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373 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 11, 1985
I was about to open the stairwell door when I heard feet pounding on the other side. Turning back down the hall, I tried every door. Miraculously one opened under my hand. I stepped inside onto something squishy and was hit in the nose by someone with a stick. Fighting back, I found myself wrestling a large mop.
“If you never left this house, the FBI would never know.” The parchment voice was gentle, but I felt the hairs prickle along the back of my neck.
I looked at my hands. They appeared remarkably small and fragile. “It’s a gamble, Don Pasquale,” I finally said. “I know now who called to threaten me. If your interests are tied to his, then it’s hopeless. One of these times, someone will kill me. I won’t always make it out of the burning apartment, or be able to break my attackers jaw. I will fight to the end, but the end will be clearly discernible to everyone.”
. . .
“I appeal only to your sense of honor, your sense of family, to understand why I’ve done what I’ve done, and why, I want what I want.” To the myth of the Mafia, I thought. To the myth of honor. But many of them liked to believe it. My only hope was that Pasquali’s view of himself mattered to him.
Of course, a hard-boiled detective is never scared. So what I was feeling couldn't be fear.
"Remember: The only real social sin is to care what other people think of you." ~ V.I. Warshawski