“Maybe we can help you,” O’Carroll said. “I can’t make any promises, but if you help us we may be able to help you when your deportation case comes up.”
Attardi shook his head. “I can’t do it. I’d be dead if I worked for you.”
O’Carroll continued talking of the injustices done to Attardi by his old pals, insisting that he owed them nothing since they had deserted him. But Attardi continued to say no.
At last O’Carroll said, “Well, I’ll leave my name and telephone number. If you ever need help—I’ll be glad to talk to you.” He wrote his name and telephone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Attardi.
For six months O’Carroll heard nothing from Attardi. He made no move to see the man again. He had planted the seed, and whether it took root depended on what went on in the mind of the skinny little ex-convict.
But in early December Attardi called the Narcotics Bureau office and Agent George O’Connor took the call. He explained that he wanted to talk to O’Carroll and he would be waiting for him on Delancey Street near Christie.
That afternoon O’Carroll and O’Connor drove to Delancey and parked near the street number mentioned by Attardi. A few minutes later the hoodlum walked from a doorway and ducked into the car with them.
The agents had assumed that Attardi had made the call because he was frightened over the prospect of being deported to Italy. But it wasn’t deportation that was on Attardi’s mind. He had fallen in love. He had met a twenty-two-year-old waitress in one of the mean little restaurants on the Lower East Side—and this girl had become the most important thing in his life. They wanted to get married, but he had no money.
Attardi said he was willing to put the agents onto some Puerto Ricans living in Brooklyn who were dealing in narcotics. If the price were right, Attardi would help knock off the gang.
The agents listened to Attardi’s story and then O’Carroll shook his head. “It’s no deal,” he said. “We want better cases than that. We want to go to the top.”