Mission Earth 02 - Black Genesis

by Black Genesis [lit]

  "I owe you," said Heller.

  "Oh, no, no," said Vantagio. "You don't get off that easy. You still have to do what I tell you. Right?"

  "Right," said Heller.

  "Then get on that phone and call Babe and tell her you're enrolled!"

  Heller turned the desk speaker phone around to face him and Vantagio pushed the lease line button. Geovani in Bayonne transferred the call to Babe in the dining room.

  "This is Jerome, Mrs. Corleone. I just wanted to tell you what a great job Vantagio did in getting me enrolled."

  "It's all complete?" said Babe.

  "Absolutely," said Heller. But I noted he did not tell

  her, as he had not told Vantagio, that Miss Simmons had really set him up to fail. Heller was sneaky.

  "Oh, I'm so glad. You know, you dear boy, you don't want to grow up to be a bum like these other bums. Mama wants you to have class, kid, real class. Become president or something."

  "Well, I certainly do thank you," said Heller.

  "Now, there's one more thing, Jerome," said Babe, a little more severely. "You've got to promise me not to play hooky."

  That stopped Heller. He knew very well he would be missing in as many as two or three classes a day! Bless Miss Simmons!

  Heller found his voice, "Not even one class, Mrs. Corleone?"

  "Now, Jerome," said Babe, her voice hardening, "I know it is a terrible job bringing up boys. I never did but I had brothers and I know! Let down your guard for one second and they're off and away, free as birds, skylarking and breaking neighbors' windows. So the answer is very plain. I give it to you absolutely straight. No hooky. Not even one class! Mama will be watching and Mama will spank! Now promise me, Jerome. And Vantagio, if you're listening to this, which you are—I am sure you are as I can tell it's the speaker phone on your desk—you look at his hands; no crossed fingers, no crossed feet. All right?"

  Vantagio peered at Heller. "They aren't crossed, mia capa"

  Oh, what a spot Heller was in! With his nonsense Royal officer scruples about keeping his word, I knew he was suffering agonies. He couldn't keep that promise so he wouldn't make it. And I was sure that, to Babe Cor­leone, the phrase "Mama will spank" translated more truthfully into "concrete overcoat."

  "Mrs. Corleone," said Heller. "I will be truthful

  with you." Ah, here it came! "I promise you faithfully that, unless I get rubbed out, or unless something hap­pens that closes the university, I will complete college on time and get my diploma."

  "Oh, you dear boy! That is even more than I asked! But nevertheless, Jerome, just remember, Mama will be watching. Bye-bye!"

  Vantagio closed the circuit and sat there beaming at Heller.

  "There's one more thing," said Heller. "Vantagio, could you get me the phone number of Bang-Bang Rim­bombo. I want to call him from my suite."

  "Celebrating, are you?" said Vantagio. "I don't blame you. As a matter of fact, he's right here in Man­hattan and the parole officer is riding his (bleep) off." He wrote the number on a scrap of paper and handed it over. "Have fun, kid."

  It left me blinking. Vantagio might be smart but he hadn't penetrated that one. Heller was full of surprises, (bleep) him. What was he going to pull? Blow up the uni­versity? That was the only way I could think of that would let him keep the promise he had just made to Babe Corleone.

  Chapter 8

  About an hour later, Heller came out of his room. The tailors must have delivered something, for in the ele­vator mirrors I could see that he was dressed in a char­coal gray casual suit—the cloth must be some kind of summer cloth that was very thin and airy but looked

  thick and substantial. He had a white silk shirt with what appeared to be diamond cuff links and a dark blue tie. For a change he wasn't wearing his baseball cap and in fact wore no hat at all. But when he crossed the lobby he was obviously still wearing spikes!

  He clattered down the steps of a subway stop and caught a train. He got off at Times Square and was shortly clattering up Broadway past the porno shops. He turned into a cross street. I thought he must be going to a theater for he gave some attention to billboards of stage plays as he passed them.

  Then he was looking up a flight of stairs. K.O. ATH­LETIC CLUB, read the sign. He clattered on up and en­tered a room full of punching bags and helmeted boxers sparring around.

  He was evidently expected. An attendant came over, "You Floyd?" and then beckoned. Heller followed him into a dressing room and the attendant pointed to a locker. Heller stripped and hung up his clothes. The attendant gave him a towel and shooed him through a door into a smoking haze of steam.

  Heller groped around, fanned some steam out of the way and there was Bang-Bang Rimbombo, sitting on a ledge, streaming sweat and clutching a towel about him. The little Sicilian's narrow face was just a diffused patch in the fog.

  "How are you?" said Heller.

  "Just terrible, kid. Awful. I couldn't be worse. Sit down."

  Heller sat down and dabbed at his own face with a towel. The sweat started to pour off him, too. It must be awfully hot.

  They sat in utter silence, steam geysering around them. Now and then Bang-Bang would take a gulp of water from a pitcher and then Heller would take a gulp.

  After nearly an hour, Bang-Bang said, "I'm starting to feel human again. My headache is gone."

  "Did you take care of what I asked?" said Heller. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

  "Oh, hell, that was easy. Hey, I can bend my neck. I haven't taken a sober breath since I saw you last." He was silent for a while and then apparently remembered what Heller had asked. "This time every week, Father Xavier goes down to Bayonne. He's Babe's confessor, knew her since she was a kid on the lower East Side. He has dinner with her and then hears her confession and then brings a load of hijacked birth control pills back to town. One of his stops is the Gracious Palms. So it wasn't any trouble. You'll have them later tonight. You don't owe me nothing. They wasn't no use."

  "Thank you very much," said Heller.

  "If all things was handled that easy," said Bang-Bang, "life would be worth living. But just now it ain't. You know, life can be pretty awful, kid."

  "What's the matter? Maybe I can help."

  "I'm afraid it's all beyond the help of God or man," said Bang-Bang. "Up the river I go next Wednesday."

  "But why?" demanded Heller. "I thought you were out on parole."

  "Yeah. But, kid, that arrest was very irregular. A machine gun is a Federal crime but the late Oozopopolis rigged it to be found by the New York Police and they got me on the Sullivan Law or whatever they call illegal possession. I didn't go to a Federal pen; they sent me up the river to Sing Sing."

  "That's too bad," said Heller.

  "Yeah. They're so crooked they can't even send you to the right jail! So when I was paroled, I of course went home to New Jersey. And right away, the parole officer dug me up and said I was out of jurisdiction, that I

  couldn't leave New York. So I come to New York and we don't control New York like we used to before 'Holy Joe' got wasted. So Police Inspector Bulldog Grafferty is lean­ing all over the parole officer to send me back to the pen to finish my time—they tell me now it's eight months, kid. Eight dry months!"

  "Is it because you haven't any place to live? I could——"

  "Naw, naw, I know a chick on Central Park West and I moved in with her and her five sisters."

  "Well, if it's money, I could——"

  "Naw, naw. Thanks, kid. I got tons of money. I get paid by the job and under the counter and that's the trou­ble. The parole officer made it a condition that I get a regular job. Imagine that, kid. A regular job, an artist like me! The job I do have nobody dares report and that leaves me bango right out in Times Square with no clothes on. Nobody will hire an ex-con. Babe said she'd arrange a regular pay social security job in one of the Cor­leone enterprises but that connects the family up to legit business—I'm too famous. I won't risk getting Babe in trouble, never. She's a great
capa. So that's what I'm up against. They said, 'Regular job: social security, with­holding tax or a charge of vagrancy and back you go this next Wednesday.' That's what the parole officer said."

  "Gosh, I'm awful sorry," said Heller.

  "Well, it made me feel better just getting it off my chest, kid. I feel tons better. Headache gone?" He shook his head experimentally. "Yep. Let's get a shower and get out of here and have some dinner!"

  They were soon dressed. As they passed out through the training room, I suppose Heller just plain could not resist socking something—it's his vicious character. As he passed by a punching bag, he hit it. It flew off its springs.

  "I'm sorry," said Heller to the attendant.

  "Hey, boss!" the attendant yelled at somebody.

  A very fat man with a huge cigar in his mouth came over.

  "Look at what this kid did," said the attendant.

  "I'll pay for it," said Heller.

  "Hmm," said the fat man. "Punch this one over here, kid."

  Heller went over to it and punched it. It simply vibrated back and forth—slam, slam, slam, slam.

  "That other one just had a weak spring, Joe," said the fat man. "You ought to keep this equipment under repair."

  I laughed. Heller couldn't punch so hard after all. He's always bragging and showing off. Good to see him come a cropper now and then.

  The theater crowds had gone in. "Y'ever want to see the last end of a show," said Bang-Bang, "wait for inter­mission when the crowd comes out to smoke and then walk back in with them. You get to see the last acts but I always get to wondering how they got into all that trou­ble in the first acts, so I don't do it."

  They came to a huge, glittering restaurant with a huge, glittering sign:

  Sardine's

  The maitre d' spotted Bang-Bang in the line and dragged him out. He led them to a small table in the back.

  "Some of them diners," said Bang-Bang, "is celeb­rities. That's Johnny Matinee over there. And there's Jean Lologiggida. The theatrical stars all come here to eat. And after the opening night, when the stars come in, if it's a hit everybody claps and cheers. And if it's a bomb, they turn their backs."

  The maitre d' put them at a small, secluded table and handed them menus. Heller looked at the prices. "Hey, this place isn't cheap. I didn't intend for you to invite me to dinner. I'll pick up the tab."

  Bang-Bang laughed. "Kid, for all the glitter, this is an Italian restaurant. The Corleone family owns it. There ain't no tab. Besides, he'll just bring us antipasto, meat­balls and spaghetti. Good, though."

  Bang-Bang was hauling at his side. He brought out a full, unsealed fifth of Johnnie Walker Gold Label and set it on the table. "Don't look so surprised, kid. It's just going to sit there and be admired by me. I got cases of it left but I won't have any in Sing Sing for eight months. I just want it to tell me I'm not in Sing Sing yet."

  The antipasto came and they got busy on the crisp odds and ends.

  A waiter drifted by, a different one, with huge spiked mustaches. "Che c'e di nuovo, Bang-Bang?"

  "All bad," said Bang-Bang. "Meet the kid here. One of the family. Pretty Boy Floyd, this is Cherubino Gatano."

  "Pleased," said Cherubino. "Can I get you anything, Floyd?"

  "Some beer," said Heller.

  "Hold it, hold it!" said Bang-Bang. "Don't let this bambino kid you, he's a minor and they'd have our (bleep). Got to keep it legal."

  "Hold it, hold it yourself," said Cherubino. "If he's a minor, he can still have some beer."

  "Since when?"

  "Since now." Cherubino went off and came back shortly with a squat bottle and a tall Pilsener glass on a tray.

  "You're breaking the law!" said Bang-Bang. "And

  me about to go back up the river. They'll add 'contribut­ing to the delinquency of a minor' this time and never let me out!"

  "Bang-Bang," said Cherubino. "I love you. I have loved you since you were a child. But you are stupid. You can't read. This is Swiss beer all right and the very best. But in this case they have taken all the alcohol out!" He pushed the bottle label at Bang-Bang. "Imported! Le­gal!" Then he poured the Pilsener glass full and gave it to Heller.

  Heller tasted it. "Hello, hello! Delicious!"

  "You see," said Cherubino, starting to take the bottle away. "You always were stupid, Bang-Bang."

  "Leave the bottle," said Heller. "I want to copy the label. I'm so tired of soft cola I could burp!"

  Cherubino said, "Bang-Bang and I used to stand off all the Greeks in Hell's Kitchen together, so don't get the idea we're not friends, kid. But he was always stupid and when he came back from the war they'd made him even stupider and that's impossible. See you around." He left.

  Bang-Bang was laughing. "Cherubino was my cap­tain in that same war, so he ought to know."

  "What did you do in the war?" asked Heller.

  "Me? I was a marine."

  "Yes, but what did you do?" said Heller.

  "Well, they say a marine is supposed to be able to do anything. They have to handle all kinds and types of weapons so they specialize less than the Army and get shot at with more variety."

  "What training did you get?" said Heller.

  "Well, it was pretty good. I started out real good. When I got out of boot camp, I went right to the top. They made me a gunship pilot."

  "What's that?"

  "Gunship, whirlybird, Green Giant, chopper. A hel­icopter, kid. Where you been? Don't you ever see old mov­ies? Anyway, there I was dashing about shooting the hell out of anything that moved on the ground and suddenly they sent me to a specialist school."

  "In what?"

  "Demolitions." Their meatballs and spaghetti had arrived. "Oh, well, hell, kid. We're pals. I might as well tell you the truth. I crashed so many whirlybirds a colo­nel one day said, 'That God (bleeped) Rimbombo shows talent but he's in the wrong branch of the service. Send him to demolitions training school.' I tried to point out that choppers full of bullets don't fly well but there I went and here I am. Nobody else knows that, kid, so don't spread it around."

  "Oh, I won't," said Heller. After a bit he said, "Bang-Bang, I want your opinion about something."

  Ah, now we were getting to it. This Heller was sneaky. I knew all the time he was not there for nothing. I was alert. Maybe he would antagonize Bang-Bang. He sets people's nerves on edge. I know he does mine. Dan­gerous!

  He was taking a form out of his pocket. It said:

  RESERVE OFFICERS' TRAINING CORPS

  It was an enrollment form.

  "Bang-Bang," said Heller, "look at this line here. It makes one promise to be faithful to the United States of America and support the Constitution. One is supposed to sign it. It looks like a pretty binding oath."

  Bang-Bang looked at it. "Well, that's not the real oath. This next line here says you promise that when you graduate from the ROTC you will serve two years in the

  U.S. Army as a second lieutenant. Hmm. Yes. This is the junior or senior year form. Now, when you get out of the ROTC, they make you take the real oath. You stand up, hold up your right hand and repeat after them and get sworn in for real."

  "Well, I can't sign this allegiance form," said Heller. "And later, when I graduate, I can't take any such oath."

  "I understand completely," said Bang-Bang. "It's true they're just a bunch of crooks."

  Heller laid the form aside and ate some spaghetti. Then he said, "Bang-Bang, I can get you a job driving a car."

  Bang-Bang was alert. "With real social security, withholding tax and legit? That would satisfy the parole officer?"

  "Absolutely," said Heller. "By Tuesday I'll have a cor­poration, all legal, and it can hire you as a driver. And that will beat your Wednesday deadline."

  "Hey!" said Bang-Bang. "And I won't have to go back up the river!"

  "There are a couple of conditions," said Heller.

  Bang-Bang looked even more alert.

  "The driving itself won't amount to much. But dur­ing the day y
ou'll have to run some errands. It isn't really hard work and it's actually in your line."

  Bang-Bang said, "Do I smell some catches in this?"

  "No, no, I wouldn't ask you to do anything illegal," said Heller. "There are lots of girls around the place of work."

  "Sounds interesting. But I still smell a catch."

  "Well, actually, it isn't much of a catch," said Heller. "You've been a marine and know all about this sort of thing, so it's no strain. What I want you to do, in addi­tion to these other duties, is sign this ROTC form as J.

  Terrance Wister, report to three classes a week and do the drill period."

  "NO!" said Bang-Bang, refusing utterly.

  "They don't know me by sight and I realize we look different, but if I know such organizations, all they're interested in is somebody to yell 'Yo' when the roll is called and somebody to march around as part of the ranks."

  "NO!" said Bang-Bang. And of course he was right. He was a small Sicilian, a foot shorter than Heller, bru­nette where Heller was blond.

  "If you keep telling people your name is Terrance, and if I keep getting people to call me Jet or Jerome, other students will think we are two different people but the computers will think there's just one of us."

  "NO!" said Bang-Bang.

  "You could give me the material they teach and coach me in the drills. I'd be earning the credits honestly."

  "NO!"

  "I'll pay you whatever you ask a week to do these other things and this and you won't be sent back to pris­on."

  "Kid. It isn't the pay. A couple hundred a week would be great. But it isn't the pay. There are just some things one can't bring himself to do!"

  "Such as?" said Heller.

  "Look, kid. I was a marine. Now, once a marine, always a marine. The Marines, kid, is the MARINES! Now, kid, the Army is a hell of a downstairs sort of organ­ization. It is the Army, kid. Dogfaces. I don't think you realize that you're asking me to throw away all my prin­ciples. I couldn't even pretend to join the Army, kid. I'd feel so degraded I wouldn't be able to live with myself! And that's everything, kid. Pride!"