others in France.”

“Truth of the matter is that I wish I was over there.”

Bella abruptly changed the subject and went on to say that his father and sister were both doing well.

“How’s our dear Mr. Robert?” he asked.

“He’s gambling his future on something that could make him quite electable.”

“What’s that?”

Over the past thirty years, she explained, when a local political leader delivered a precinct to some Tammany Hall boss, his idiot nephew or illegitimate son would get hired in return as an elevator operator or some other post. The city’s payroll had become swollen with countless half-wits and useless employees.

Now, under the new mayor, Mr. Robert had dreamed up a complex scheme to grade the massive army of civil servants who had been haphazardly brought on over the years. This was becoming a key feature of Mayor John Purroy Mitchel’s attempt to reform city government and save millions of dollars. The scheme, Bella continued, was called Standardization. It would take years to implement, but first Robert had to campaign for it to pass. “Your brother could run for mayor himself if he pulls this off.”