The Sacrificial Circumcision of the Bronx by Arthur Nersesian Read Free Book Online Page B

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