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:
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 you’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!”