It was just a little black box,
useful for getting rid of things.
Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured,flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discusswith a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or alawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved inanything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit andtouched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, ProfessorVenetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organizationsomething like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. Itallegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is aresponsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stampingout. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guyslike me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze onmarks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about theMafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for toolong. 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'tkill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, thesearen't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit thesedays. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my clubhaven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbumswith too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vetsgoing to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno juststows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose myliquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer inhis eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get ridof these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em andthrow them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped enroute by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind ofscientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifiesthem like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgottenit wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there'salways traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... Aninteresting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortablyin the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you wereworking on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted tha