Half a Ghost
Most of our discussions at our Tuesday evenings in the Union Club library arise out of moral indignation. It was Baranov's turn, apparently.
"There are something like eight congressmen," he said, "who are being investigated on suspicion of using cocaine made available to them by a ring of congressional pages. Now that's disgusting."
I think it's disgusting, too, but I was feeling irritable, so I said, "Why? How many congressmen are half-drunk half the time? How many are mentally blurred with tobacco smoke? Why pick and choose between addictions?"
"Some addictions," said Baranov, "are against the law, which makes a difference—or it should do so to congressmen."
"How many of them stretch the facts to ribbons on their tax returns? That's against the law, too."
Jennings jerked his thumb in my direction. "That's Larry Liberal for you. If they don't ban tobacco because he doesn't smoke, then they might as well permit cocaine."
I said freezingly, "I happen not to use cocaine, either. I'm just trying to tell you that hypocrisy is not the answer. We either solve the social problems that give rise to drug abuse—and that includes tobacco and alcohol—or we'll just be bailing out the ocean with a sieve, forever."
Griswold's soft
snore seemed to hit a knot at this point. He uncrossed his legs,
blinked at us a bit, having clearly heard us through his sleep, as,
through some
special magic, he always did. /
"Law-enforcement officers have to enforce the law, whether that helps or not," he said. "Someone else has to solve the social problems."
Jennings said, "And I suppose you did your bit."
Griswold said, "Now and then. When asked to help. Once, I remember, that involved a ghost story—after a fashion. Or half of one, at any rate." He sipped at his scotch and soda and adjusted his position in the armchair. It was clear he was going to pretend to nap a bit more, when Jennings's shoe kicked gently against his ankle.
"Oh," said Griswold, in a dismal attempt at innocent surprise, "do you want to hear the story?"
I'm not often called into ordinary police cases [said Griswold], since the necessary methods for dealing with them represent Tom Edison's recipe for genius—ninety-nine percent perspiration and one percent inspiration.
If, for instance, there is suspicion that a drug ring is operating somewhere and is getting so completely out of control that it cannot be ignored—where it is reaching into middle-class schools, for instance, or into the police stations themselves, or into Congress, as is now suspected—then the forces of the law are galvanized.
A great many people must then do a great deal of waiting, following, questioning, sifting through statements, listening to lies, staying up late, running risks—
It takes a long time, and once in a while a great deal of heroin, or cocaine, or some other drug is confiscated; various people involved in the operation are arrested and even convicted; and the newspapers have a field day.
The drugs that are confiscated, if they are properly destroyed, never find their way into human physiology. The drug dealers are taken out of circulation, for at least a while. Even so, there are always more drugs coming into the marketplace, and there are always new drug dealers arising from somewhere. As our friend here said, it has a great likeness to bailing out the ocean with a sieve. And sometimes—most of the time—the efforts are less than spectacular. The drugs are confiscated in trivial quantities, if any, and the majestic arm of the law comes to rest on the shoulders of privates in the ranks; or of helpless and miserable users, far more sinned against than sinning.
Yet, as I said, my friends in the police department have to struggle along, doing what they can. It is their job. And if we're going to allot responsibility for the world's troubles, they should get off rather lightly—at least in most places and at most times.
I suppose that to any police officer running an investigation into drugs, there may come a time when a run-of-the-mill bit of procedure suddenly, and unexpectedly, comes to bear promise of leading to some sort of major "bust." A bit of information comes in that might, just possibly, open the road to the higher echelons in the drug trade. Quite apart from mundane considerations, such as favorable attention in the media, promotions, and salary raises, the officer may well feel the thrill of striking a blow for the forces of decency and civilization.
Usually, it is the ninety-nine percent of perspiration that gets the police to that point, and then, if they're to strike fast, and give the opposition no chance to cover up, to set up a protective shield, they may sometimes need that one percent of inspiration, and—if they are smart—that's when the police call on me.
The police lieutenant did just that on one occasion, about twenty years ago or so. He was an old friend of mine, and I didn't mind helping him if I could.
"Griswold," he said, holding up the thumb and forefinger of his right hand a quarter-inch apart, "I'm this far from getting on the track of something that will lead me to the central artery of the drug flow in this city."
"Excellent," I said.
"But I may not make that little bit. I'm missing half a ghost."
"What?" For a moment, I thought the lieutenant was intending some sort of practical joke at my expense, although he was notoriously lacking in a sense of humor, practical or otherwise. He said, "We have a line of investigation that makes it quite certain that we can put our finger on someone who will serve as a perfect conduit of information to the very top."
"Grab him!" I said, for I am impatient with subtlety when the time for direct action has come.
"I can't. We only know his nickname. He's called Haifa Ghost."
"You can't be serious."
"He chose it himself apparently, and that's all we've got. He's a whole ghost for any chance we seem to have of identifying him."
"You have no idea at all as to who he might be?"
"Yes, we have some idea. Indirect evidence leads us to suppose he's a member of the Black Belts, a street gang."
"Might not one of them turn state's evidence, suitably induced?"
The lieutenant rolled his eyes upward, as though calling on Heaven to witness my stupidity. "Get one of those petty hoodlums to sing? Not talking is the chief item in their own perverted notion of rules of honor. And by the time we broke one of them down, Half a Ghost would know we were after him and be gone."
"Take them all."
"We couldn't hold them. This isn't a police state— more's the pity, I sometimes think. And that would alert them, too. Isn't there some way you can tell us who Half a Ghost is right now, with enough certainty so that we can hope to catch him by surprise and sweep him into giving us the information we need?"
"Do you have anything for me to go on? Anything? Even I can't give you something in return for nothing."
"We suspect that Half a Ghost has something to do with his first name. Don't ask me what. A private joke of his own, I suspect. The trouble is we have the first names of the ten members of the gang who are old enough and have heft enough to be Half a Ghost, and not one of those first names means anything at all ghostwise."
"What are they?" "Here they are, in alphabetical order."
I looked at the list: Alex, Barney, Dwayne, Gregory, Jimmy, Joshua, Lester, Norton, Roy, Simon.
I said, in disbelief, "One of them is called Dwayne?"
"He's called Bugsy for short. Every one of them is nicknamed, but one of them has Half a Ghost in addition, that's all. Which one?"
"Look," I said, "If the nickname were Rock, I would feel reasonably sure that it was taken from the name Simon. Simon means rock in Aramaic, according to the Bible, so the Apostle Simon was called Petrus in Latin, or Peter in English. Most people know that; perhaps even these two-bit hoods. If the nickname were King, I'd bet on Roy, which is the French word for king. If it were Jericho, I'd bet on Joshua."
"Why are you telling me all that? The nickname is Half a Ghost."
"Are you certain? There's no mistake?"
"Who can be certain, one hundred percent? Give it a good ninety, though."
"Are you sure of the Black Belts?"
''Another good ninety.''
"Are you sure of the first names?"
"One hundred percent. We checked with the birth certificates. And Griswold, I need it fast. I need it now. Come on, look at the list."
I looked, "It's certainly nothing obvious."
"Would I need you if it were obvious?"
"Do you know anything about these individuals aside from their names? Do you know their schooling?"
"They all went to school—officially. How much they actually attended—what they listened to—I suppose they can read after a fashion. They're streetwise, though, and they're no dummies."
"Hasn't one of them had a real education? Finished high school at least. Gone to college maybe. Don't tell me which one. Just tell me if one of them has. Or if one of them is a reader and is known to go to the library— anything like that."
The lieutenant looked astonished. "Well, as a matter of fact, one of them fits that. He went to one of the city colleges for two years before dropping out. I didn't take that seriously. These days they're experimenting with taking in anyone, you know, whatever the marks. Do you want me to check his transcript?"
"Maybe that won't be necessary. Just one, you say?"
"Just one."
"Would it be that one?" and I pointed to one of the names on the list.
The lieutenant's mouth fell open, and he said, "Yes. How the hell could you know just from the name?"
I explained and said, "Grab him!"
The lieutenant did and what followed may not have been strictly and entirely legal—it was just before the Supreme Court got into the act—but he had his big bust. And you have to admit that, in a way, that's a ghost story.
Griswold yawned, sipped at his drink and closed his eyes, but Baranov, who had copied down the list of names when Griswold had given them, said, "Damn it, Griswold, there's nothing in this list that refers to a ghost, or half a ghost, or an education, and you can't tell us there is."
Griswold sneered. "A ghost is a specter, isn't it? An immaterial apparition, or appearance. Well, when Isaac Newton first passed sunlight through a prism he got a rainbow of colors, an immaterial apparition. So he called it a spectrum, and we still call it a spectrum today. People who take physics in college, or even in high school, would know that. And if he had a sense of humor, as the lieutenant didn't, he would think of the spectrum as a ghost.
"The spectrum is made up of a rainbow of colors, as I said, and these colors are in a certain order. In order to memorize the order of colors, students are frequently given a sentence such as: Read Out Your Good Book In Verse. The initials stand for Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet, though Indigo is not usually considered a separate color. It's just a deep blue, really, and is generally omitted. The initial letters representing the order of colors in the spectrum or 'ghost' are ROYGBV, if you leave out indigo, and the letters in the first half of the ghost are ROY.
"If, then, Roy is the only one with any schooling to speak of, and if ROY represents Half a Ghost, after a fashion, what else do you need?"