O’Carroll entered the rooming house and climbed two flights of stairs. He knocked on the door and then tried the doorknob. The door swung open, and at that moment the agent knew that Attardi was in a bad way financially. If he had had a bankroll, he wouldn’t have left the door unbolted—not in this dive.
He saw Attardi sitting up in bed, a skinny gnome of a man wearing only undershirt and shorts.
“Who is it?” Attardi said. “What do you want?”
“Take it easy,” O’Carroll said. “I’m a U.S. Treasury agent. I just want to talk to you.”
Attardi switched on a light over the bed. “What do you want to see me about?” he said. “I’m clean.”
“Have you got any narcotics in this room?” O’Carroll asked him.
Attardi shook his head. “No. You can search the room if you like. I’m out of the business.”
O’Carroll pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down. He began to talk about Attardi’s connections with well-known underworld figures, asking him why it was that he had been convicted in Houston while others in the mob had gone free.
As they talked, bitterness began to creep into Attardi’s voice. He had taken the rap in Houston—and then his pals had deserted him. They didn’t even try to communicate with him while he was in prison. His wife had become ill and no one had come forward to help her. She had died. He had even lost the little olive oil and cheese shop on Christie Street.
“Now I have nothing,” he said.