We went there. It was practically empty, a few out-of-towners — salesmen, mostly, from the look of them — draped on the bar. Only one booth was occupied, and in it sat our man. He was exactly as Ron had described him. Intense, plus briefcase. He was sharp-nosed and bushy-browed, with deep-set dark eyes and disapproval lines etched into his cheeks. He was maybe thirty-five.
Ron, being gregarious, took over right away. He marched to the booth, put a big smile on his face, stuck out his hand, and said, “Mr. Masetti?”
Masetti looked up, wary and stem. “Yes?”
Ron’s hand was left hanging there. “I’m Ron Lascow,” he said. He used the hand to point to me. “And this is Tim Smith.”
“How do you do.” Masetti started to smile, which would have been something to see, but he frowned instead. To Ron, he said, “I thought I was to see you at one.”
“We decided to save you some time,” said Ron. He slid into the booth, on the side opposite Masetti, and said, “This way, you can double up.”
“I was hoping,” said Masetti sourly, “to have a chance to speak to each of you in private.”
“We hold no secrets from one another,” Ron told him cheerfully. “Timothy and I are blood brothers.”
“We have just about the same attitude toward things,” I said. I slid into the booth beside Ron, and said, “I’ve been hearing about your organization.”
This time, Masetti did smile. It was like a blast of cold air. “What have you heard?” he asked me.
“It’s a reform group,” I said. “A practical and efficient reform group.”
“Which may be a first,” said Ron.
Masetti nodded. “It is a first,” he said. “We have no political ties. We cannot be bought, and we cannot be intimidated. Do you know of our record?”
“It’s impressive,” I admitted.
“It’s frightening,” said Ron candidly.
“You have guessed, I suppose,” said Masetti, “that we intend to investigate Winston next.”
“And you want Ron and me to help,” I said.
He nodded. “I do not come unrecommended,” he told me. He reached into his suit-coat pocket and brought out a batch of business-size envelopes. He leafed through them, handed one to Ron and one to me.
I looked at the envelope he’d given me. Typed on the face of it was my full name, Timothy E. Smith. That was all. The letter inside was signed Terry Samuelson. Terry was a local boy, an old friend of mine, now a criminal lawyer in New York. I’d always respected his judgment, because he was both bright and practical, a combination you don’t run into too often.
The letter was short, and to the point. It said: “Dear Tim, This is to introduce Paul Masetti, a sharp guy and a nice guy. He’s working with the Citizens for Clean Government, and doing a hell of a job. I know you like Winston, and I think you’ll like it even better once Paul and the CCG get through with it. Help him, if you can.”
I read it twice, then folded it, put it back into its envelope, and said to Masetti, “Can I keep this?”
“Of course.” He gave me another of those brief, wintry smiles. “If you decide to work with us,” he said, “you can bill the CCG for the call.”
“Call?”
“To Terry Samuelson.”
Ron said, “Just exactly what is it you want from us, Mr. Masetti?”
“In any city,” Masetti told him, “no matter what its size, there will be dishonesty somewhere in its government. The local people who work in or near the government will know where this dishonesty lies. A stranger will not. If the stranger is to root out the corruption, he must have the assistance of the honest local people.” He looked intensely from Ron to me and back to Ron again. “We are not interested in the whole spectrum of dishonesty,” he said. “We are only interested in dishonesty in government. Take a hypothetical example: The legal closing time for taverns in Winston is one o’clock. Let us assume that there is one tavern which stays open until three o’clock. The proprietor, in order to avoid trouble with the law, pays bribes to the patrolman on that beat and to the precinct captain or chief of police or some other authority. Two crimes are being committed, one, the crime of staying open beyond the legal closing time, and two, the crime of accepting bribes. The CCG is not at all interested in the crime committed by the proprietor of the tavern. The CCG is only interested in the crime committed by the policeman.”
He paused, one finger raised to let us know that he had made only a part of the point. He delivered this little lecture with icy enthusiasm. It was obvious he had memorized it, but it was also obvious that he had memorized it because he liked it.
“We have a definite reason for this limitation,” he went on. “And if we follow our hypothetical example, you will see what that reason is. Let us now assume that the CCG has come into Winston and, with the help of honest local citizens, has rooted out all trace of corruption in government, from the mayor’s office to the cop on the beat.” The way he said “cop on the beat,” with the slight trace of another chilly smile made it plain that he used such slang expressions only rarely, and only for definite stylistic reasons. He didn’t talk, he wrote out loud.
“With corruption rooted out,” he said, “the patrolman who had been accepting bribes is no longer on the police force. An honest patrolman has taken his place. The proprietor of the tavern now must close at one o’clock, or be arrested.” He spread his hands, and smiled once more. “Do you see?” he asked us. “By ending the first crime, we have also ended the second crime.” He pointed a finger at us for emphasis. “A shockingly high percentage of crime,” he told us, “could never be committed without the permission, or even assistance, of the representatives of government. Wipe out governmental crime, and you have swept away a large percentage of all other crime with it.”
“Dandy theory,” said Ron irreverently. “Except that governmental crime keeps coming back. That new cop on the beat is liable to be just as money-hungry as the old one.”
“That is the purpose of the CCG,” Masetti told him. “A permanent, incorruptible, watchful guard against corruption in government at the local level. When we are finished in a particular city or town, we leave behind us an aroused and aware citizenry, determined to keep the crooks out forever.”
“What exactly do you want us to do?” I asked again. I’d had more than enough of the hypothetical example.
Masetti leveled his eyes on me. “A man in your position,” he said, “gradually collects information. Some of it would be more than useful in our fight against corruption in Winston.”
“I see.”
Ron interrupted, saying, “What do you people get out of this? Winston isn’t your town, you don’t intend to live here after the whole thing is finished. What’s in it for you?”
“I am on salary,” Masetti told him, in all seriousness. “I have been hired as a representative of the CCG. I am paid to help in the exposing of the venal. I happen to enjoy the work very much.”
“What does the CCG get out of it?” I asked him.
“Satisfaction,” he told me. “A job well done.” He nodded at Ron. “As Mr. Lascow pointed out,” he said, “I will not be living in Winston after the CCG is finished here. I have no personal or financial or political ties in Winston. Nor has anyone else in the CCG organization. We are totally dispassionate.”
“What do you want from me?” Ron asked him.
“Your public support,” Masetti answered. “The support and well-wishes of responsible local citizens, particularly those near but not connected with the local government, is one of the best assets we can have.”
Apparently, Masetti and his CCG didn’t know about Ron’s tax scheme, a double-shuffle he’d worked out all on his own and was planning on using as an initiation fee to get a place on the City Council next election. Under the table, Ron gave my ankle a slight kick, to ask me if I’d caught the joke. I gave him a kick back, to let him know I had.