We have examined in this book a number of governmental activities pointing out the value of corruption. It is evident that all facets of daily life may be improved through its use. Examples vary, but usually we have directed our thoughts in most cases to effects on people we might meet in our day to day contacts. Ranging from local business enterprises to one’s home, corruption touched us all, and improves things in clearly tangible ways.

One point we have made is that the corruptor must be of a higher social standing than the one who is corrupted. This leads to the conclusion that there should be a class where corruption may be carried out on a grand scale while the individual members remain incorruptible. In fact, these lions of society will look with disdain upon the menial acts of  of corruption that rob the average person of hours of sleep nightly. They are expected to use their power to forge the activities that are the basis of the democratic system. Recognized as fundamental to the framework of society they remain untouchable for their acts. Even if some scheme should turn out badly, they are excused or bailed out merely on the basis of their potential for further corruption.

If a motto could be designed for this group it would be “Think Big”.  But a motto is unnecessary since the members of this group could hardly behave in any other way.

Huge amounts of money or property are involved in each of their daily transactions so as to boggle the mind of the average citizen. Actually, the grander the scale of the corrupt act, the less likely they are to be found out — since few can imagine that anyone could be that corrupt.

This class represents the fundamental fabric of the democratic society, from which food, services and money flow in such amounts that the little shaved off the top is barely noticed. And this serves only to make them stronger.

There is no criticism of this group since they control the means of communication and therefore public opinion. They can create one hundred thousand jobs over a cocktail, provide heating oil or light for the entire Northeast over lunch and dictate the flow of money and interest rates over dessert.

There is a natural aspiration in a free society to climb to the next social stratum. This upward movement is designed to insure additional opportunities for corrupt acts and therefore a more important role in daily life. As each successive level is reached one attains more power.

If a definition of a free society is desired, it might be: a society which permits individual ascendancy up the ladder of social levels. Of course, there is a limit! If everyone belonged to the highest level there would be no levels at all. The only advantage in ascending at all is that there will be someone in the levels below over whom you may exert some influence. Therefore it is also a general rule that while nearly all individuals aspire to improve their social status, only a few may be allowed to actually make it.

But much of the excitement is in the battle itself. The creation of wealth and opportunity to corrupt is fundamental to the well being of the free society. Education, special training, hard work, are the backbone of the moral code of free men so that one day they may be in a position to kick someone else in the pants.

There lies the fundamental difference between the class and classless societies. These latter are represented by restrictive policies that prevent movement between the rulers and ruled and while not strictly classless they are characterized by ambitionless men and women with no chance to laud it over anybody — and therefore no opportunity to improve their lot. What a drudge life is for them — merely eating, sleeping, screwing and watching television.

Compare this to the daily excitement of planning a scheme, getting a bit of action started which may put you on an equal level with the fellow who’s been screwing you all these years. The opportunity is there. And high above is the ultimate goal  (maybe not in your lifetime but perhaps in your grandchild’s)  of entering the realm of those lords of society to whom all is available, who wield immeasurable power, and who dispense masses of corruption to make everything better for everybody.

**************************

 The Club

In the sixties between Lexington and Park Avenues stands a brownstone building of unpretentious appearance, identified only by a small brass plaque bearing the image of a bird in flight. As one would ascend the seven stone steps to the entrance, a small bell could be seen immediately above the plaque.

The door is painted black, which coincided well with the decor of the remaining buildings on the block, and the upper half consists of a frosted glass pane curtained in white damask. But this is not a private residence.

The greeting upon entering is administered by an elderly gentleman with a large shock of white hair. Dressed in a long sleeved white silk shirt, pin striped vest and trousers, one is ushered into a small foyer facing a closed elevator. One is always greeted by name, for the members of this club were well known and made to feel at home.

To the left of the elevator is a solid mahogany half table on which stands a green urn patterned after the Chinese, manufactured in a small factory outside London over two hundred years ago. Anyone caught fingering or examining this antique piece is immediately escorted back out into the street, for the decorum of the club calls for total and complete nonchalance in the presence of wealth.

Upstairs the atmosphere is somewhat less austere in the large mahogany paneled library with its scattered overstuffed chairs and portraits of famous men — all of whom were members of the club. The room is always quiet regardless of the number of occupants, and conversations could be held in the strictest of confidence that no one was or would want to be listening in.  Without a fuss, one’s favorite pre-dinner cocktail or sherry, or post-dinner brandy appeared at his side as if by the machinations of a mysterious force, since the waiters seemed to be invisible.

Guests are permitted, within reason, and would hover about their host in small groups, usually satisfying the culmination of some important deal or transaction.

Generally one can distinguish the guests from their hosts with ease by noting the uniform dress code to which the members adhered by tradition. Utter disregard for style is paramount, for each member is appreciated as a man of proper breeding and background and not for his choice of tailor. This was constantly emphasized by wearing an out of date suit, black or gray, narrow lapels, and dark narrow ties on a solid white or blue background. One would never believe that a particular suit was inexpensive, since personal tailors were required to construct them so they were shiny, out of style with slightly baggy pants, and bearing a constant wrinkle. One member created a sensation by purchasing several suits having a slight tear in the lining, leaving a bit hanging from the bottom of his jacket. He was so greatly admired that he was elevated at once to membership secretary, a post of purely symbolic significance, since all new members have to be approved unanimously in any case.

Women were not permitted since Mrs. Harris Ekkar wore a low cut black dress, displaying a bit too much and resulting in the spillage of several glasses of vintage port . Lost money, friends, and positions could be easily reacquired, but not vintage port.

Overseeing the nightly activities is the most senior of the members, John Hayes Randolph III. Considered the dean of American finance, he had delved into all aspects of business with success following success, and increased his modest inheritance of sixty million by at least three zeros. So respected, in fact, was JH that his personal recommendation is required for any consideration for membership to the club.

This fact created a mild sensation when JH approved the admission of Daniel Greene, a Brooklyn born son of immigrant parents who had amassed a fortune dealing in Swiss Gold shares. “Don’t worry”, JH assured the members, “it’s important to let one of them in so we’re not labeled as bigoted. Besides who’s he going to talk to?”

JH had suffered unmercifully from prostatism for several years which led to the much celebrated installation of a direct line ticker next to his private urinal. This was the result of a forty thousand dollar paper loss suffered during one of his frequent visits to the john. As a matter of fact, during a similar episode, the rush to sell led to his urinating a considerable amount down his right pant leg and only the quick wit and resourcefulness of his valet Clarence avoided significant embarrassment.

When JH had a cocktail, it was cocktail time, and when JH went to dine, it was dinner time, and when JH retired to the library after dinner it was clear that dinner was over.

The dining room is elegant, fully staffed by maids and waiters in white gloves and starched uniforms. There is no menu. The members who frequented the finest restaurants the world had to offer, who knew the greatest chefs by first name, reserve for the club those meals which reflected their deepest desires and tastes — things which could not be ordered elsewhere.

On a certain night in August, Earl Homer Collingworth sat at a corner table inhaling the fragrance of a Mouton Rothschild Cadet ’74 poured from a crystal decanter. On a silver platter before him lay a thick slab of white bread covered with his favorite loganberry jam and spread thickly with peanut butter. Centering a second piece of white bread over the first he lifted the sandwich to his mouth and savored the elegance of the meal he loved the most.

Suspicion centered about Todd Haynes Eckhardt III when he first ordered his Nova Scotia salmon to be served with cream cheese on a toasted bagel.  He explained, however, as he washed it down with a smokey Puilly Fume ’71 that it reminded him of his college days when he had made it regularly with a dark haired Jewish beauty from Milwaukee. She , of course, had fantasized the elegance of life as part of a first line family, but he had already promised himself to Abby Clogwell, whom he later married and with whom he sired three of the dullest children he’d ever met.

On this particular night JH sat at his private table, near the toilet, when he noticed the eye signals directed at him by Harwood Cline Schiller. Randolph was on his second bowl of cornflakes and milk when he decided that it was best to acknowledge something was up.

Harwood approached his table cautiously. “JH I’ve got to solve a fairly touchy problem.”

“Related to the railroad?”

“Yes”, said Harwood. “We may be going down the drain and I need your advice.”

“After dinner in the lounge. — After dinner, ” said JH wiping a small drop of milk from the corner of his mouth and signaling for another dish of raisins.

“By all means,” said Harwood, and returned to his Cheval Blanc ’75, sipped it softly and dipped his long spoon casually into the bowl of franks and beans sitting before him.

Alvin Harcourt at a neighboring table noticed the conversation and put down his chilli burger long enough to slip a sly wink at JH. They had discussed Schiller’s problem before, and knew that before long there would be money to be made.

Dinner was usually finished by nine and was especially prompt tonight as the members singly retired to the lounge to await the game. It was going to be unusually fierce tonight, and the sense of something in the air pervaded the club.

The lounge was paneled as in the other rooms, but carpeted in a thick blue pile with matching drapes, and lit brightly by another central crystal chandelier. The members took their respective places, each sitting on the floor, comfortably cushioned. Small tables bore the ash trays for their cigars as brandy was poured into sparkling snifters. They formed a small circle as the great central board was positioned.

“All right Harwood, what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s the railroad — you know the large hotel we built — we have invested over eighty million in the most fashionable resort. But the weather won’t hold up — and the area’s wrong. We’d hoped to stimulate rail travel, but it’s not going. With recurring losses, the whole railroad might go under.”

JH snickered to himself. “Have you started unloading?”

“Yes, we’ve been buying and selling railroad shares for two months now. We’ll end up with twenty million shares unloaded by next month. The price has held so far, but it’ll break as soon as our next statement is out.”

“You’re personally home free then?”

“Yes, but we can’t let the railroad fail. A bankruptcy would be too embarrassing. There’d be questions about our investments. After all, the railroad is an American institution.”

The game was starting. Out of deference JH handled the dice first. He smiled silently as he reeled them onto the board. A five and a three. “Vermont Avenue,” he said, “I’ll buy it.”

Harwood fidgeted incomfortably and threw a five. “Oh for christsake. Reading Railroad. I don’t want it.”

“Good, I’ll take it,” said JH as he signaled to the bank to tally the cost. “Harwood, you should know better. I’ve told you many times that you can’t build hotels on the railroads. You should have stayed with better properties!”

Excitement grew as the yellow, green and orange cards were passed around, all representing real properties. Deals were made, side bets, special arrangements to avoid rental payments.

“Let the stock fall,” said JH, “We’ll pick it up later. You’re not to touch it. By next Tuesday announce the bankruptcy. By Thursday congress will pass special legislation to grant an interest free loan to this great American institution and place it in receivership. We’ll take it over. Blame it on the airlines. You’re out — stay out. Be glad you weren’t hurt. Harcourt here will be named director by Congress. The president will go along.”

“Thank you, thank you JH.”

JH waved off the compliment. He stared deliberately around the board. “Now whose got the Pennsylvania,” he said.

 

 

 

 

There is a paradox in our society. Government must serve the needs of the people and to so effectively must necessarily lend itself to extensive corruption. Yet exposure of such activity inevitably leads to dismissal of those responsible. Everyone recognizes the existence of corrupt politicians, and if one has a proper sense of sophistication the need for such individuals is eminently clear. We accept them as necessary to maintain our well being in a stable or expanding society. Secretly one may yearn to be a participant in similar schemes so he may also make a Akilling@ and share in the appropriate rewards.

 

The average citizen would not likely refuse to accept some inside tip which might yield significant monetary benefits, with the excuse that it wasn’t right or fair. On the contrary, most everybody is looking for a route which may lead to a fast bundle. In this sense the small businessman is no different from the corporation CEO, only the scale of the corruption is different. The smaller efforts increase the chances of being caught. Indeed, as we shall note later, there is a general principle that the grander the scheme the lower is the risk of exposure.

 

Why is it then that indignation rages at the revelation that some political figure has just been caught with his finger in the public till? As any decent psychiatrist can tell us, there are only two factors that lead to all aberrant behavior : insecurity and guilt. ( Imagine what would happen to psychiatric fees if they spilled the beans on that one).

 

How does one feel when discovering that a high officer of the state has just been exposed as a first degree corruptor in some scheme or other? The actual behavior of this person in committing the act is not under consideration, and in fact may be the subject of extensive admiration. The problem is that the individual was stupid enough to be caught. After all, how can one trust the defense and security of the nation to someone that dumb –(insecurity)   And , after all, who was responsible for putting the dummy into office in the first place — (guilt). So, in order to avoid the sense of insecurity and guilt associated with the unfortunate official, the public must resort to the aberrant act of throwing the blaggard out. Hopefully he will be replaced by someone more adept at handling such activity without the consequences of exposure.

 

One may therefore ask why, if everything that such a person has done is acceptable to the community, should he be exposed at all? Wouldn’t it be better in these cases to merely look the other way? To understand this problem we must discuss briefly the function of the press in our society.

 

 

There has been an inordinate preoccupation among the American populace in the recent few years, with the activities of the security agencies: the F.B.I. and the CIA In fact what people do not realize is that free societies have built into their framework a super security agency – the Press. It is the primary function of the Press to expose dummies in office and therefore provide the first line of defense of the nation. Our wise founding fathers knew that a country could not be entrusted to men foolish enough to reveal their corrupt acts, and devised this mechanism to eradicate such nincompoops.

 

The Press has taken up the fight with resounding effect and considerable rewards (do you realize what an advertising page in the New York Times costs?) And the most successful papers are those that have the largest numbers of exposes. Investigative reporters never waste their time on the purveyors of prostitution or dope, but rather on who owns the buildings where these activities are carried on.

 

How is the government man to protect himself? Well the system insures that only the finest and most long standing corruptors will reach high office. These, after all, are those most capable persons who may be thoroughly trusted with the reins of government and consequently the lives of its people. Such a person must have the attributes necessary to insure a successful career — ruthlessness, deviousness, unfailing flexibility (or the ability to swim with the tide), and a total lack of any predictable code of behavior. He must, however, use every means to discourage people from believing that he is a perpetrator of corruption and so must adopt an outward appearance totally opposite to his real nature: compassion, honesty, strict adherence to a moral code of behavior, and an unswerving passion to provide a better deal for his constituents. To those who aspire to such positions of responsibility (and profit) I will outline the credo of the government man, which, of course, they all live by:

 

1. Promise everything.
2. Never put anything in writing
3. Stay out of the newspapers.

 

*****

 

The Retaliatory Effort

 

Joe Reede was mayor of Greenleaf, Colorado. He had been driven to seek office eight years earlier by an inordinate desire to sleep with Mollie LaRue, the waitress in Sam’s Take Out Restaurant. Apparently Mollie had been making it with a fair variety of the town’s men, but not with Joe. He figured that a prestigious title might change his luck. It didn’t.

 

 

He had won office in a run-off election with a plurality of thirty votes. The original election had ended in a one to one tie and it took an investment of four kegs of beer and free transportation to the improvised election booth to muster the thirty hardy souls necessary to insure a victory. Now he spent most of his time trying to figure out what a mayor was supposed to do.

 

Greenleaf, situated in the heartland of the Rockies, might have been considered ludicrously as a small town, with the downtown area consisting of Joe’s hardware store. A general store, Sam’s restaurant and an old filling station. Anyone found driving toward the downtown area was invariably heading for the spur connecting to the main highway. Joe considered, at one time, installing a A one way@ sign on that road in deference to the direction that most everyone who used it was taking. An exit sign probably would do just as well, he had thought.

 

Activity centered around the small outlying farms which supplied most of the food people needed, and enough work for the townspeople. Surrounded by high picturesque mountains, television reception was impossible and amusement consisted of a few scattered radio programs and the key to the upstairs room at Sam’s, occupied by Mollie.

 

An occasional truck lumbered into town and delivered the few necessities for day to day existence, and picked up the produce and beef to be sold for cash at the markets in towns down the highway.

 

It was spring, and in Colorado that meant clear, cloudless days, warming gradually under the shadows of the snow capped peaks. On such a day Joe was seated in his usual position in front of the hardware store. His eyes were half closed against the sun. He glanced sideways towards Tom Marshall, who was running toward him.

 

“Joe, Joe. There’s a fella over at Sam’s looking for the mayor.”

 

“Well for christsakes, Tom, don’t anyone know who that is? Bring him on down here.”

 

Joe couldn’t believe that after all these years he was going to have something official to do. Most folks didn’t call him mayor since they were concerned that the title might stimulate some activity, — and no one could predict how that might end up.

 

The tall stranger walked slowly up the dirt path to Joe’s store. He was in uniform and appeared stiff and portly.

 

 

“Colonel Edward Syms”, he introduced himself, ” representing the Department of Defense. Are you the mayor of Greenleaf?”

Joe concentrated on this newcomer…. Shiny shoes and buttons, heavy chest (football player?) precise movement, a real tough officer. Must be hell working in his outfit. His glance fell toward the few patches of weeds on either side of the path. Ought to plant some grass, he thought. Looks kind of worn out.

 

“Yes, sir,” answered Joe, who was not sure if mayors got up when they met strangers or just leaned back and waited.

 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir said Syms. Would it be appropriate if we met in your office?”

 

Joe was embarrassed. Maybe he ought to get himself an office. He saw immediately the possibility that it might do the trick to improve his relationship with Mollie.

 

“No, this is jes fine.” he said finally

“Go on and pull up a chair and let me know what’s on your mind.”

 

“Well, we wrote you some months ago, but didn’t realize the problems with postal delivery in this area.”

 

Joe hadn’t checked for a letter in the past six years, when it occurred to him that he didn”t know anybody outside of Greenleaf.

 

Syms continued. “The Department of Defense has completed a survey of the central U.S. retaliation effort and we have selected Greenleaf as the proposed site for the development of a new missile silo, which will beef up the entire U.S. defense effort. With the decreased likelihood of a major international problem we are concentrating on a few key areas for defense.”

 

Joe was really impressed by now, although he wasn’t sure quite why.

 

“Of course we will build this with all work sponsored and paid for by the U.S. government. The site selected will be five miles north of town at the base of Whittier Mountain. All due effort will be made to cause as little disruption as possible to the town.”

 

Joe sat open-mouth at the whole prospect. “What can I do for you, colonel?”

 

 

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just consider this for your own information, mayor. All the property rights have been secured, of course. And one thing, since the site will be high priority and secret, it will be necessary to disguise the area. I wouldn’t want the townspeople surprised by its outward appearance.”

 

The following week trucks, and uniformed men, all bearing the insignia of the U.S. Corps of Engineers created a steady stream of traffic through town and northward. A bivouac area had been set up as construction began with a deep excavation, followed by steel piles, concrete and wooden frames. Gasoline sales at the filling station soared to a hundred gallons a week as each day the predominant activity consisted of driving out to the construction site and observing the progress.

 

Joe, however, stayed at the hardware store waiting for an official duty to appear, and got most of his information in daily reports from Tom Marshall. Soldiers seemed to mill around in the evening drinking beer and joking with the folks of the town. Joe was a bit uneasy about the fact that Mollie appeared to be losing an inordinate amount of weight and was reassured only by the fact that she smiled incessantly all through the days.

 

“Joe”, said Tom one day, ” I can understand the fact that they got to build that place to disguise the missiles. They’re putting in a lot of rooms, but I don’t understand something.”

 

“What’s that?” asked Joe.

 

“Well, they got a whole unit putting in plumbing and such. I know they’s gonna need that for offices and such.”

 

“Yes.” said Joe.

 

AWell, I don’ understand why each of them offices has got to have its own bath and shower.”

 

As the weeks rolled by the days became warmer and more pleasant. Yellow buttercups appeared and waved gently in the green meadows. Long furrows, in straight lines covered fields that had lain fallow the year before. An occasional tractor hummed across a field and disappeared behind a frame house, followed by a host of crows that dived and then shied away from the specially treated seed.

 

North of town the silo began to take shape with its convex windows, rustic outer appearance, and freshly sodded lawns.

 

 

Tom Marshall’s reports began to come in twice a day as the rate of progress increased.

 

“Joe, there must be some important brass that’s gonna be stationed here! You know they got carpets all over that place. And you ought to see the meeting room. It’s gonna be the best lit meeting room you ever saw.”

 

“Best lit?” asked Joe.

 

“Yeah. They just moved a big crate in. I thought it was a missile. I was scared till I saw the sign on the side. I thought it would be ‘danger – explosives’ but it just said ‘fragile – handle with care’. Ed Conlan’s kid pried a plank off the crate and damned if it weren’t the biggest crystal chandelier you ever seen.”

 

“Tom have you noticed anything like missiles being moved in? I mean they ought to be arriving by now.”

 

“Oh no,” said Tom, “but they put in the missile storage area. What a job. It’s all concrete sunk into the ground and surrounded by a flagstone walk. Only on strange thing, though. The floor’s crooked.”

 

“What?” said Joe.

 

“Yeah, it starts up high at one end and slants down so it’s real low on the other.”

 

Joe began to wonder about what was going on. “Do they have a drainage area in the center of it?”

 

“Yeah”, said Tom. ” I asked them about that but they said it was to protect the missiles if it rained.”

 

 

Joe was uncomfortable. Too many unanswered questions. As July approached the progress had been phenomenal.

 

 

Longer, hotter days occasionally dampened and cooled by a fine sprinkling shower failed to slow the activity at the base of Whittier Mountain. Lights began to appear at night from inside the buildings (there were three now) and worked progressed until late at night. Joe was unaware that men could work in so organized and dedicated a fashion. But he began to wonder at certain inconsistencies. Why did they need to disguise an area that everyone in town knew about? And how were they going to fire missiles from the base of a mountain? And, at whom?

 

It was Tuesday morning when Tom was reporting that Joe decided he’d better get out to the site and see what was going on.

 

“They got the strangest thing they just put in.”

 

“What’s that Tom?”

 

“Well, they put this here rope on a pulley up along the mountain. claim they’re gonna use it to haul supplies to the top. What the hell they need that for? What’re they gonna do with supplies on top of a mountain?”

 

The ride out was rough and Joe was filled with doubts and premonitions. Out past Don White’s farm circling toward the main road, a freshly paved crossroad had appeared leading toward Whittier. They drove through a large iron gate and onto manicured lawns. Joe faced the missile silo and was stricken by the appearance of its graceful lines, rustic contours, freshly painted windows, large walk and gardens. Tom pointed out the rope and pulleys far to the left.

 

“Jerk,” said Joe. “That’s a goddamn ski tow. Call some of the boys together and meet me at the store at one o’clock.”

 

It was nighttime at the communications network at the base of Whittier Mountain.

 

A voice whispered into a secure phone line: ” Hello, hello. This is Syms. Is the senator there? Yes, hello.”

 

The senator answered, ” Everything okay, Ed? The brochures are out. The first ones will be arriving in time for the fall skiing. Have there been any inquiries as to the location of the engineers?”

 

“Taken care of. The records show the units out on maneuvers for four months. We kept everything right on schedule.”

 

“How about the men?” asked the senator. “Will they keep quiet?”

 

 

Syms replied, “Sure, they think it’s a rest home for psychotic sergeants with T.B. They all want it, and hope they’ll never use it.”

 

“Great Ed,” said the senator.

 

“One problem senator. This guy Joe Reede may be acting up.”

 

“What makes you think so?”

 

“Well,” answered Syms ,”he went and nominated a city council, and to boot , they just sent to Denver for five books on how to pass a law.”

 

There was a silent period then the senator responded “Okay, okay, get hold of this Reede. Tell him he’s a partner, — in for ten percent.”