“Sorry. I just didn’t want you to misunderstand. I want this favor without any strings attached. If I can’t have it that way, then forget it and we’ll still be friends.”
“Of course you get it that way. I don’t do favors for friends with strings on them. Now just what is this favor you want?”
“I want you to arrange for cooperation with some of your cat-houses.” Frank went on to explain about the research project.
“Okay,” Carrera agreed after hearing Frank out. “It sounds screwy, but if that’s what you want, okay. I’ll give you a name and address. This is the man the brotherhood has running the joy district. You be there in an hour. Meanwhile I’ll call and 'set it up so he’ll cooperate with you. You can work out the details with him.”
“Right.” Frank took down the name and address Carrera gave him, thanked him and hung up the phone.
Exactly an hour later Frank and the Professor arrived at their destination by taxicab. It was a rather large house on the borderline between the Negro ghetto and the red-light district. In contrast to those around it, the house was well cared for, the grounds neatly landscaped and trimmed, the facade freshly painted. A light shone from behind the curtains of a ground-floor window and when they rang the bell the front door was opened quickly to admit them.
A tall, distinguished-looking Negro in his mid-forties ushered them inside. He was wearing a deep blue dressing gown—obviously expensive, but conservative-—and fur-lined carpet slippers. “I’m Hal Rockwell.” He introduced himself as he led the way to a front parlor.
Frank introduced himself and the Professor and Hal Rockwell shook hands with each of them in turn. “Sorry about its being so late,” Frank apologized.
“That’s all right. Carrera said I should help you any way I can. But first, would you gentlemen like a drink?”
“No thanks,” Frank told him. The Professor shook his head.
“Then I hope you’ll pardon me if I have a quick one. It’ll make me more alert.” Hal Rockwell poured three fingers of bourbon into a short glass. “Will you excuse me a minute? I just want to throw a few cubes in this. Can’t stand warm liquor.” He left them alone.
“I thought you said we’d be dealing with the Mafia?” The Professor was confused.
“That’s right. They run all the houses in Flintsburgh.”
“But Mr. Rockwell doesn’t look Italian.”
“Not hardly.”
“Still, isn’t his position with the-—ahh-Syndicate quite an important one?”
“Perhaps I can enlighten you, Professor.” Hal Rockwell was back and he didn’t bother to hide the fact that he’d overheard them.
“I didn’t mean to—-” The Professor was embarrassed.
“That’s all right. No offense meant, I’m sure, and none taken. You were wondering how it was that a Negro would hold such a high position in an organization known to be Sicilian. I understand that it must seem unusual to you and that you’re curious.”
“It’s really none of my business,” Professor Woocheck admitted.
“It’s really quite simple.” Rockwell ignored his demurrer. “The Mafia has integrated.”
“Integrated? Oh.” The Professor didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes.” Rockwell smiled politely, but without any particular warmth. “It really started with the Gallo brothers wanting to set an example.”
“The Gallo brothers?”
“They head a very important Mafia family in Brooklyn in New York City,” Frank explained to the Professor.
“That’s right,” Hal Rockwell continued. “Recently, you may remember, there was some interracial violence between the Italians and the Negroes and Puerto Ricans in the East New York section of Brooklyn. Mainly it boiled down to street gangs fighting over turf. The city administration enlisted the aid of the Gallos to help cool it. Their influence with the Italian street gangs was very high. They were very helpful in bringing about a truce. Only once they got involved it was sort of as if they’d made a commitment.”
“A commitment?”
“Yes. You know, almost like a social worker. They must have figured the Mafia should set a good example for the street gangs. Like if the Mafia was going to ask the neighborhoods to integrate peaceably, then it should lead the way. But then it wasn’t just the Gallos. All the heads of the families got together and decided it. I don’t know just how many Negroes have been taken into the brotherhood, but the eventual aim is to have them represented proportionate to the population. So you see, it isn’t tokenism.” Hal Rockwell grinned wryly. “Why, the day may even come when pizzerias serve chitlins and fried chicken and watermelon.”
“Very laudable,” the Professor had to agree. “First organized baseball, now organized—umm—now the Mafia. Why, at this rate, complete equality is just around the corner.”
“Which is better than having it move in right next door, hey?” Rockwell said sarcastically. “Pardon.” He held up his hand before the Professor could protest. “I’m afraid my cynicism busts through sometimes. Actually, I have nothing to complain about. The Mafia position is sincere. I mean, they might have just hired Negroes as gunsels, or numbers runners, and claimed they were integrated. But they didn’t just do that. They made a concerted effort to place them in executive positions. I’m fortunate enough to be one of the first. Oh, sure, some of those Black Power radicals sneer at me as an Uncle Tom and a front man for the white power structure. But they don’t realize what an important beginning this is. Mark my words, some day there will be a top Negro family in the brotherhood in a policy-making position.”
“Only in America!” Frank remarked.
“How right you are, paisan.” Hal Rockwell downed the last of his drink and set the glass down. “Well now, suppose we get down to business. From what Mr. Carrera told me, you want to make a deal for periodic bulk supply of the product. Now, I’m prepared to fulfill your needs as they arise and insure you a constant flow of goods. I’ll personallypass the word along so that you’ll only get prime stuff. You don’t have to worry about any venereals, or over-the-hills, or bad news types. Also, as per instructions, I’m going to keep the price way down for you. Now, how do you prefer to pay? Weekly? Monthly? By the gross?”
“‘Whatever’s convenient for you,” the Professor told him. “Only I wonder if it will be possible to pay by check—for tax purposes?”
“Negative. We can’t take the risk of having records. But why not have your accountant charge it off to equipment rental, or part-time help? We might be able to help you out with a receipt to cover something like that.”
“I’ll speak to him about it,” the Professor promised. “Thank you for the suggestion.”
“My pleasure. Now, I suppose we’d best be getting down to specifics. Will you be requiring any virgins? And if so, how many?”
“None at first,” the Professor said thoughtfully. “But if the need arises, will it be all right to contact you?”
“Sure. Anything special you want —Lesbos, sadists, masochists, trick acts-—just give me a ring. Now, as to the time, spacing and place of delivery . . .”
It was almost dawn by the time they worked all the details out and Frank and the Professor bid Hal Rockwell farewell and left his place. Out on the street it took a few minutes for them to find a cruising cab. The Professor dropped Frank off at his apartment and then went back to pick up his car where he’d left it at the beginning of his night of adventure. By the time he drove home, there was barely time to shave and change his clothes before returning to the lab to meet with Dr. Peerloin.
“Good morning.” Her greeting was frosty.
“Good morning, Doctor. You slept well, I trust.”