Transcriber’s Notes
Basic misspelled words have been corrected, but local speech spelling
and grammar has been left unchanged. Changed words are identified
by a ♦ symbol in the text. The change description is shown
immediately below the paragraph in which the correction appears.
Details and other notes may be found at the end of this text.
The first law of every being, is to preserve itself and live. You sow
hemlock, and expect to see ears of corn ripen.
_Macchiavelli_
By W • R • BURNETT
LITTLE
CAESAR
THE LITERARY GUILD OF AMERICA
NEW YORK MCMXXIX
COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY DIAL PRESS, INC.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To MARJORIE
NOTE: The characters and events in this book are entirely imaginary.
PART I
I
Sam Vettori sat staring down into Halsted Street. He was a big man,
fat as a hog, with a dark oily complexion, kinky black hair and a fat
aquiline face. In repose he had an air of lethargic good-nature, due
entirely to his bulk; for in reality he was sullen, bad-tempered and
cunning. From time to time he dragged out a huge gold watch and looked
at it with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.
Near him at a round table sat Otero, called The Greek, Tony Passa, and
Sam Vettori’s lieutenant, Rico, playing stud for small stakes. Under
the green-shaded lamp Otero’s dark face looked livid and cavernous.
He sat immobile and said nothing, win or lose. Tony, robust and rosy,
scarcely twenty years old, watched each turn of the cards intently,
shouting with joy when his luck was good, cursing when it was bad, more
out of excitement than interest in the stakes. Rico sat with his hat
tilted over his eyes, his pale thin face slightly drawn, his fingers
tapping. Rico always played to win.
Vettori, puffing, pulled himself to his feet and began to walk up and
down.
“Where you suppose he is?” he asked the ceiling. “I told him eight
o’clock. It is half-past.”
“Joe never knows what time it is,” said Tony.
“Joe’s no good,” said Rico without taking his eyes off the cards, “he’s
soft.”
“Well,” said Vettori, stopping to watch the game out of boredom, “maybe
so. But we can’t do without him, Rico. I tell you, Rico, he can go
anywhere. A front is what he’s got. Swell hotels? What does it mean to
that boy? He says to the clerk, I would like please a suite. A suite!
You see, Rico. We can’t do without him.”
Rico tapped on the table, flushing slightly.
“All right, Sam,” he said, “some day he’ll turn yellow. Hear what I
say. He’s not right. What’s all this dancing? A man don’t dance for
money.”
Sam laughed.
“Oh, Rico! You don’t know Joe.”
Tony stared at Rico.
“Rico,” he said, “Joe’s right. I know what I’m saying. All that dancing
is a front. He’s smart. Have they ever got him once?”
Rico slammed down his cards. He hated Joe and he knew that Tony and
Vettori knew it.
“All right,” he said, “hear what I say. He’ll turn yellow some day. A
man don’t take money for dancing.”
“I win,” said Otero.
Rico pushed the money toward him and got to his feet.
“Well, if he don’t show up in ten minutes I’ll take the air,” said Rico.
“You stay where you are,” said Vettori, his face hardening.
Tony watched the two of them intently. Otero counted his money. One
day Vettori said to Rico, “Rico, you are getting too big for us.” Tony
remembered the look he had seen in Rico’s eyes. Lately they had all
been talking about it. Rico was getting too big for them. Scabby, the
informer, said: “Tony, mark what I say. It’s Rico or Sam. One or the
other.”
“I’ll stay ten minutes,” said Rico.
Vettori sat down by the window and stared into Halsted Street.
“Two-fifty,” said Otero.
“I’ll match you for it,” said Tony.
“No,” said Otero.
Joe Massara opened the door and came in.
“Well,” said Vettori, “you call this eight o’clock?”
Joe got out of a big ulster. He was in evening clothes. His black hair
was sleek and parted in the middle. He was vain of his resemblance to
the late Mr. Rudolph Valentino.
“Sorry,” said Joe, “the bridge was up. Well, what’s the dirt?”
“Draw up a chair,” said Vettori, “all of you.”
They grouped themselves around the table under the green-shaded lamp.
Joe put his hands on the table so they could see his well-manicured
nails and the diamond ring the dancer, Olga Stassoff, had given him.
“Now,” said Vettori, “I’ll do the talking. I know what I got to say and
you birds keep quiet till I’m through....”
“How long will it take?” asked Joe, smiling.
“Shut up and listen,” said Rico.
“All right, all right,” said Vettori, patting them both, “no bad blood.
Now: ever hear of the Casa Alvarado?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “it’s an up and up place. One of Francis Wood’s
joints. I nearly got an engagement there once.”
Rico spread out his hands.
“See? They know him. He won’t do.”
“No, they never seen me. It was all done through an agent.”
“All right,” said Vettori, “that’s the place.”
Joe looked startled. Rico smiled and taking off his hat began to comb
his hair with a little ivory pocket comb.
“It’d be tough,” said Joe, “what’s in it?”
“Plenty,” said Vettori. “They only bank once or twice a week. They’re
careless, get that; because they’ve never been tapped. It’s easy.”
Joe took out a gold cigarette case which he handled with ostentation.
“Well? I’m listening.”
Vettori refused a cigarette and pulled out a stogie. Downstairs a
jazzband began to play and a saxophone sent vibrations along the floor.
“Nine o’clock,” said Otero.
Vettori lit his stogie.
“They got a safe,” he said, “that a baby could crack. Too easy to talk
about. But that’s on the side. What we’re after is the cashier. The
place is lousy with jack. I got the lowdown from Scabby. Well, what do
you say, Joe?”
“Yeah,” Rico cut in, “take it or leave it. We ain’t begging you.”
Vettori’s face hardened but he said nothing.
“If you say it’s good,” said Joe, “it’s good with me.”
“All right, all right,” said Vettori. “Now, you Tony; we want a big
car. Get that. A big, fast car. Get one when I tell you. Steve’s got
the plates all ready. Yeah?”
“I’m on, Sam.”
Tony pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a flourish, but his hands
shook a little.
“Rico and Otero,” said Vettori, looking at each in turn, “will handle
the rods. Yeah?”
Rico said nothing. But Otero smiled, showing his stained teeth, and
said:
“That’s us, eh, Rico?”
“Well,” Vettori went on, “I guess we got that over. Now, Joe, I want
you on the inside. Dress yourself up like you are, see, and fix it
so you’ll get there at midnight. All the whistles’ll be tooting and
everybody’ll be drunk and won’t know nothing. See? Now you get there
at midnight and go to the cigar counter for change. At twelve-five the
fun’ll begin. We’ll set our watches by telephone, because I don’t want
you here that night. All right. Rico and Otero come in quick, maybe
Tony, too, if you can get a good safe place to park. That’s up to Rico.
He’s bossing the job.”
Rico looked at Joe.
“Now, they’ll stick you up if everything’s O.K. If not, give them the
high sign and they’ll beat it. We ain’t taking no chances, because one
night don’t make much difference, only New Year’s Eve’s a good night,
see? All right. You play like you don’t know them, got it? But while
they’re working, you got your eyes open, see? And if something
happens, you got a rod, but don’t use it. We got to watch that.”
Vettori shifted his stogie and shook his finger sideways at Rico.
“That’s your trouble, Rico. The Big Boy can’t fix murder. He can fix
anything but murder. Get that. You’re too quick with the lead. If that
guy over at the pool room’d died we wouldn’t none of us be sitting here
right now....”
Otero broke in vehemently, surprising them.
“But he had to! He had to! Rico does what is right.”
“All right,” said Vettori, “but take it easy. Now, Joe, you got
your hands up, but you watch. If nothing happens nobody knows the
difference. But if something does happen you pull the rod and help
the boys get out. All right. Here’s the dope. Get what’s in the cash
register first. Get that because that’s easy. If things go right,
tackle the safe; it’ll probably be open. Another thing: no frisking in
the lobby. That’s too dangerous and takes too long. Let the yaps keep
their money. All right.”
Vettori took a map from his pocket and spread it out on the table.
The men crowded round him.
“You go straight in,” said Vettori, marking the route with a pencil,
“on the right is the checkroom; watch the girls behind the counter,
Joe. On the left is the cigar-counter and the cashier’s desk. At the
end of the lobby is a big door; the real joint’s beyond that. If things
go right, nobody in the place’ll know it’s been stuck up, except maybe
some yaps in the lobby. Get the idea? With all them horns tooting and
all that damn noise, see? All right. On the right of the lobby is a
door and that goes into the manager’s office. The box is in there. The
manager’s a goddam bohunk and there ain’t an ounce of fight in him.
See? Scabby give me the lowdown.”
Vettori rolled up his map, put it in his pocket, then looked at his
watch.
“Well,” he said, “got it all?”
Joe turned his diamond ring round on his finger and looked at the table.
“What’s the word, Joe?” said Rico.
“It’s a tough one, Rico. What’s the guarantee?”
“Guarantee, hell!” cried Rico. “Why, a blind guy could do your stand.”
“Well, I ain’t doing no time for fifty bucks,” said Joe.
Vettori laughed.
“I’ll give you a couple hundred now,” he said.
Joe nodded.
“All right. I’m in. Never mind the couple hundred.”
They all got to their feet. Below them the jazzband was still playing
and the saxophone was still sending vibrations along the floor.
“What’ll you have, boys,” said Vettori, “want some drinks sent up?”
“Not me,” said Tony, “I’m going over and see my woman.”
Otero clapped his hands.
“He’s got a woman.”
Rico hit Otero on the back.
“The Greek’s got a woman too,” said Rico.
Otero with his hands cupped made a series of curves in the air. Joe was
patronizing; Olga Stassoff, the dancer, was his woman.
“A beauty is she, Otero?”
“Si, señor.”
“Well,” said Vettori, “want any drinks sent up?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “send me up a snort. I guess Rico’ll take milk.”
Rico didn’t drink.
“All right about Rico,” said Vettori in a good humor, “he’s a smart
boy.”
Tony went out followed by Vettori.
“I think I go see my woman,” said Otero.
Joe laughed. Rico said:
“Goodbye, Otero. Give Seal Skin a rub for me.”
When Otero had gone, Joe said:
“Has old Seal Skin got The Greek hooked yet?”
“Well,” said Rico, “he spends a lot of jack on her. She ain’t much to
look at and she’s pretty old, but what’s the difference?”
Joe never could figure Rico out. Women didn’t seem to interest him.
Rico went over to the window and stood looking out at the electric sign
on a level with his eyes.
CLUB
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Rico and Joe felt queer alone together. They were silent. Joe took out
his gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Snow began to fall past
the window.
“Look,” said Rico, “it’s snowing.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, looking up mechanically, “snowing hard.”
II
Vettori was sitting in his little office on the main floor. On the
other side of the wall the jazzband was playing, but he paid no
attention. The noise of the jazzband was the same to him as the
ticking of a clock to an ordinary person. He felt very pleasant and
comfortable over his bottle of wine and his plate of spaghetti. Things
were right!
He congratulated himself on his subordinates. Each man a specialist.
Yes, yes! That was the way to do. None of this hit or miss stuff for
Sam Vettori. Rico the best gunman in Little Italy; a swelled head, all
right, but he can be handled, and there you are! Otero so crazy about
Rico he “don’t know nothing.” Follow Rico any place; do anything Rico
tells him. And handy with a rod. Well, well. Not bad for a Mexican. As
a rule foreigners were not right with Sam Vettori, but in general he
had an open mind, and Otero was the goods. And look at Joe Massara,
there was a man for you! A swell Italian who could pass anywhere. One
winter in Florida, so they say, Joe passed himself off as a count and
hooked a rich widow for plenty. Yes, yes! That was Joe for you. As an
inside man you couldn’t beat him. And Tony! He could drive a car sixty
miles an hour straight up the Tribune Tower. Only one thing, sometimes
Tony was undependable. Used to be a choir boy at St. Dominick’s and
that stuff. But he had outgrown that, maybe; anyway he was dead scared
of Rico and that would shut his mouth.
Vettori leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and
unbuttoned his vest. Spaghetti and wine, what is better!
The band stopped playing. Bat Carillo, the bouncer, put his head in the
door.
“Couple of hard guys looking for trouble, boss,” he said.
Vettori looked up.
“Yeah? Know them?”
“Never seen them before.”
Vettori heaved himself to his feet and walked with Carillo to the
swinging doors which separated the back-rooms and kitchen from the club
proper. He pushed the door open about a foot and peered in. Carillo
pointed.
Vettori laughed and closed the door.
“Some of them dumb Irish,” he said; “let ’em alone unless they get bad
and start something, then bounce ’em.”
“O.K., boss,” said Carillo.
Waiters passed Vettori in the corridor, sweat dropping from their
faces, steam rising from the dishes on the slanted trays. Vettori
rubbed his hands.
“Business is good. Well, well! We won’t none of us die in the poor
house.”
When he got back to his office he found Scabby, the informer, waiting
for him. Scabby was dark and undersized with a heavy, sullen, blotched
face. Passing as a police informer, he was in reality a member of the
Vettori gang. He played a dangerous game as he informed on other gangs.
His life wasn’t worth a cent and he was jumpy and quick with a gun.
“Well, well, Giovanni,” said Vettori, “what’s the news?”
“Everything’s jake,” said Scabby, taking off his hat and revealing a
shining bald head.
Vettori called a waiter.
“Some spaghetti for this man here,” he said, “and a bottle of wine.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Scabby without smiling; he never smiled; his
face was melancholy and lined, and sagged like a hound’s. “The boys on?”
“All set,” said Vettori. “It looks easy.”
Scabby nodded.
“It ought to be. But no gunplay, get that, Sam. The Big Boy’d raise
hell if he knew what was up.”
Vettori’s face hardened.
“I heard that once, Scabby. That’s enough. This is too good to pass up.”
“All right,” said Scabby, “I’ve had my say. But things ain’t what they
used to be, Sam. It’s getting dangerous. They’ve even got the Big Boy
scared. It’s the damn newspapers. They play that crime stuff off the
boards. Big headlines, see? That’s the trouble.”
They sat silent. Vettori, absorbed, puffed on his stogie. Finally he
said:
“Listen, Scabby, you ain’t heard nothing, see? I got to keep these boys
on their toes. Especially Joe. Don’t spill nothing about the Big Boy.”
Scabby shook his head vigorously. Vettori took out his billfold and
handed Scabby a fifty.
“That’s part of your split, Scabby. Keep your eyes open, that’s
all.”
Scabby pocketed the money. The waiter came in bringing the spaghetti
and the wine. Carillo put his head in the door.
“Reilly, the dick’s, up front.”
Vettori nodded.
“He’s O.K. If he sticks around, send him back in about half an hour.”
“Sure,” said Scabby, “I’ll be out of here in less than that.”
III
Otero lay looking out the window at the electric sign across the street.
CLUB
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Snow was falling past the windows. Otero lay smoking a big
twenty-five cent cigar and singing softly to himself. He always sang
when he was with Seal Skin.
“Some snow,” said Otero.
“Yeah, some snow,” said Seal Skin, who was sitting with her feet on the
window sill, smoking one of Otero’s cigars.
“Heavy like cotton,” said Otero.
“Yeah,” said Seal Skin.
“Where I used to be it never snowed.”
“Didn’t it?”
“No, it never snowed.”
Seal Skin blew out a cloud of smoke.
“How come you ever left Mexico, Ramón?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Otero scratched his head. “I just left.”
“Was they after you?”
“No, I just left.”
Otero got up and put his arms around Seal Skin.
“Some girl,” he said.
Seal Skin gave him a push.
“Wait’ll I finish this.”
“Sure, sure,” said Otero, smiling and patting her on the shoulder.
“Look,” said Seal Skin, “you’re a good guy, Ramón. But dumb. How come
you hang after Rico?”
“Rico is a great man.”
Seal Skin laughed out loud.
“Yeah? Great, but careless. He’ll never die of old age.”
Otero didn’t understand.
“What you say?”
“They’ll fill him full of lead. He’s too cocky.”
Otero shook his head.
“No, they’ll never get Rico.”
“They get ’em all.”
“No,” said Otero, “they’ll never get Rico. Once I say to him, ‘Look,
you must be careful.’ But he say, ‘Not me, they’ll never get Rico.’”
Seal Skin opened the window and flung her cigar down into the street. A
gust of cold air rushed into the overheated room.
“Listen,” she said, “that’s bunk. Rico’s no different from anybody
else. You stick with Rico long enough and you’ll have a swell funeral.
Why don’t you get into the beer racket? That’s safe.”
“I go with Rico,” said Otero. “What do I care? I have no people. Once I
had a brother but they shot him.”
“The cops?”
“No, the rurales. He was with Villa.”
“Who the hell’s Villa?”
“Villa was a great man, like Rico.”
Seal Skin got up and took a drink from a bottle on the bureau. Then she
said:
“Let’s hit the hay, Ramón.”
“Sure, sure,” said Otero.
IV
It was nearly two o’clock when Tony left his woman. A lake wind was
blowing hard and the snow fell heavily past the street lights. Tony
muffled himself in his overcoat and pulled his cap low. He felt tired
and disgusted.
At the corner near his home, he turned into Sicily Pete’s restaurant.
Three Italians were playing cards at a table in the back. Up front a
mechanical piano ground out The Rosary.
“Hello, Tony, how’s the boy?” said Pete.
“Not so good,” said Tony.
“You ain’t looking any too good, Tony,” said Pete.
Tony ran his hands over his face and stared at his image in the mirror
behind the counter. Pale; circles under his eyes.
“Well, I guess I’ll live,” said Tony.
Pete smacked the counter with both hands.
“Love of God! Sure you’ll live. You be O.K. tomorrow morning. I know,
Tony, my boy. Don’t forget I was a young fellow once. I know. I know.”
“Sure you know,” said Tony, sarcastic.
“Sure I do. You think I don’t know about that little red head. Hot
stuff, Tony, my boy. Only don’t be a fool. Save some for tomorrow
night.”
Pete laughed shaking all over and smacked the counter with his hands.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Pete?” cried one of the card players.
“Never you mind. All right, Tony, what’ll you have?”
Tony couldn’t decide. Pete went to wait on one of the card players. The
mechanical piano finished The Rosary on a discord. Tony went over
and put a nickel in the slot.
“I got a combination to go and two Javas,” cried Pete.
The mechanical piano began to play O Sole Mio.
“I’ll take a combination,” said Tony, “and a cup of Java.”
“O.K.,” said Pete; “I got two combinations, one to go and three on the
Java.”
“How’s business, Pete?” asked Tony.
“Oh, what you call so-so. Not good, not bad. I never get rich here.”
“Why don’t you put in a line of bottled goods?” said Tony, smiling.
Pete raised both hands over his head and brought them down hard on the
counter.
“None of that for Sicily Pete. Oh no. Pete’s too smart for that. If the
bulls don’t get you, why, some of them gangsters do. I know. One say,
you buy from me; the other say, no, you buy from me. All the same. No
matter who you buy from, bango!”
Pete brought Tony his combination and his coffee and stood at the
counter with him while he ate it.
“Tony,” said Pete, putting his head on one side, “you know you look
like your old man. Other day when you was in here I say to the missus,
look, ain’t he just like his old man? Well, well. That is good. A boy
should look like his old man. That is a good sign.”
“Knew the old man pretty well, didn’t you, Pete?” said Tony, finishing
his coffee.
“Yes, pretty well. When he was a young fellow he was like you. Full of
pep and always after the girls. But I don’t know, your mama she got
hold of him, then he wasn’t like he used to be. He wasn’t like the same
fellow. Pretty soon he died.”
Tony laughed.
“Hard on the old lady, ain’t you?”
“Love of God, no,” said Pete, an expression of acute misery on his
face, “you don’t get me, Tony. I mean he got to be a good fellow, like
me. Work, work, that’s all he knew. Well, work is a good thing. It
keeps you out of trouble, but I don’t know....”
Pete wiped the sweat from his forehead and meditated. Tony flipped
him a fifty-cent piece. The mechanical piano stopped on a prolonged,
slurred discord.
“Well, I guess I’ll hit for home,” said Tony, “so long, Pete.”
“Good night, Tony,” said Pete, with one of his blandest smiles, “come
in again.”
The wind struck Tony in the face as he left the restaurant. The streets
were white and silent. Tony walked home slowly, tired and disgusted.
As he entered the flat he saw a dim light in the front room. He tried
to sneak into his bedroom, but his mother heard him. She rose from her
chair, a monstrous silhouette against the dim front room light.
“A fine time for you to come in, Antonio,” she said. “Have you been out
again with them good-for-nothing loafers?”
“Yes,” said Tony, in a bad temper.
“So...!” said his mother, “you don’t even lie any more. Well, well! You
are doing fine. Pretty soon you won’t come home at all, you bum.”
“You said a mouthful,” said Tony.
“Sure, you won’t listen to your mother. Some day you’ll remember
what I told you. You loaf with crooks and bums long enough, you’ll see
what will happen.”
“All right,” said Tony, going into his room and banging the door behind
him.
His mother stood in the middle of the room for a minute, then she put
out the light and sat in the dark, crying.
V
The little blonde check-girl helped Joe take off his big ulster, her
hand lingering on his arm. He handed her a quarter.
“Don’t go on a bat with that two-bits,” he said.
“No sir,” said the check-girl.
She watched him walk across the long dance-floor, pick his way among
the crowded tables, bowing from time to time to one he had jostled, and
disappear through the employees’ door at the back. Then she put checks
on his coat and hat and hung them up.
“God, what a hot-looking man,” she said; “I don’t see how that little
hunky got him.”
Olga Stassoff was just putting the finishing touches to her
make-up. Joe came in softly and stood watching her. She began to sing.
“If you’re singing for me,” said Joe, “you can stop any time.”
Olga turned around.
“Well, what are you doing here? Broke?”
“Shut up,” said Joe.
Then he turned and walked out of the room. Olga jumped to her feet and
ran after him. She caught him near the employees’ door. He pushed her
away.
“Ain’t that a fine way to say hello to a guy!” he said. “Why, you must
think you got me roped and hog-tied.”
“I was just kidding, Joe,” said Olga, “honest I didn’t mean it. I was
just kidding.”
“Well, get this,” said Joe, “I’m goddam sick of that line. What do you
take me for? That goes big with some of your swell boy friends who’ve
got ugly wives and ain’t any too particular, but me! I don’t take that
kind of talk from nobody.”
Olga put her arms around him, but he pushed her away.
“Listen, Joe,” she said, “I got good news for you, so get out
of your fighting clothes and come to earth. Can’t you take a little
kidding?”
Joe took out his gold cigarette case and selected a cigarette. He
always smoked the best, when Olga had plenty of money, and he usually
carried three or four different brands. With a flourish he put away his
case, then, very preoccupied, he placed the selected cigarette on the
back of his left hand and, with a slight tap of his right hand, flipped
it into his mouth. Olga laughed.
“Now,” said Joe, “spill the good news.”
DeVoss, the manager, came through the swinging doors.
“Have you told him yet, Olga?” he asked.
Joe gave the manager a most ingratiating smile.
“What’s the big talk, Mr. DeVoss? Am I missing something?”
“You sure are,” said DeVoss. “The Stranskys broke their contract and
I’m putting you on in their place.”
Joe leapt into the air and executed a twinkle. Olga burst out laughing.
“Well,” said Joe, “how much?”
“One hundred to start, Joe, then we’ll see.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I can’t buy no limousines with that, but I’ll take
it.”
Joe and DeVoss shook hands.
“Now,” said the manager, “there’s a girl out here who’s just dying to
dance with you, Joe.”
Joe shook his head.
“No, I don’t like that stuff. They always think they got to hand you
something. What the hell! I don’t want no dame handing me nothing.”
Olga put her hand over her mouth.
“Don’t worry about that, Joe,” said DeVoss, “she already asked me about
that and I told her you’d be insulted so she gave me a ten.” DeVoss
took a crumpled bill out of his pocket and handed it to Joe. “There,
now get this. She’s an up and up girl and she means lots of business to
this place. Her old man’s got a couple of million bucks and she’s the
real thing. All right, Joe?”
“Sure, sure,” said Joe, “always willing to oblige.”
DeVoss went through the swinging doors and stood waiting for Joe on the
other side. Olga took Joe by the arm.
“Listen,” she said, “none of your funny business now. Just do your
stuff and leave it at that. I’m on to these society women. I know what
they want.”
Joe leapt into the air and executed another twinkle.
“Alley up!” he cried, “don’t you trust me, baby?”
Olga put her hands on her hips and began to laugh. How could you be
sore at a guy like that?
VI
Rico was standing in front of his mirror, combing his hair with a
little ivory pocket comb. Rico was vain of his hair. It was black and
lustrous, combed straight back from his low forehead and arranged in
three symmetrical waves.
Rico was a simple man. He loved but three things: himself, his hair and
his gun. He took excellent care of all three.