It was eleven in the evening. Soft background music floated through the dank air of nightclub Cosa Nostra. A federal agent entered the room and asked about a certain Vito Calabria. The pianist nodded his head to the only man in the bar, a man leaning against the counter. The officer approached the subject cautiously and asked if he was the person he was looking for. Unmoved, the customer picked up the glass of whiskey that Marilyn, the bar waitress, had poured him, took a sip, looked at his interlocutor from head to toe, took another sip and said, “I’m just a businessman, nothing else. Is there a problem?” Then he poked a toothpick through an olive, brought it to his mouth and, with a smile on his lips, watched as a drop of sweat dripped gently down the inspector’s forehead.
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