It is the worst of times. The Police Department is under severe scrutiny by a special investigating committee and the press. I am the official Recruiting Officer of our Army Reserve Unit. The Old Man, Colonel Frank DiGirolamo directs me as follows:
"No more cops!"
This makes me sad since I already approve an application by Bill Houlihan the week before the news breaks in the New York Post about the troubles. Bill is a sergeant in the Police Department.
"Why do you not get the Old Man to sign the application last week?" says Big Jim Corcoran.
"I am busy writing the ratings of some of the officers," I reply. "The CO makes me Rating Officer. What's more he makes me Reviewing Officer. He likes the way I write."
"Maybe it's because this new guy comes from the "old sod", says the big guy. He arches an eyebrow and tables his beef. Perhaps he remembers that his rating is coming due soon. I hope this is not so. Big Jim and I belt a few short ones many a time in Shorty McKeever's bistro.
Besides I marry an Irish lass even though her Jersey City relatives consider that I am rather dark complected for full membership in the family.
I learn not to cast stone, a quality that is very handy in today's cosmopolitan world.
Bill Houlihan is a talker. In fact, he borders on the verbose. Never do I hear a New York accent as legitimate as his. There is nothing he can say in two or three words that he doesn't use twenty or thirty. He lays a volume or two on me of trials and tribulations that will make the Book Club if he writes it.
He just loses a spot in the Seventy-Seventh Division, the famous New York unit that helps take Okinawa. This gives him a plus in my book. I serve nine months in this division during the war. In fact, I am fortunate to escape into Officer Candidate School from the Seventy-Seventy which a few months later is shipped to the Pacific Theatre. At the time I do not wish to go there at all. Frankly, I do not wish to go to the European alternative either, but it's one or the other. Now that I think of it, I wonder why they refer to these places as "theatres"? There's nothing entertaining about them.
To resume. Bill anticipates his sixth child. His house in Long Island contains his wife and the five other children. He dearly misses the green that peeks out from the envelope we receive, quarterly, a government check.
I determine to con the Old man into reversing his order. To be frank, there is no great con required. Frank DiGirolamo reverses his ukase when I hand him the rejection papers for signature. I add, "Sir, I am remiss if I do not inform you that this guy is well connected in Washington, and a Bronze Star winner in the last go."
"What should we do," says the rattled CO.
"Leave the matter to me," I suggest.
"Ok," he says, "just this one more time."
Bill is received enthusiastically by the other men, except perhaps for the Executive Officer, Salvador Di Pena, who chides me. "He's not one of us," he says.
I am not flattered by the inclusivenss of this statement. One thing for sure, I do not wish to be "one of him".
Bill becomes as adept as any in pursuing the emoluments offered by the Government. He takes a whole series of extension courses in Military Government, now called Civil Affairs. Whenever an extension course is offered on an active status, he takes it. In the period of the Korean War, he takes half a dozen of these "double dippings" with a championship flair. His salary as a Sergeant of Police continues while he is on Active Duty. He is also piling up retirement points at double the rate of the average member.
His grades vary from excellent to superior. He is often called upon to share this expertise as our lecturer, a dreaded event in the unit. Bill drones on without commas or periods for the hour. He does not even give the traditional ten minute break, which some commanders give, even in combat. There is much unhappiness when he is scheduled.
"I learn to sleep with my eyes open," says Captain McCloud.
He does not lose his composure when he is chastised with barbs.
In one session, he poses the time worn question about policy during a military occupation: "It is three o'clock in the morning," he says. "You are wakened by the sound of a horse drawn cart rolling over the cobblestones, below. There is a curfew on. You are the Commander. What is your action?"
"I nudge my secretary," says Captain Berkowitz. There is a full minute of laughter. Bill is unperturbed.
I get to know Bill very well. We invite him to join our group for our traditional seances at a local pub. Big Jim, Captain McCloud, even Big John find him to be a regular guy. It becomes very clear that Bill is very tight with a buck. This is something I learn over the year that he is a member of our unit. One of my unofficial duties is the arrangement of our semi-annual festivities. These are not optional. The CO insists that all officers attend. Worse, they are encouraged to bring the wife or girlfriend. We have not yet arrived at the "significant other" stage in military festivities.
The ladies love these parties. I love them also, so I make arrangements in such places as the St. Moritz on the thirty-third floor, overlooking Central Park. Sometimes, on an off nithgt, a club like the Latin Quarter, or the Alameda Club, when a little Latin Spice is called for.
Getting these guys to loosen up with the wherewithal is a painful process. When the officers open their wallets, a swarm of moths escape, such is the infrequency with which they loosen the zippers.
Bill is even more difficult. I get him to subscribe, but he never brings the wife. Naturally, this intractibility perturbs the Old Man, and especial the boy-girl, boy-girl arrangements of the tables for eight.
"I marry a Japanese lady in Tokoyo," explains Houlihan. She is very shy and uncomfortable with Americans."
It is a tale he uses over and over again. In the twenty years I know him, I never see his wife. Nor does anyone else.
Of course, in my official capacities, I get to see his 201 file, and other documents.
Also, he forgets that when I interview him for admission into the group, he mentions his wife's name, Katie O'Brien, a moniker not usually found in Japan.
The Executive Officer, Salvador Di Pena, is very wroth with Bill. He is even more disturbed that I do not find sufficient fault with him. He takes every opportunity to create dissension with anyone who will listen.
"I catch Houlihan looking through your 201 file," he tells me one day. "How can you trust a guy like that?"
I tell him that I do not care who looks at the file. I remind him that I see HIM pouring over these files. I do not say "bent over the files", as he is too short to bend over anything but the lowest drawer.
Salvador works in civilian life in the subway system. His job is to ride the rails and look for problems. His routine for job performance is usual Civil Service. He calls into Headquarters from a telephone within the subway system itself. He then presumably rides the trains as a trouble shooter. Wrong. He makes the office call, then retires to an office where he assists his mother in running an export business with Ecuador.
Big Jim, whose business is investigating Police applicants for the Academy wises me up.
"I meet him in McKeevers Bar and Grill. He does not buy a drink, but he eats all the pretzels on the bar. He is happy, so I ask him if he picks a winner at Hialeah or something."
"Jim," he says, "you guys always call me cheap. No more," he adds joyfully, "mother died."
"You mean he now owns the export business?" I ask.
"What's more," Bill continues, "he has a doll on the side. I see a large bouquet sitting on an adjoining stool. I read the card sticking out of the wrapper. I says as follows: 'Dear Carlotta,' and ends, 'con amore, Salvadore.' His wife's name is not Carlotta."
Big Jim's information is always reliable. The very next day, Big John collars me and says, "Do you hear about the Exec.?"
"Hear what?" I say cautiously.
"Marrone," which is the way he pronounces the irreverent expletive, 'Madonna'.
"I see the little guy with a real doll on his arm. They are going into the Copacabana, which takes more than a few bob."
Big John is proud that his parents come from Genoa, where the proper Italian is spoken. On the other hand, he does not do too well with English any more than Italian, though he holds a Fordham University diploma. His most recent gaffe is when he describes an inflammation he has acquired, as a "Prostrate condition."
Our unit is in deep prepatory operations for the coming Summer Camp Exercises. Houlihan is very anxious to be included in the advance party contingent. Always astute, Bill covets the three extra days pay that accrues to members of this party. His police pay will continue concurrently, as he is a patriotic citizen.
Salvador Di Pena traditionally preempts the leadership of this group. He usually includes those officers whom he feels look kindly on him. It is not likely he will choose Houlihan.
As a matter of fact, I go with him last year, which is a big mistake. He asks me again this year, but I tell him my boss does not sit still for the extra three days absence.
I wonder how come the Old Man even allows him to go in the first place. Last summer, instead of making the arrangements for quarters, and chow, and most important, the payroll, he spends most of the three days in an upper barracks sleeping on a pile of mattresses. He is caught by the camp Commandant, who hears snoring as he is inspecting the premises.
The Commandant sends a written report to our CO and makes very ungenerous remarks about our unit, and the Army Reserve program. He is a West Pointer. I know this from the very prominent ring he wears.
Private DiMaggio head the pool on who the chosen will be. Only one guy in the unit picks Houlihan. He cleans up. The tariff is a deuce, and over a hunderd guys buy a ticket. I do not bet, as I have insider information, though I am sorely tempted, since I never win in a long time. It is five years since I win with a thirteen run pool, when I pick the St. Louis Cardinals over the Giants thirteen to zip.
I find out also that Private DiMaggio is honest. He does not enter the proceedings. It is he who tells me the story.
If I do not mention it before, DiMaggio is a chauffeur, in addition to being a cop. He drives the Police Commissioner officially, and frequently on special occasions.
"I drop him off at the Paradise Club," says DiMag, "The Commish has a real looker for a wife. There is no parking in the area, but the management maks special provisions for the Boss. I park right in front and watch the guys and dolls parade into the Club."
"Get to the point," I say impatiently. He adds, "I see the Exec, Salvador. He squires what I consider a real winner. He goes in and is followed nor more than a minute by Big John and Eulalie. You remember, she's the Old Man's daughter. He almost has a stroke the first time he catches them together."
I wonder about two things. Where Big John gets the bread to afford the Paradise Club, and what kind of spell does Salvador's broad cast over him to loosen up enough bucks for such a joint. Also I would like to be a fly on the table when these two couples encounter each other.
"They sit together," says Private DiMaggio. "I hear about it from the bus boy who is my wife's nephew. He says he thinks Big John's eyes will pop out of his head when he gloms the Exec's lady. He smiles so wide it looks like he has sixty-four teeth. Eulalie is greatly displeased with his conduct.
"Do you tell the story to anyone else?" I ask.
"One other person," say DiMaggio. "Bill Houlihan. He slips me a double sawbuck, which I take since I lose money on several enterprises as a bookie. He says there is another twenty if you run another pool as follows: 'Big John makes it with Salvador's girl within the three days he is away on the Advance Party. Pick a day."
The Exec's name does not appear on the special order. Houlihan is named as commander and Big John as his deputy. It if the first time in years that Salvator misses going on the Advance Party.
"I have many duties here with executive matters. Besides, Big John can use the experience," Di Pena tells us at a staff meeting. "The Old Man cannot spare me for the three extra days."
