Control by William Goldman Page A

blessing: mistakes were what you learned from. (Although he prayed more than once to have a someday opportunity to meet those two Spaniards again. And if that happened, he knew one thing: he would be ready.)
    From the beginning of his life, people always attributed brilliance to Eric but he wasn ’ t buying. What he was willing to do was outwork anybody. Whatever it took to get something done he was more than wilting to give. And now he moved through the South Philly bars, the most dangerous ones he could find, and he nursed beers and fights weren ’ t hard to find and he watched them, learning not much at all, just waiting.
    Then one dark night he saw an aging black bartender dispose of three construction workers in less than two minutes, and he knew he had his man. Eric approached the older man when the bar closed and said excuse me sir and then made his pitch.
    Jed Randolph, for that was the bartender ’ s name, just stared Eric down. “ What are you, some Ivy League asshole on a scavenger hunt? ”
    Eric assured him that was not the case.
    “ And you want me to beat the shit out of you? And you ’ ll pay me? ”
    Eric admitted it wasn ’ t your everyday request.
    Randolph wanted no part of it until Eric suggested a fee of fifteen dollars per session.
    Class began the following Saturday.
    Randolph had been a fighter and in the merchant marine and he knew many things, how to hurt with your fingertips, how to banish, momentarily, pain, how to make an ally of darkness. And if in the beginning, he pulled his blows somewhat, that didn ’ t mean Eric wasn ’ t badly whipped when he went back to school And after a month, the whippings became less severe and Mr. Randolph was able to swing more freely and he was pleased, because Eric was a quick study, and he intuitively almost picked up when to run and when to fall, when to take pain and how, most especially, to give it
    Eric invited Mr. Randolph to his graduation, introduced him to his parents as his phys. ed. teacher where Mr. Randolph spoke warmly of the boy even though he had to admit, he said, there were some who might consider Eric to be very very strange.
     
    “ Your kid ’ s in the Academy, ” Cooney said one autumn day. Cooney, at Gallagher ’ s, had called Eric a “ co-ed. ” He was Hag gerty ’ s partner at the 19th now, hanging on till retirement, and he knew how much the beating in Harlem had taken out of Haggerty.
    Haggerty had his own contacts so he knew where Eric was and that he was doing exceptionally well. “ How ’ s he doing I wonder? ” he asked.
    “ My word is ‘ fair, ’” Cooney said.
    Haggerty went back to reading Dick Young in the News. “ Fair ” was good coming from Cooney, who not only gave away ice in the winter, he also hated Jews …
    “ Your kid ’ s heading for the 28th, ” Cooney said one morning when they were getting coffee.
    “ Harlem, huh; tough beat. Wonder why he picked it? ”
    “ Obvious why—he ’ s a kike, he ’ s a pusher, he wants to make a record, get ahead, that ’ s why they own the world, y ’ know, they push harder. ”
    “ He only did fair at the Academy. ”
    “ —who said that?— ”
    “ —you said that— ”
    “ —he didn ’ t do fair, he did tops, but he ’ s rich, he had a lot of contacts, his old man knows a lot of people in the Commissioner ’ s office— ”
    “ —it was pull got him to the top, that what you ’ re saying? ”
    Cooney nodded. “ How else? ” he said with total confidence…
    “ Your ‘ kid ’ lucked into a drug bust, first fucking week on patrol, ” Cooney said. He seemed sour. His stomach was off.
    “ His father probably set it up for him to score, ” Haggerty said.
    Cooney belched and looked at him. “ Whaaat? ”
    “ His old man ’ s got a lot of contacts, ” Haggerty said, “ I heard that someplace… ”
    “ He stopped a bloodbath, ” Cooney said some weeks later.
    “ Who? ” Haggerty said, sharpening a pencil. Eric had called to