"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss
with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor--not of medicine, anyway--or a
lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in
anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and
touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor
Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization
something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It
allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a
responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping
out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand _honest_ Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys
like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on
marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the
Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too
long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false,
built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't
kill any of these people?"