THE ROOKIE

DAY ONE

As far back as I can remember I had always wanted to be an FBI agent. I had never met an agent or a criminal, or even anyone who was victimized by a serious crime. But, like so many other things in my life that I could not explain, I just wanted to fight for truth, justice and the American way. This was Superman's creed from the opening of his TV show. It was such a silly combination of words that I was embarrassed to repeat them, but that was how I felt.

The FBI rejected me at the first interview. The two agents wore blue suits and had the same short haircut. They asked me questions like how much did I love my country and did I know people who were un-American? I answered as best I could. One of them referred me to a small agency that I had never heard of, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. He said, "Their standards are very different." And after two short interviews they hired me. The two agents at the Federal Bureau of Narcotics were strange. One was wearing a T-shirt and the other was overweight. Talking to them was like meeting someone at a bar, friendly, saying whatever comes into your mind.

Only two months earlier I had moved from Ohio. I knew nothing about New York City. At about 5:00 on that drizzly morning in August 1964, I left my wife Daisy and my one-year-old son Mark sleeping and started walking to Manhattan to join the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. I was wearing a new gray suit, new spit-polished wing-tipped shoes, and was carrying a heavy briefcase filled with law books and manuals on self-defense. It never occurred to me that such a long walk might be a bad idea. The streets were wet and the buildings looked like abandoned sets from a black-and-white movie.

About six blocks from the Williamsburg Bridge, my right heel began to blister, and I started to limp. Suddenly I saw headlights charging directly toward me. A black Cadillac convertible was trying to run me down, swerving a few feet before it would have flattened me. I couldn't see the driver but I knew he did it on purpose. The car splashed through a large puddle, throwing muddy water on me from my chest to my ankles. I looked at my reflection in a store window. The suit looked wet but undamaged so I continued, limping from my blistered foot a little more with each step.

I tried to forget about the incident and was swinging my briefcase in cadence with my limp when the plastic handle snapped; it went sliding into the muddy street. It was too wide to carry with one hand, so I held it against my chest. Now limping badly and hugging my briefcase, I walked across the bridge with the hot, early morning traffic into Manhattan.

It was about 8:30 when I finally arrived at 90 Church Street. The Federal Bureau of Narcotics was on the top floor of an old post office, not far from Wall Street. Exhausted and sweating, I stopped at a coffee shop and sat at the counter. The waitress waved at her nose. "Gee, honey, I think you stepped in something."

In the men's room I looked in the mirror. My face and hands were dirty, and there was a black streak from my shoulder to my waist from carrying the muddy briefcase. My new suit looked like wrinkled pajamas. Blood from my blistered heel seeped through my sock, soaking the back of my shoe. Worst of all, now I remembered seeing a small mound in the puddle just before the Cadillac splashed me, which is why I smelled like dog shit. I washed my hands and face, tried to clean my shirt, but it didn't make much difference, everything just smeared. I looked like a dirty homeless bum and there was nothing I could do about it.

I was fifteen minutes late. Orientation had already begun. The receptionist ushered me into the office of George Blanker, Agent in Charge. He looked like the FBI agents who had rejected me, except his eyes were bloodshot, like my uncle who everyone said drank too much. There were two other new agents already sitting on the office couch. I squeezed in between them. In a condescending voice, Blanker was explaining what a dangerous job it was to be a federal narcotics agent, "We are soldiers on the front line in a war, out-manned and out-gunned. We are the only hope for saving America from a fate worse than any disease." The blue spider-web veins in his face glowed like a road map as he talked. "Drugs are the greatest threat to mankind, in the history of mankind, and it is up to us to save our country, us – just a handful of agents! Just fink of it!" His face swelled red with anger as he slurred, "Fink of it! Just fink of it! Only us to save America." He sprayed tiny balls of saliva as he pointed to the American flag. "Fink of it!" The three of us sat in a row, nodding, enduring the "Finking" spit shower. He retreated behind his desk, exhausted.

Then with new enthusiasm he flipped the switch of a tape recorder. From the sound of a dial tone we knew it was from a wiretap. At first the voices spoke in Italian, then, "We're in America now, we should speak English. It's good practice." There was a soft chuckle. Blanker told us that it was a major Mafia leader. "Come to New York. I know we've talked about this before, but it's great here. The whores, the numbers, the rackets, the unions, it's wide open, it's America. In New York we don't fight, we work together. You have nothing to fear here, nothing to worry about. The police, they'll steal a hot stove, don't worry about them; just give them a little something. The FBI, the FBI are kids. They go home at five o'clock. They have nice suits, but they don't know what they're doing. You only have one thing to worry about: 90 Church. They are evil. They will fuck your wife. They will steal your mistress. They will take your money. They will lie in court. You never know who they are, but worse, you never know who they've got. If they get you, they will turn you into a rat. If they want you dead, they won't kill you; they'll make your best friend do it. They have no soul. Their slaves are everywhere, fucking and ratting on people. The agents of 90 Church are the most dangerous, evil people on the face of the earth."

Blanker turned the recorder off and smiled with pride.

"I am proud of our guys. I am proud of this office. This is how we are feared by the dopers and the Mafia. You are joining a brave band of Americans and I wish you luck." Blanker waved us out. No one said a word.

We sat in the lobby for about a half hour, waiting to be told what to do next. I discovered a new problem; the hem of my right pant leg had unraveled and draped over my foot, completely covering my shoe. As I wondered how I was going to fix it, a senior agent greeted us and said that our first phase of training...