CHAPTER 1<br >Postmortem<br >on Manfredi<br >Later， in February of that memorable winter， when the<br >numbness of his mind receded and Sutherland won-<br >dered if he would ever have a reason to laugh again in<br >life， he began to think about Manfredi. But which Man-<br >fredi? Manfredi， demented， who had rushed back from<br >Italy in the grip of a powerful dream to recapture a lost<br >American past that had rendered them all dazed， then<br >frightened， then finally pitying?<br > Or Manfredi of the pious peasant ethic， caught and<br >floundering confused in the maelstrom of his own moral<br >nature? A shared maelstrom that had dragged Suther-<br >land down with him into a netherworld of hit men and<br >death threats and elusive game playing with the police--<br >a place in which no Up-and-coming Boston civil-liberties<br >lawyer ought ever to be seen lurking.<br > Or Manfredi the malevolent who had retreated with a<br >dark passion into the Italian North End and terrorized<br >them with whispered threats of retribution and stalked<br >Sutherland s pregnant wife through Back Bay streets<br >and parks? Or Manfredinthe old Manfredi--of the<br >vast loving-kindness and the endless generous giving<br >3<br ><br >
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