by Mario Puzo
As we were drinking coffee, Jordan came walking by us. Cully immediately jumped up and grabbed him by the arm. “Hey, fellah,” he said, “have coffee with your baccarat buddies.” Jordan shook his head and then saw me sitting in the booth. He gave me an odd smile, amused by me for some reason, and changed his mind. He slid into the booth.
And that’s how we first met, Jordan, Cully and I. That day in Vegas when I first saw him, Jordan didn’t look too bad, in spite of his white hair. There was an almost impenetrable air of reserve about him which intimidated me, but Cully didn’t notice. Cully was one of those guys who would grab the Pope for a cup of coffee.
I was still playing the innocent kid. “What the hell did Cheech get sore about?” I said. “Jesus, I thought we were all having a good time.”
Jordan ’s head snapped up, and for the first time he seemed to be paying attention to what was going on. He was smiling too, as at a child trying to be clever beyond its years. But Cully was not so charmed.
“Listen, Kid,” he said. “The ladderman was on to you in two seconds. What the hell do you think he sits way up there for? To pick his fucking nose? To watch pussy walk by?”
“Yeah, OK,” I said. “But nobody can say it was my fault. Cheech got out of line. I was a gentleman. You have to admit that. The hotel and the casino have no complaint about me.”
Cully gave me an amiable smile. “Yeah, you worked that pretty good. You were really clever. Cheech never caught on and fell right into the trap. But one thing you didn’t figure. Cheech is a dangerous man. So now my job is to get you packed and put you on a plane. What the fuck kind of a name is that anyway, Merlyn?”
I didn’t answer him. I pulled my sports shirt up and showed him the bare front chest and belly. I had a long, very ugly purple scar on it. I grinned at Cully and said to him, “You know what that is?” I asked him.
He was wary now, alert. His face hawklike.
I gave it to him slow. “I was in the war,” I said. “I got hit by machine-gun bullets and they had to sew me up like a chicken. You think I give a shit about you and Cheech both?”
Cully was not impressed. But Jordan was smiling still. Now everything I said was true. I had been in the war, I had been in combat, but I never got hit. What I was showing Cully was my gallbladder operation. They had tried a new way of cutting that left this very impressive scar.
Cully sighed and said, “Kid, maybe you’re tougher than you look, but you’re still not tough enough to stay here with Cheech.”
I remember Cheech bouncing up from that punch so quickly and I started worrying. I even thought for a minute about letting Cully put me on a plane. But I shook my head.
“Look, I’m trying to help,” Cully said. “After what happened Cheech will be looking for you, and you’re not in Cheech’s league, believe mc.”
“Why not?” Jordan asked.
Cully gave it back very quick. “Because this Kid is human and Cheech ain’t.”
It’s funny how friendships start. At this point we didn’t know we were going to be close Vegas buddies. In fact, we were all getting to be slightly pissed off with each other.
Cully said, “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“You’re a very nice guy,” I said. “I like you. We’re baccarat buddies. But the next time you tell me you’re going to drive me to the airport you’ll wake up in the hospital.”
Cully laughed gleefully. “Come on,” he said. “You hit Cheech a clean shot and he bounced right up. You’re not a tough guy. Face it.”
At that I had to laugh because it was true. I was out of my natural character. And Cully went on. “You show me where bullets hit you, that doesn’t make you a tough guy. That makes you the victim of a tough guy. Now if you showed me a guy who had scars because of bullets you put into him, I’d be impressed. And if Cheech hadn’t bounced up so quick after you hit him, I’d be impressed. Come on, I’m doing you a favor. No kidding.”
Well, he was right all the way. But it didn’t make any difference. I didn’t feel like going home to my wife and my three kids and the failure of my life. Vegas suited me. The casino suited me. Gambling was right down my alley. You could he alone without being lonely. And something was always happening just like now. I wasn’t tough, but what Cully missed was that almost literally nothing could scare me because at this particular time of my life I didn’t give a shit about anything.
So I said to Cully, “Yeah, you’re right. But I can’t leave for a couple of days.”
Now he really looked me over. Then he shrugged. He picked up the check and signed it and got up from the table. “See you guys around,” he said. And left me alone with Jordan.
We were both uneasy. Neither of us wanted to be with the other. I sensed that we were both using Vegas for a similar purpose, to hide out from the real world. But we didn’t want to be rude, Jordan because he was essentially an enormously gentle man. And though I usually had no difficulty getting away from people, there was something about Jordan I instinctively liked, and that happened so rarely I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by just leaving him alone.
Then Jordan said, “How do you spell your name?”
I spelled it out for him. M-e-r-l-y-n. I could see his loss of interest in me and I grinned at him. “That’s one of the archaic spellings,” I said.
He understood right away and he gave me his sweet smile.
“Your parents thought you would grow up to be a magician?” he asked. “And that’s what you were trying to be at the baccarat table?”
“No,” I said. “Merlyn’s my last name. I changed it. I didn’t want to be King Arthur, and I didn’t want be Lancelot.”
“Merlin had his troubles,” Jordan said.
“Yeah,” I said. “But he never died.”
And that’s how Jordan and I became friends, or started our friendship with a sort of sentimental schoolboy confidence.
The morning after the fight with Cheech, I wrote my daily short letter to my wife telling her that I would be coming home in a few days. Then I wandered through the casino and saw Jordan at a crap table. He looked haggard. I touched him on the arm, and he turned and gave me that sweet smile that affected me always. Maybe because I was the only one he smiled at so easily. “Let’s eat breakfast,” I said. I wanted him to get some rest. Obviously he had been gambling all night. Without a word Jordan picked up his chips and went with me to the coffee shop. I still had my letter in my hand. He looked at it and I said, “I write my wife every day.”
Jordan nodded and ordered breakfast. He ordered a full meal, Vegas style. Melon, eggs and bacon, toast and coffee. But he ate little, a few bites, and then coffee. I had a rare steak, which I loved in the morning but never had except in Vegas.
While we were eating, Cully came breezing in, his right hand full of red five-dollar chips.
“Made my expenses for the day,” he said, full of confidence. “Counted down on one shoe and caught my percentage bet for a hundred.” He sat down with us and ordered melon and coffee.
“Merlyn, I got good news for you,” he said. “You don’t have to leave town. Cheech made a big mistake last night.”
Now for some reason that really pissed me off. He was still going on about that. He was like my wife, who keeps telling me I have to adjust. I don’t have to do anything. But I let him talk. Jordan as usual didn’t say a word, just watched me for a minute. I felt that he could read my mind.
Cully had a quick nervous way of eating and talking. He had a lot of energy, just like Cheech. Only his energy seemed to be charged with goodwill, to make the world run smoother. “You know the croupier that Cheech punched in the nose and all that blood? Ruined the kid’s shirt. Well, that kid is the favorite nephew of the deputy police chief of Las Vegas.”
At that time I had no sense of values. Cheech was a genuine tough guy, a killer, a big gambler, maybe one of the hoods who helped run Vegas. So what was a deputy police chief’s nephew? And his lousy bloody nose? I said as much. Cully was delighted
at this chance to instruct.
“You have to understand,” Cully said, “that the deputy police chief of Las Vegas is what the old kings used to be. He’s a big fat guy who wears a Stetson and a holster with a forty-five. His family has been in Nevada since the early days. The people elect him every year. His word is law. He gets paid off by every hotel in this town. Every casino begged to have the nephew working for them and pay him top baccarat croupier money. He makes as much as the ladderman. Now you have to understand the chief considers the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights as an aberration of milksop Easterners. For instance, any visitor with any kind of criminal record has to register as soon as he comes to town. And believe me he’d better. Our chief also doesn’t like hippies. You notice there’s no long-haired kids in this town? Black people, he’s not crazy about them. Or bums and pan handlers. Vegas may be the only city in the United States where there are no panhandlers. He likes girls, good for casino business, but he doesn’t like pimps. He doesn’t mind a dealer living off his girlfriend hustling or stuff like that. But if some wise guy builds up a string of girls, look out. Prostitutes are always hanging themselves in their cells, slashing their wrists. Bust-out gamblers commit suicide in prison. Convicted murderers, bank embezzlers. A lot of people in prison do themselves in. But have you ever heard of a pimp committing suicide? Well, Vegas has the record. Three pimps have committed suicide in our chief’s jail. Are you getting the picture?”
“So what happened to Cheech?” I said. “Is he in jail?”
Cully smiled. “He never got there. He tried to get Gronevelt’s help.”
Jordan murmured, “Xanadu Number One?”
Cully looked at him, a little startled.
Jordan smiled. “I listen to the telephone pages when I’m not gambling.”
For just a minute Cully looked a little uncomfortable. Then he went on.
“Cheech asked Gronevelt to cover him and get him out of town.”
“Who’s Gronevelt?” I asked.
“He owns the hotel,” Cully said. “And let me tell you, his ass was in a sling. Cheech isn’t alone, you know.”
I looked at him. I didn’t know what that meant.
“Cheech, he’s connected,” Cully said significantly. “Still and all Gronevelt had to give him to the chief. So now Cheech is in the Community Hospital. He has a skull fracture, internal injuries, and he’ll need plastic surgery.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Resisting arrest,” Cully said. “That’s our chief. And when Cheech recovers, he’s barred forever from Vegas. Not only that, the baccarat pit boss got fired. He was responsible for watching out for the nephew. The chief blames him. And now that pit boss can’t work in Vegas. He’ll have to get a job in the Caribbean.”
“Nobody else will hire him?” I asked.
“It’s not that,” Cully said. “The chief told him he doesn’t want him in town.”
“And that’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” Cully said. “There was one pit boss that sneaked back into town and got another job. The chief happened to walk in and just dragged him out of the casino. Beat the shit out of him. Everybody got the message.”
“How the hell can he get away with that shit?” I said.
“Because he’s a duly appointed representative of the people,” Cully said. And for the first time Jordan laughed. He had a great laugh. It washed away the remoteness and coldness you always felt coming off him.
Later that evening Cully brought Diane over to the lounge where Jordan and I were taking a break from our gambling. She had recovered from whatever Cheech had done to her the night before. It was obvious she knew Cully pretty well. And it became obvious that Cully was offering her as bait to me and Jordan. We could take her to bed whenever we wanted to.
Cully made little jokes about her breasts and legs and her mouth, how lovely they were, how she used her mane of jet black hair as a whip. But mixed in the crude compliments were solemn remarks on her good character, things like:
“This is one of the few girls in this town who won’t hustle you.” And “she never hustles for a free bet. She’s such a good kid, she doesn’t belong in this town.” And then to show his devotion he held out the palm of his hand for Diane to tip her cigarette ash into so that she wouldn’t have to reach for the ashtray. It was primitive gallantry, the Vegas equivalent of kissing the hand of a duchess.
Diane was very quiet, and I was a little put out that she was more interested in Jordan than me. After all, hadn’t I avenged her like the gallant knight that I was? Hadn’t I humiliated the terrible Cheech? But when she left for her tour of duty shilling baccarat, she leaned over and kissed my cheek and, smiling a little sadly, said, “I’m glad you’re OK. I was worried about you. But you shouldn’t be so silly.” And then she was gone.
In the weeks that followed we told each other our stories and got to know each other. An afternoon drink became a ritual, and most of the time we had dinner together at one in the morning, when Diane finished her shift on the baccarat table. But it all depended on our gambling patterns. If one of us got hot, he’d skip eating until his luck turned. This happened most often with Jordan.
But then there were long afternoons when we’d sit around out by the pool and talk under the burning desert sun. Or take midnight walks along the neon-drowned Strip, the glittering hotels planted like mirages in the middle of the desert, or lean against the gray railing of the baccarat table. And so we told each other our lives.
Jordan ’s story seemed the most simple and the most banal, and he seemed the most ordinary person in the group. He’d had a perfectly happy life and a common ordinary destiny. He was some sort of executive genius and by the age of thirty-five had his own company dealing in the buying and selling of steel. Some sort of middleman, it made him a handsome living. He married a beautiful woman, and they had three children and a big house and everything they wanted. Friends, money, career and true love. And that lasted for twenty years. And then, as Jordan put it, his wife grew out of him. He had concentrated all his energies on making his family safe from the terrors of a jungle economy. It had taken all his will and his energies. His wife had done her duty as a wife and mother. But there came a time when she wanted more out of life. She was a witty woman, curious, intelligent, well read. She devoured novels and plays, went to museums, joined all the town cultural groups, and she eagerly shared everything with Jordan. He loved her even more. Until the day she told him she wanted a divorce. Then he ceased loving her and he ceased loving his kids or his family and his work. He had done everything in the world for his nuclear family. He had guarded them from all the dangers of the outside world, built fortresses of money and power, never dreaming the gates could be opened from within.
Which was not how he told it, but how I listened to it. He just said quite simply that he didn’t “grow with his wife.” That he had been too immersed in his business and hadn’t paid proper attention to his family. That he didn’t blame her at all when she divorced him to marry one of his friends. Because that friend was just like her; they had the same tastes, the same kind of wit, the same flair for enjoying life.
So he, Jordan, had agreed to everything his wife wanted. He had sold his business and given her all the money. His lawyer told him he was being too generous, that he would regret it later. But Jordan said it really wasn’t generous because he could make a lot more money and his wife and her husband couldn’t. “You wouldn’t think it to watch me gamble,” Jordan said, “but I’m supposed to be a great businessman. I got job offers from all over the country. If my plane hadn’t landed in Vegas, I’d be working toward my first million bucks in Los Angeles right now.”
It was a good story, but to me it had a phony ring to it. He was just too nice a guy. It was all too civilized.
One of the things wrong with it was that I knew that he never slept nights. Every morning I went to the casino to work up an appetite for breakfast by throwing dice. And I’d find Jord
an at the crap table. It was obvious he’d been gambling all night. Sometimes when he was tired, he’d be in the roulette or blackjack pits. And as the days went by, he looked worse and worse. He lost weight and his eyes seemed to be filled with red pus. But he was always gentle, very low-key. And he never said a word against his wife.
Sometimes, when Cully and I were alone in the lounge or at dinner, Cully would say, “Do you believe that fucking Jordan? Can you believe that a guy would let a dame put him out of whack like that? And can you believe how he talks about her like she’s the greatest cunt built?”
“She wasn’t a dame,” I said. “She was his wife for a lot of years. She was the mother of his children. She was the rock of his faith. He’s an old-time Puritan who got a knuckle ball thrown at him.”
It was Jordan who got me started talking. One day he said, “You ask a lot of questions, but you don’t say much.” He paused for a moment as if he were debating whether he was really interested enough to ask the question. Then he said, “Why are you here in Vegas for so long?”
“I’m a writer,” I told him. And went on from there. The fact that I had published a novel impressed both of them and that reaction always amused me. But what really amazed them was that I was thirty-one years old and had run away from a wife and three kids.
“I figured you most to be twenty-five,” Cully said. “And you don’t wear a ring.”
“I never wore a ring,” I said.
Jordan said kiddingly, “You don’t need a ring. You look guilty without it.” For some reason I couldn’t imagine him making that kind of joke when he was married and living in Ohio. Then he would have felt it rude. Or maybe his mind hadn’t been that free. Or maybe it was something his wife would have said and he would let her say and just sit back and enjoy it because she could get away with it and maybe he couldn’t. It was fine with me. Anyway, I told them the story about my marriage, and in the process it came out that the scar on my belly I had shown them was the scar of a gall bladder operation, not a war wound. At that point of the story Cully laughed and said, “You bullshit artist.”