After basic training at Ft. Ord, CA., the U.S. Army assigned me to become a radar technician on a North American Air Defense Command (NORAD) missile site on Mt. Gleason between Pasadena and Palmdale.
The Nike-Hercules site was located high on the mountain, one of 16 missile sites that circled the greater Los Angeles area. My profession was journalism and writing, and I wasn't thrilled with my assignment, but I was determined to make the best of it.
We had just under 100 soldiers on the site. Our first sergeant was a stern military veteran who was related to track star Jesse Owens, whom I would later meet. He was tough but fair and assigned me to a bunk in the barracks located next to the Orderly Room.
One of my fellow bunkmates was Eddie Trussell from Phoenix, AZ. Eddie was my same age and liked to play poker. He also told me his future ambition.
'When I get discharged, I am going to join the Phoenix Police Department and become a detective,' he said.
He was interested in the fact that I was a reporter and that I had worked in Phoenix for a radio station. That gave us a lot to talk about in our nightly poker games after we got off-duty.
The regular poker players would head to the Day Room where we would play for cash or payday stakes. The game was run by a corporal who was in charge of issuing our pay, so there was no problem when it came to squaring things away between the players.
On weekends we would head down the mountain to Hollywood or Pasadena where the night life and the women were. We would ride down in the pass run and would pass around the beer. The run took about 45 minutes and by the time we got there, we would be well into our cerveza.
'So what made you decide to be a detective?,' I asked Eddie. He sipped his beer, shrugged and said, 'Somebody has to be the good guy. I always wanted to serve the people. What made you become a journalist?'
I smiled and drained my beer. 'Same reason. Serving the public and being a good guy.' We clicked beer cans and gave each other a high five.
Our job at the missile site consisted of training sessions in raising and lowering the nuclear-tipped Nike-Hercules missiles. It was boring work but necessary. During my 19 months on the missile site, we experienced a forest fire that burned right up to our fences surrounding our perimeter.
Teams of fire fighters fought the blaze. Our commanding officers were worried that the flames might do damage or even cause an explosion, so he asked for volunteers to help contain the fire. Eddie and I both volunteered.
We manned the fire lines with our shovels and worked alongside the firemen. They appreciated our help. We managed to stop the fire about 10 feet short of the fence line. That night we held a victory party inside the Day Room and we invited the firemen to be our guests.
My honorable discharge finally came. Eddie and I parted company with a firm handshake and promised to get together back in Phoenix.
For a while I forgot about my Army buddy. I went to work for a daily newspaper and began living the life of a daily journalist. My byline began appearing in the newspaper and one day I got a phone call.
'Is this that sorry poker player who used to take my money on Site 04,' a familiar voice said. It was Eddie Trussell.
'I saw your name in the newspaper,' he said. 'Let's get together for old times sake.'
I was happy to hear from him and we agreed to meet that night at a popular country western night spot.
He said, 'By the way, I am no longer Patrolman Trussell. They promoted me to detective and my rank is captain.'
'Eddie, you're a good guy and you deserve the promotion,' I said.
We met at the club. He had put on a little weight, but he looked the same as he had looked on the missile site.
'Still playing poker?,' I said.
'I go out maybe twice a month to Casino Arizona,' he said. 'How about you?'
I laughed. 'I am over there two or three times a week. It's amazing that I didn't see you there.'
When we went out to the parking lot, I took two beers out of my coat pockets and handed one to Eddie. His face paled.
'Geez, thanks,' he said, 'but I can't do that any more. I'm a cop and it's illegal.'
I pretended to frown. 'Just one beer, Eddie? For old times sake? I promise not to report you.'
He grinned and accepted the beer, hiding it on his person. He got into the car with me and we drank our beers before saying good night.
'Next time we meet, don't persuade me to do this,' he cautioned. 'I can't be arresting people for breaking the law if I'm doing the same thing on my time off.'
'Eddie, that's what they all say,' I said. We clicked beer cans and gave each other a high five.
Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.
(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).
