Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 3, Number 1, January, 1955

Normally if anyone told me about being blackmailed by the Mafia, I would advise calling the police and let my responsibility end there whether the advice was taken or not, for as a private cop I have no responsibility to hunt down criminals unless a client engages me to do so. But Fausta Moreni is not just anyone. She is the girl I once wanted to marry, and though that is now a thing of the past for reasons which make another story, she is still pretty special to me. I had not let Fausta see it, but the fear in her face put me into a boiling rage. I had plans for her extortioners which would either get me dead, or convince them Fausta was a good person to steer clear of.

My first stop was at the office of my old friend, Inspector Warren Day of Homicide. As usual he raised his skinny bald head to peer at me over his glasses when I entered, and inquired when I was going to learn to knock before opening doors.

“When you start squandering your money on loose women,” I told the tight-fisted old woman-hater. “What do you know about the Mafia, Inspector?”

He looked at me silently as I found a seat and reached for his cigar humidor. Automatically he moved it out of the way before I could raise the lid, forcing me to light one of my own cigars.

“What about the Mafia, Moon?”

“That was my question. What about it?”

He examined me curiously, finally said, “It’s supposed to run the national crime syndicate. Or maybe vice versa. Aside from that I don’t know anything about it.”

“I don’t mean nationally,” I said. “I mean the local Mafia.”

“There isn’t any,” he said flatly.

“You’re certain?”

For a long time he just looked at me. Then he said, “Maybe there is some local stuff, but it’s not the same bunch that’s tied up with the syndicate. Maybe in a loose sort of way it’s part of the same organization, but it doesn’t function as a racket. You know how old-country people are. They stick together. They like their own people to settle disputes according to their own traditions instead of going into strange courts. A lot of Italians who never did anything criminal in their lives belong to the Mafia. The leaders act as sort of extra-legal judges to settle marital disputes and so on. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the Mafia here, but I’ll bet its members are all grocers and barbers and working men, not hoods.”

“I see,” I said, rising. “Thanks a lot, Inspector.”

“Wait a minute, Moon. What’s this all about?”

“Nothing. I seem to have been following a wrong lead. See you around, Inspector.”

Having verified what I already suspected, that the police had no knowledge of the Mafia running its extortion racket in town, I realized I was going to have to stick my neck out a little to gain information. My next move was to visit Rome Alley.

Rome Alley is the colloquial name for a five-block stretch of Columbus Street occupied almost entirely by restaurants, fruit stands and other small businesses run by Italians.

My plan of strategy was based on the knowledge that the Mafia’s extortion racket is aimed solely at Italians. Though I have made no detailed study of the secret organization, I assume the reason for this is that the Mafia knows the chance of an Italian running to the police is much slimmer than if the Mafia indiscriminately picked on all nationalities. Practically from birth people of Italian descent, even third — and fourth-generation citizens, know what the Mafia is and have an inbred fear of it. They know its ruthlessness and they know what happens to Italians who refuse to pay the traditional ten percent tribute. I was therefore fairly certain that if the organization was operating on any large scale, practically every small business along Rome Alley would be paying tribute.

I started at a small fruit store. It was empty when I entered, but the jangle of a bell attached to the screen door brought a luscious, olive-skinned woman in her late twenties from what seemed to be an apartment at the rear. She was a typical Italian beauty, plump and ripe and clean-smelling as fresh sheets. She wore a simple print house dress.

“The boss around?” I asked her.

White teeth flashed in a smile. “I am the boss, mister. Mrs. Nina Cellini.”

The “Mrs.” made me glance at her left hand, which bore a plain gold band. It is uncommon among Italian families for anyone but the man of the house to be boss, and I must have looked surprised, for she grinned at my expression.

“I am a widow five years,” she explained. “You selling something, mister?”

“No,” I said. I moved my head toward the rear apartment. “Anyone else back there?”

She looked at me suspiciously, but after examining me again, apparently decided I wasn’t a stickup artist. Suddenly a light of understanding dawned in her eyes. Moving from behind the counter, she came close and looked up at me with frank interest.

“You are in answer to the ad,” she stated.

“Ad?” I asked.

Tilting her head first to one side and then the other, she studied me from head to foot.

“You are in good health?” she asked. “No physical defects?”

“I have a false right leg below the knee,” I admitted. “Otherwise I’m pretty sound.”

Her lips pursed and she lowered her gaze to stare dubiously at the indicated limb. Since she seemed interested, I walked across the store and back again, just to show her I had no limp.

“It does not show and does not seem to inconvenience you,” she decided. “You have two thousand dollars in the bank?”

Still at sea, I said, “About eighteen hundred, I think.”

Her shoulders raised in a shrug. “For two hundred dollars I would not quibble. But the important thing is love.”

She raised her eyebrows questioningly and I said, “Well, if you’d like a demonstration...”

Suddenly coy, she cast down her eyes and blushed a furious red. Then she slanted her gaze upward again and said in a conspiritorial voice, “Maybe one kiss. Just to see, I mean.”

“Sure,” I said agreeably, and immediately she moved into my arms.

I suspect we would still be glued together if I hadn’t decided I needed air after about two minutes, for she gave no indication of ever wanting to end the kiss. I broke away by main force, retreated a step and wiped the lipstick from my mouth with a handkerchief.

“Did I pass?” I asked.

“I think, but it was really very short to tell.”

She moved toward me tentatively and I retreated another step. Accepting defeat, she clasped her hands in front of her and again eyed me critically.

“I have three children,” she said. “You like children, do you not?”

I decided that interesting as the conversation was, it was time to clarify things.

“Just who do you think I am?” I asked.

She looked surprised. “You are in answer to the ad, are you not? My matrimonial ad.”

Regretfully I shook my head. “I’m just here for the weekly tribute. The ten percent.”

“Tribute? Ten percent?” She looked puzzled. “You are not in answer to the ad?”

“The Mafia tribute.”

Her face had begun to develop an angry look, but the word “Mafia” changed her expression to startlement. “Mafia? I know nothing of the Mafia.”

That was all I wanted to know. Tipping my hat, I walked out while she looked after me with an expression on her face which indicated she thought I was crazy.

Mrs. Nina Cellini’s reaction was typical to what I encountered all along Rome Alley. Her reaction to the Mafia, I mean, for I didn’t run into any more people who mistook my identity. I hit fifteen places of business, in each announced I had come for the tribute, and in every one get nothing but uncomprehending looks. When I dropped the word “Mafia,” the reaction was either startlement or guarded truculence, but nowhere did it seem to inspire fear.