“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 s
napped 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
An 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.”
At that very moment, Paul decided to accept Samuel Bush’s offer. After all, it might similarly kickstart his fledgling engineering career.
Paul waited by his desk until 5 that afternoon. Sure enough, his phone rang just as he was about to leave.
“Capitán Pablo!” he heard Carlo’s distinct accent.
“How are you doing?”
“Good,” he said curtly.
“You know, that address you gave me wasn’t where you live,” Carlo said provocatively.
“Carlo, you and I really don’t share the same politics.”
“This saddens me greatly,” Carlo replied. “Someone with your skills fighting to help the peasant class would make a big difference in the struggle.”
“I am committed to helping the poor, but I don’t believe in violence. I don’t approve of all the bombings I’ve been reading about. And I think our system of government can repair itself.”
“Allow me to explain that mankind is in the fight for its life between the greed of the very rich and the rest of us. If we lose that fight, we will all be at the mercy of the rich forever.” Carlo sounded far more articulate than the playful youth he remembered in Mexico.
“I disagree,” Paul said. “But you don’t have to worry about me going to the authorities, I simply ask to be left alone.”
“Viva la revolución,” Carlo said, and hung up. Paul hoped this was the last he’d hear from the guy.
On a positive note, the call to his mother seemed to have reestablished their relations. She began teasing him with the title Captain Paul. She also gave him constant updates about his younger brother. Mr. Robert was attending dozens of municipal hearings, pitching the beauty and equity of his great Standardization Plan. “It values competence over seniority, meritocracy over cronyism …” Bella loved mimicking her youngest son.
Soon after Paul’s phone enounter with Carlo, Samuel Bush requested a meeting with him in one of the Senate office buildings. When Paul arrived, he found the contractor huddled with a small group of men outside a Senate Armed Services hearing.
Instead of saying hello, Paul simply approached the contractor and asked, “Who exactly will I be explaining these engineering plans to?”
“These fellas right here,” Bush said, pointing toward the hearing room. “You might be doing some public relations work with them as well.”
“And if I take the job, you’ll eventually get me signed on as the electrical engineer to some of these projects?”
“I’ll try my damnedest,” Bush replied earnestly.
Paul’s stint in the army was almost over, as was the war. With no other immediate prospects, he accepted the offer. His formal title would be lobbyist/consultant for Byrd & Hale.
His first task was assisting Bush in trying to persuade a congressional delegation from depressed areas of the country to promote legislation that would develop electrical systems in their districts. A big region that the subcontractor had targeted for development was down in Appalachia.
Several times, drawing on Paul’s credentials as a former weapons incident report writer, Bush asked him to give testimony in congressional hearings to encourage further funding for tank development and more sophisticated armaments.
While spending time with Bush, and seeing up close how lobbyists could legally bribe politicians, Paul found himself growing disgusted with his job. Much of Paul’s challenge here was to find ways that the congressmen could pitch these pork-barrel projects so that their constituents didn’t think they were driven by private interests. But Samuel was right: Paul’s intelligence and sense of social purpose immediately appealed to people. Reporters used lines lifted directly from his press releases in articles and editorials. Politicians often supported endeavors that he pushed. Each time he talked about quitting, Bush assured him that if he just stuck it out for a few years, he could surely set Paul up with an ideal civic engineering project right here in Washington, D.C.
The sudden reek of shit woke Uli just as he broke into the oval of dull light. Gasping for air, he climbed up the rigging of ropes along a three-foot ledge leading toward a dark, open expanse. He could hear a strange mix of weeping and chanting.
Exhausted, he pulled himself onto the stone floor in a giant unlit chamber. It looked like a large train terminal, like Grand Central Station. In the faint flickering of dozens of little fires, he could make out a
vast group of people encamped on the wide floor; most appeared to be semi-naked.
“Casey? Is that you, son?” said a soft female voice beside him.
“No,” he mumbled back, as he lay down exhausted and dripping on the floor. Popping off his helmet and dropping it, he peered up at the large vaulted ceiling. Slowly catching his breath, he heard a periodic boom … boom … boom …
“Casey, what’s the matter?” she asked. “You okay?”
12
… Uli thought he was hearing the far-off blasts. A series of bomb attacks throughout the U.S. in 1917 had been orchestrated by anarchists following in the footsteps of Luigi Galleani. Russia had just revolted and these radicals believed that America, too, was on the brink. He remembered Vladimir Ustinov’s declaration that the U.S. just needed a little push to set it off.
Legislation passed quickly in Congress allowing for a stiff crackdown on these radical saboteurs who were terrorizing everyone. A series of anti-immigration and anti-anarchist laws followed.
By June 2, 1919, when a bomb detonated prematurely and damaged the home of the newly appointed Attorney General Mitchell Palmer (and killed the bomber), all of America was horrified. Eight days later, sitting in his office at Byrd & Hale, Paul read that the identity of the bomber had been revealed as none other than Carlo Valdinoci—his second-in-command in Mexico.
Coming home from work one night a couple of weeks later, Paul felt his stomach churn when he saw that a memo from the United States Attorney General’s Office had been slipped under his door. The letter requesting that he pay a visit tomorrow afternoon was signed John Hoover.
Paul took a taxi the next day to the Attorney General’s Office, a drafty old nineteenth-century building. Inside the lobby, he located Hoover’s name on the building’s directory. Marching up into the office, Paul passed a middle-aged secretary and stepped up to a handsome young page to ask if he knew where he could find John Hoover.
The Sacrificial Circumcision of the Bronx Page 5
