“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!”

“I’ll pay you whatever you ask a week to do these other things and this and you won’t be sent back to prison.”

“Kid. It isn’t the pay. A couple hundred a week would be great. But it isn’t the pay. There are just some things one can’t bring himself to do!”

“Such as?” said Heller.

“Look, kid. I was a marine. Now, once a marine, always a marine. The Marines, kid, is the MARINES! Now, kid, the Army is a hell of a downstairs sort of organization. It is the Army, kid. Dogfaces. I don’t think you realize that you’re asking me to throw away all my principles. I couldn’t even pretend to join the Army, kid. I’d feel so degraded I wouldn’t be able to live with myself! And that’s everything, kid. Pride!”

They ate some more spaghetti.

There was a change of noise level. Bang-Bang looked toward the distant door. “Hey, a new show must have just let out. I think that commotion at the door must be the stars. Now watch this, kid. If it’s a great show, this whole crowd of diners here will applaud and if it was a flop, they’ll turn their backs.”

Heller looked. Johnny Matinee was half out of his chair, looking toward the door. Jean Lologiggida was craning her pretty neck. Three of the Sardine photographers, that had been running around taking flash pictures of diners for personal albums, got ready to shoot a big scene.

The buzz at the door increased. The crowd there parted.

In walked Police Inspector Grafferty, resplendent in full uniform!

The diners turned their backs on him with a groan.

“That’s Grafferty,” hissed Bang-Bang. “Got his nerve walking into a Corleone place. He’s in Faustino’s pay!”

Grafferty knew exactly where he was going. He was coming straight through to the back. To Bang-Bang’s table!

He stopped with his right side to Heller. His interest was in Bang-Bang. “The undercover cops in the street spotted you coming in here, Rimbombo. I just wanted to get one last look at your face before they sent you back up the river.”

But Heller was not looking at Grafferty. He had picked up the corner of the tablecloth and was tucking it into Grafferty’s coat pocket with a fork! What a crazy thing to do! Clearly showed he had a trivial mind.

“What’s this?” said Grafferty. He was reaching out for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label. “Hooch without a revenue seal on its cap! I thought I could find something if I just came…”

Heller’s voice cut into the speech and into the room for that matter. The drone of diners’ voices vanished. “Don’t try to pinch my friend for contributing to the delinquency of a minor!”

Grafferty let go of the Scotch and turned to face Heller. “Who’s this? Haven’t I seen your face before somewhere, kid?”

In that penetrating Fleet voice of his, Heller said, “This beer is legal!”

“Beer?” said Grafferty. “A minor and beer? Oh, boy, Rimbombo, you are in for it now! And this is a licensing matter! I can get the Corleone license revoked for this whole place!”

“Look here!” said Heller. “It’s nonalcoholic beer. Look at the label!”

Heller was fumblingly, hastily, pushing the empty beer bottle forward toward Grafferty. It seemed to slip. Grafferty grabbed for it.

The beer bottle hit the bottle of Scotch!

The Scotch went over the table edge!

Grafferty grabbed for the Scotch!

The Scotch hit the floor with a splintering crash!

Grafferty was still going down. He seemed to trip.

The whole tablecloth was pulled off!

Bowls of spaghetti, utensils, dirty plates and red tomato sauce hit Grafferty in an avalanche!

Jean Lologiggida was half out of her seat, looking white, hand pressed to her bosom.

Heller was up. “Oh, my goodness!” he cried and raced around the table to help Grafferty. His spikes stepped on the broken glass of the Scotch. He looked down and kicked the cap and label far away with a twitch of his foot.

He was assisting Grafferty up. From a nearby table he grabbed a red-checked cloth. He began to swab at Grafferty’s face.

What a horribly bad job of cleaning! He was smearing spaghetti all over Grafferty’s face, in his hair, on his tunic.

Jean Lologiggida was pressed back against the side of her booth.

Heller took Grafferty by the elbow and led him toward the star’s table.

The photographers were batting out shot after shot!

Heller got Grafferty to her table. “Oh, Miss Lologiggida! Inspector Grafferty demanded the right to tell you how terribly sorry he was to disturb your dinner. The tablecloth caught in his belt. And you are sorry, aren’t you, Inspector?”

Grafferty didn’t know whether he was up or down. He stared at the star. He said, “Oh, my God, it’s Lologiggida!” Then he saw he was still trailing the tablecloth and plates. He tore the corner of it off his belt. And while the flashguns flashed, rushed from the restaurant.

Suddenly Jean Lologiggida burst into gales of laughter! She was doubled up with it!

Johnny Matinee rushed over. “Ye gads, I wish I’d been part of that. It’ll make the front page!”

Somebody, evidently Johnny Matinee’s public relations man, was grabbing the photographers and having a hurried consultation with the proprietor.

The PR man said, “It’s nothing to you, kid,” to Heller. “Do you mind if Johnny takes your place on the front page? We’ll overpaste the shots they took.”

“Feel free,” said Heller.

They put Johnny Matinee where Heller had stood in front of Lologiggida, got him to assume the same pose. The flashbulbs flashed.

Heller went back to the table. The restaurant was still rocking with laughter. Somebody belatedly started to applaud and Heller turned and took a bow but indicated, with his hand, Johnny Matinee. This seemed even funnier to people.