The Expendables

It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
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 discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer.
They can't help me. I need an operator in your line.
I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal.
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?
I've heard of it, I said uneasily. An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print.
I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy.
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. 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't kill any of these people?
He snorted. I haven't killed anybody since early 1943.