I
For three or four years Bat Carillo, once a third-rate
light-heavyweight, had been the leader of one of Vettori’s gangs
of hooligans. The members of this gang specialized in strong arm
stuff and intimidation; they threw bombs; they smashed up barrooms
and vice-joints operated by rival gangs. They were, in other words,
Vettori’s shock troops. Carillo was an excellent lieutenant, as
he always carried out orders to the letter; and was congenitally
incapable of imagining himself as chief in his own right. A good honest
subordinate without ambition. Vettori trusted him.
In Carillo’s attitude since the killing of Courtney, therefore,
Vettori saw the most unmistakable symptom of his own passing. Carillo
had attached himself to Rico and called him “boss.” Carillo was not
careless with the word “boss”; it was not a conventional expression;
when he said “boss” he meant it. Aroused, Vettori saw similar
manifestations all around him; in Blackie Avezzano, in Killer
Pepi, in a dozen others.
Vettori had always disliked Rico. Now he hated him. If Carillo or
Killer Pepi had remained faithful he would have had one of them kill
him and damn the consequences. But there was no question of that now.
He knew that he was whipped and he saw the necessity of a compromise.
Hanging was just over the horizon and Rico’s gun promised an even more
certain death. Vettori had never split with anyone. He had always taken
with both hands and given as little as possible. But it was split now
or die and Vettori could not contemplate the prospect of dying with any
degree of complacency. He sent for Rico.
A new Rico appeared, followed by Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi. Rico
was wearing a big ulster like Joe’s and a derby also like Joe’s. He
had on fawn-colored spats drawn over pointed patent-leather shoes; and
a diamond horseshoe pin sparkled in a red, green and white striped
necktie.
Vettori looked him over and winked at Killer Pepi, but Killer
Pepi’s face was stony. Carillo got a chair for Rico.
“What’s on your mind, Sam?” said Rico, sitting down, throwing back his
ulster and pulling up his trousers to preserve the crease.
Vettori hesitated.
“I want to see you alone,” he said.
“No,” said Rico, “I think I know your game, Sam, and I want the boys to
get an earful. Go ahead and spill it.”
Vettori began to sweat. Killer Pepi said:
“Yeah, we know.”
“You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?” said Vettori.
“We know, all right,” said Pepi.
Nobody said anything. Rico took off his hat and began to comb his hair.
Vettori got out his cards and began to lay out a game of solitaire.
Pepi said:
“We know you went yellow, Sam, when Tony blew his top and started after
Come-To-Jesus McConagha. We know all right.”
Vettori looked up at him.
“What the hell I got you guys for anyway! Who hands out the cush?”
Rico paused in the combing of his hair.
“Don’t get rough, Sam.”
Killer Pepi went over and stood with his back against the door. Otero
sat down opposite Vettori.
“Well,” said Rico, “if you want to see me, spill it quick because I
ain’t got all night.”
Vettori sighed profoundly, then he put down his cards and looked at the
men around him. He saw four hostile faces.
“All right,” said Vettori, “but why the strong arm stuff, Rico? Sit
down, you guys, and I’ll have some drinks sent up.”
The three men looked at Rico.
“All right,” he said, “go bring up some drinks, Bat.”
Carillo went out. Nobody said anything. Outside, a winter dusk settled
and the big electric sign on a level with the windows was switched on.
They sat looking at the sign.
CLUB
P
A
L
E
R
M
O
DANCING
Carillo brought in the drinks and they all sat around the table under
the green-shaded lamp. Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi drank whiskey;
Vettori wine; Rico pop.
Vettori put down his glass.
“Well, Rico,” he said, “I got a proposition to make you.”
“All right,” said Rico, “spring it.”
“Listen,” said Vettori, “I’m getting old. I’ll never see forty-five
again and when a guy’s that old he ain’t worth much.”
“You ain’t getting old, Sam, you’re losing your guts,” said Rico.
Killer Pepi laughed out loud and banged his fist on the table. But
Vettori swallowed this insult.
“All right, Rico,” he said, “that’s your story. Well, here’s how it
is. I need a partner. You’re young, Rico, and you got the guts. All
the guys like you and they’ll do what you say. I got the lay-out and
you’re locking for a chance to be a big guy. Well, here’s your chance.”
Vettori thought for a moment, then he said: “I’ll split the works with
you.”
Carillo and Pepi exchanged a look. Otero began to hum to himself. But
Rico said:
“I’ll think it over.”
Vettori began to sweat again. Was Rico going to get rid of him?
“Well,” he said, putting on a front, “you can take it or leave it. I
like you, Rico, and I’m doing you a favor. Who’s got the money? Who’s
got the pull? What the hell would you guys do if you didn’t have the
Big Boy to pull you through?”
“I’m O.K. with the Big Boy,” said Rico; “he was up to see me this
morning.”
“Yeah,” said Pepi, “I brung him.”
Vettori laid out a new game of solitaire.
“Here’s the thing,” said Rico: “you’re trying to hang on, Sam. You must
think we’re dumb as hell. You want me to do the work so you can take it
easy. And you call that an even split. Hear what I say! That ain’t my
idea of a split.”
“Well, I ain’t handing out charity,” said Vettori, losing his temper.
Rico got to his feet and buttoned up his ulster.
“All right, Sam.”
Vettori slammed down his cards.
“What do you guys think?” he demanded of Carillo, Pepi and Otero.
They just looked at him.
“Ain’t that a fair split?”
“No,” said Rico, “I guess we can’t do no business.”
Rico put on his hat and walked toward the door. The other three got up
and followed him. Vettori stood up.
“Well,” he said, “you gonna try to run me out, Rico?”
Vettori was panicky. Rico stood at the door and looked at him.
“I was just figuring I’d open a joint across the street,” he said.
Vettori knew what that meant. He had been through half a dozen gang
wars, but that was long ago when there were at least five separate
gangs in the neighborhood. Things had been comparatively quiet for over
three years. Vettori regretted the past bitterly. He regretted having
taken up with Rico, an unknown Youngstown wop.
“Well,” he said, “Rico, you’re young and you ain’t got any too much
sense. What the hell! With things the way they are, we wouldn’t none of
us last a month. Listen, Rico, what’s your idea of a split?”
Rico took off his hat and scratched his head, but carefully so that his
hair wouldn’t be disarranged.
“I’ll hand you this, Sam,” said Rico, “you got the lay-out. The split’s
good that way. But you got sense enough to know that no two guys can
run things. The lay-out split is O.K. with me, but I got to have the
say, get that!”
Vettori looked at the others.
“What do you guys say?”
“We’re in with Rico,” said Killer Pepi.
Otero and Carillo nodded. Vettori brought his hand down on the table
with a smack.
“O.K.,” he said.
II
The gang gave a banquet for Rico in one of Sam Vettori’s big back
rooms. The table was fifteen feet long and was covered by a fine
white cloth. Red, green and white streamers hung from the chandeliers
and Italian and American flags were crossed at intervals along the
walls. At eleven o’clock the notables began to arrive. Killer Pepi in
a blue suit and a brown derby, with his woman, Blue Jay, on his arm.
Joe Sansone, gunman and ex-lightweight, in a Tuxedo, followed by his
shadow Kid Bean, a Sicilian, dark as a negro. Then Ottavio Vettori,
Sam’s cousin, not yet twenty-one, already famous as a gunman and spoken
of as a potential gang chief. Then Otero, Blackie Avezzano and Bat
Carillo, all with their women. They stood about stiffly, a little
uncomfortable in their fine clothes, and tried to make conversation.
The men, like all specialists, talked shop. Ottavio Vettori declared
that the police were a bunch of bums. Killer Pepi agreed that they
were. Joe Sansone said that the Federal men were just as bad, only
smarter and crookeder. Killer Pepi agreed that they were. Ottavio
Vettori didn’t agree. He said that the Federal men were dumber and
harder to fix. This brought on an argument.
When Sam Vettori came in the men were all shouting.
“What the hell!” said Sam, “ain’t this a fine way to act at a banquet?
You act like a bunch of gashouse micks. Cut the chatter.”
Ottavio made a noise like a goat.
“Baa! Baa!”
Everybody laughed. Otero took out a quart bottle of whiskey, drank from
it and passed it to Seal Skin; she drank and passed it to Ottavio. The
bottle circled the room and returned empty.
“You sure came prepared, you birds,” said Sam. “Did any of you guys
bring a lunch?”
“Baa! Baa!” bellowed Ottavio.
“My God, ain’t that cute!” said Killer Pepi’s girl.
“Hell, that ain’t nothing,” said Pepi, “listen.” Pepi put three fingers
in his mouth and blew a blast that made their eardrums ring.
“Lord,” said Ottavio, “the cops! Baa! Baa!”
Three waiters came in, each carrying two quarts of whiskey. They put
the bottles on the table and went out.
“That’s an appetizer,” said Sam.
“Apéritif,” Joe Sansone corrected.
Ottavio slapped him on the back.
“What’s that, little Joe? What the hell lingo is that?”
Joe pushed him away.
“You dumb birds don’t know nothing. Swell people don’t say appetizer;
they say apéritif.”
“The hell they do! Well, I expect you know all about it. You used to be
a bellboy at the Blackstone.”
Everybody laughed. Killer Pepi blew a blast on his fingers. His girl
looked at him admiringly.
“How the hell you ever learn to do that?”
“Aw, that ain’t nothing.”
“Say, Sam,” said Carillo, “when do we eat?”
“When the boss gets here,” said Pepi.
“Well, he better step on it because I’m so hungry I could eat
dynamite,” said Ottavio.
“Keep your shirt on,” said Pepi.
“Haven’t got an old soup sandwich in your pocket, have you?” asked
Ottavio.
Everybody laughed. Ottavio was the recognized wit of the Vettori gang.
All that he had to do to get a laugh was to open his mouth.
Sam Vettori took one of the quarts from the table and sent it round the
room. It came back empty.
“What the hell you suppose is keeping Rico?” asked Carillo.
“Keep your shirt on,” said Pepi.
“I go see,” said Otero.
As he went out, the Big Boy came in. He had on a big racoon coat and
his derby was on the side of his head. Sam Vettori rushed over and
shook hands with him.
“What the hell you doing here?” he demanded.
“Me, I came to see the fun. Things are looking up, Sam. Things sure to
God are looking up. I think we got ’em whipped.”
Sam Vettori smiled broadly and poured the Big Boy a drink. Well, well!
If the Courtney business blew over he was sitting pretty. All things
considered, he hadn’t done so bad. Time after time he had seen old gang
leaders go down before younger men. But here he was hanging on, getting
a 50-50 split, and taking no chances. Rico was the goods. Goddam him
and all his kind, but he was the goods.
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “you got the Old Man on the run and
Flaherty’s about ready to do the Dutch Act. It’s gonna blow over, Sam.
You heard me speak. It’s gonna blow over. I want to see Rico.”
“He ain’t showed yet,” said Sam.
“Damn smart boy,” said the Big Boy.
Sam smiled.
“Yeah,” he said, pouring the Big Boy another drink, “damn smart
kid. He’s young yet, but I can show him the ropes.”
The Big Boy didn’t say anything. He just looked at Vettori.
Otero came running in, followed by two waiters, one of whom was
carrying a big ulster and a derby; the other was carrying a woman’s fur
coat.
“Here he comes,” cried Otero.
Kid Bean, who had collected a crowd in the middle of the room, and
was walking on his hands to amuse them (he had once been an acrobat),
jumped hastily to his feet and backed up against the wall. The crowd
followed him. Killer Pepi said:
“All right now. Everybody yell like hell when he comes in.”
Rico came in slowly, talking to Blondy Belle, the swellest woman in
Little Italy. She was a handsome Italian, bold and aquiline. Her
complexion and eyes were dark, but her hair, naturally black, was
blondined, and this gave her an incongruous and a somewhat formidable
appearance.
Rico was greeted by an uproar, pierced by Killer Pepi’s shrill
whistle. The Big Boy went to meet Rico and shook hands with him. Sam
Vettori smiled and nodded, very affable, then went out to get things
started. The Big Boy said to Blondy Belle:
“Got yourself a regular man, did you?”
Blondy took hold of Rico’s arm.
“Surest thing you know.”
The Big Boy laughed.
“What’d you do with Little Arnie?”
Rico took out a cigar and bit off the end.
“She ditched him,” he said.
The Big Boy meditated. Blondy Belle had been Little Arnie’s woman for
a long time. Little Arnie ran the biggest gambling joint on the North
Side, but he had been slipping for a year or more. He wasn’t right;
nobody could trust him.
“How did Little Arnie take it?” asked the Big Boy.
“He took it standing up,” said Blondy Belle.
“Well, what could he do?” said Rico.
Killer Pepi, Ottavio Vettori and Joe Sansone, as the most important men
in the gang next to Sam Vettori, came over to shake hands with
Rico.
“A million dollars ain’t in it with you,” said Pepi, looking his boss
over.
Rico was wearing a loud striped suit and a purple tie. He still had on
his gloves, yellow kid, of which he was very proud, and his diamond
horseshoe pin had been replaced by a big ruby surrounded by little
diamonds. Ottavio envied him his gloves. But Joe Sansone was not
impressed; he knew better.
“Yes sir, boss, you sure are lit up,” said Ottavio.
“Here’s the half-pint,” said Killer Pepi, pushing Joe Sansone forward.
Joe shook hands with Rico.
“Yes sir,” said Ottavio, “the half-pint’s a good boy, but he and
Gentleman Joe’re too swell for us.”
Rico looked around the room.
“Joe Massara here?”
“Ain’t seen him,” said Pepi.
“He won’t be here,” said Joe Sansone; “he’s busy.”
Rico didn’t say anything. Blondy took hold of his arm.
“I want a drink.”
Rico looked at Pepi.
“Get her a drink,” he said.
The Big Boy took Rico aside and said:
“I want to see you a minute, Rico.”
Rico said:
“Listen, if you see Joe Massara tomorrow you tell him to look me up. I
got something to say to that bird.”
“I’ll be seeing him maybe,” said the Big Boy. “I got a date with his
boss tomorrow morning. There’s a square guy, Rico. DeVoss is a square
guy all right. Never have to nudge him for dough.”
Rico seemed in a bad humor.
“They tell me you lined up something good,” said the Big Boy.
Rico nodded.
“Yeah, it’s gonna be a money maker. Little Arnie wised me up. I’m gonna
give him a split. That’s the game now. Sam never had sense enough to
get in on it.”
“Little Arnie, eh? That guy’d double-cross his grandmother.”
“He’ll only double-cross me once,” said Rico.
“I believe you,” said the Big Boy; then, putting his hand on Rico’s
shoulder, he went on: “Funny for you to split with Arnie. How about
Blondy?”
“Arnie don’t give a damn. He’s all shot to pieces. He can’t do a woman
no good.”
“No wonder,” said the Big Boy, “with a woman like that.”
Rico grinned.
“Ain’t she a bearcat!” he said; then his face clouded. “Wonder what the
hell Joe Massara’s game is?”
The Big Boy looked at Rico for a moment.
“That little hunky dancer over at DeVoss’s has got him down. They tell
me he’s going straight.”
Rico laughed unpleasantly.
“Yeah? Well, I’ll have to go over and give that bird an earful.”
“Better stay out of that end of town, Rico.”
“To hell with that.”
Sam Vettori came in, followed by three waiters bringing the soup.
“All right,” said Sam, “we’re all set.”
Rico took his place at the head of the table. The Big Boy sat on his
right and Blondy Belle on his left. The gunmen and their women arranged
themselves according to rank. Blackie Avezzano sat at the foot of the
table.
III
When the meal was over the Big Boy asked Rico to make a speech. There
was a prolonged clamor. Rico got up.
“All right,” he said, “if you birds want me to make a speech, here you
are: I want to thank you guys for this banquet. It sure is swell. The
liquor is good, so they tell me, I don’t drink it myself, and the food
don’t leave nothing to be desired. I guess we all had a swell time and
it sure is good to see all you guys gathered together. Well, I guess
that’s about all. Only I wish you guys wouldn’t get drunk and raise
hell, as that’s the way a lot of birds get bumped off.”
Rico sat down. The applause lasted for over a minute. Then Ottavio
got up with a bottle in his hand.
“Here’s to Rico and Blondy and the Big Boy.”
Everybody shouted and made a grab for bottles and glasses. Blackie
Avezzano fell under the table and stayed there, lying on his face.
After the toast was drunk, Killer Pepi and Kid Bean began to quarrel.
The Kid picked up a plate and struck at Pepi, who threw a bottle at the
Kid, missing him by a fraction of an inch.
Rico banged on the table.
“Cut it out, you guys. Ain’t that a hell of a way to act?”
Pepi and the Kid shook hands and another toast was drunk.
A waiter came in the door and went over to Rico.
“Couple of newspaper guys, boss. They want to take a flashlight.”
“What’s the idea?” the Big Boy inquired.
“Send ’em up,” said Rico.
“We’re gonna get our mugs shot,” cried Blondy Belle.
“Maybe we are,” said Rico.
“What’s the idea?” the Big Boy reiterated.
“We ain’t got nothing to hide,” said Rico.
The waiter returned, followed by two newspaper men, one of whom was
carrying a big camera. Rico motioned them over.
“Who sent you?” he asked.
Sam Vettori came in and went over to Rico.
“They’re O.K., Rico,” he said, “they been here before.”
“Sure, we’re O.K.,” said the photographer, a little intimidated by
Rico’s manner.
“Well, spill it,” said Rico, “what’s the idea of the flashlight?”
“Well, we got a section in the Sunday paper about how different classes
of people live in Chicago. See? Last week we featured Lake Forest. Had
some pictures of the swells, see, and the dumps where they lived. This
Sunday we want Little Italy. We just heard about the banquet they was
giving you, Mr. Rico, so we kinda thought....”
“O.K.,” said Rico, “but make it snappy.”
“I’m out of this picture,” said the Big Boy, rising and walking
over to the doorway. Sam Vettori took his place.
After maneuvering about for a few minutes the photographer got the
correct slant. He put the powder on the little tray.
“Now!” he cried.
Rico sat with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, looking very
stern. There was a blinding flash. Ottavio Vettori leapt into the
air and crying “My God, I’m shot” fell face down across the table.
Everybody laughed.
When the newspaper men had gone the Big Boy came over and put his hand
on Rico’s arm.
“They may pick you up on that.”
“Who the hell’s gonna see it.”
“You don’t know who’s gonna see it. That was a bad play, Rico.”
Rico laughed.
“If they pick me up, I’ll alibi them to death.”
When the banquet was over Rico had Otero call him a cab. Blondy Belle
was a little drunk and Rico had to support her as they went down the
stairs. As she weighed about twenty pounds more than he did, this
was not an easy job. As they were going out the side-entrance, Flaherty
left his table in the club and came over to them.
He put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Getting up in the world ain’t you, Rico?”
Rico looked at him.
“Don’t you know your old pal Jim Flaherty?”
“Sure I know you. What’s the big idea?”
“Go chase yourself around the block, flat-foot,” said Blondy Belle; “if
I ain’t getting sick of seeing bulls.”
“Hello, Blondy,” said Flaherty, “you and Rico hitting it off, eh?
That’s the old ticket. Rico’s a good boy, but he’s young. If they don’t
put him behind the bars, he’ll be a man yet.”
“What’s the idea, Flaherty?” asked Rico.
“Why, I don’t want you to forget that I’m your friend,” said Flaherty.
“I got my eyes on you, Rico. I like to see a young guy getting up in
the world.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
The cab was waiting at the curb and one of the waiters went out and
opened the door for them. Rico boosted Blondy Belle into the cab.
Flaherty stood in the doorway and watched them drive off.
“The nerve of that Irish bastard,” said Blondy.
But Rico had forgotten Flaherty. He sat thinking about Joe Massara.
Gentleman Joe was getting too good for them, eh? He was going to turn
softie.
“Well, I guess not,” said Rico.
IV
The sound of the pianola woke Rico. He sat up and looked at his wrist
watch. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon. He had slept twelve hours.
Rico lived at a tension. His nervous system was geared up to such a
pitch that he was never sleepy, never felt the desire to relax, was
always keenly alive. He did not average over five hours sleep a night
and as soon as he opened his eyes he was awake. When he sat in a chair
he never thrust out his feet and lolled, but sat rigid and alert.
He walked, ate, took his pleasures in the same manner. What
distinguished him from his associates was his inability to live in the
present. He was like a man on a long train journey to a promised land.
To him the present was but a dingy way-station; he had his eyes on the
end of the journey. This is the mental attitude of a man destined for
success. But the resultant tension had its drawbacks. He was subject
to periodic slumps. His energy would suddenly disappear; he would lose
interest in everything and for several days would sleep twelve to
fifteen hours at a stretch. This was a dangerous weakness, and Rico was
aware of it and feared it.
Rico leapt out of bed and hastily put on his clothes.
“Twelve hours, boy,” he said to his reflection in the mirror, as he
stood combing his hair, “that’ll never do.”
He had been seeing too much of Blondy Belle; that was the trouble.
Rico had very little to do with women. He regarded them with a sort
of contempt; they seemed so silly, reckless and purposeless, also
mendacious and extremely undependable. Not that Rico trusted men, far
from it. He was temperamentally suspicious. But in the course of
his life he had discovered a few men he could trust, but no women. What
he feared most in women, though, was not their treachery, that could
be guarded against, but their ability to relax a man, to make him soft
and slack, like Joe Massara. Rico had never been deeply involved with
a woman. Incapable of tender sentiments, he had escaped the commoner
kind of pitfalls. He was given to short bursts of lust, and, this lust
once satisfied, he looked at women impersonally for a while, as one
looks at inanimate objects. But at times this lust, usually the result
of an inner need and not the outcome of exterior stimulus, would be
aroused by the sight of some particular woman. This had been the case
with Blondy Belle; she was big, healthy and lascivious. This exactly
suited Rico’s tastes; she excited him, and for that very reason he was
on guard against her.
“Yeah,” he said, “I got to lay off Blondy for a while.”
She wanted him to come and live with her, but he refused. The offer
tickled his vanity, though, for Pepi or Joe Sansone would have
jumped at the chance. But not Rico. He fought shy of any kind of ties.
A slight relaxing of this principal and you are tangled up before you
know it. The strong travel light.
He went out into the living room. Blondy, in a cerise kimono, was
pedaling the pianola and singing loudly. The room was in disorder.
Stockings hung from the backs of chairs, the dress Blondy had worn the
night before was suspended from the chandelier on a coat-hanger, and
there was a pile of clothes in the middle of the room.
Blondy turned around and smiled at him, pedaling the piano at the same
time.
“What the hell kind of a piece is that?” asked Rico.
“That’s an Eyetalian piece,” said Blondy. “Ain’t it swell?”
“No,” said Rico, “I like jazz better.”
Blondy stopped the pianola and back-pedaled the roll.
“I got it yesterday because I thought you’d like it,” she said.
“Hell, quit kidding,” said Rico.
“I sure did. It’s from an Opera.”
“Yeah? Say, what’s wrong with you?”
Blondy looked at him. She had pretensions. Ten years ago she had been
a lady’s maid and she felt that she was somewhat cultured. One summer
she had even made Little Arnie take her to Ravinia Park to hear the
Opera. The soprano impressed her by her loud singing; the tenor by his
beautiful legs.
“You’d think I was a regular wop to hear you talk,” said Rico; “say, I
was born in Youngstown and I can’t even speak the lingo.”
“Well, I guess I wasn’t born in the old country either,” said Blondy.
She put a new roll on the pianola and Rico sat smoking, while she
played it. Rico had no ear for music; he couldn’t even whistle, or
distinguish one tune from another. But he liked rhythm. There was
something straightforward and primitive about jazz rhythms that
impressed him.
“That’s a good one,” he said, when the roll was played through.
“Want to hear some more?”
“No,” said Rico, “I got to go.”
He rose and went over to the closet for his overcoat, but Blondy said:
“Listen, Rico, I want to see you a minute before you go.”
“What about?”
“About Little Arnie.”
Rico stared at her.
“What’s the idea? To hell with Little Arnie. As long as he’s straight
with me I ain’t got no interest in him at all.”
“He ain’t straight with nobody.”
Rico just looked at her.
Little Arnie had played his hand badly. At first he hadn’t minded
losing Blondy Belle in the least; she cost him a good deal of money
and she bored and irritated him. But he had been kidded unmercifully.
As he had no sense of humor whatever and was very touchy in a personal
matter, this eventually angered him. In revenge, he talked. He told
all who would listen that Blondy Belle was a liar, a crook, and had
certain unnatural appetites. Killer Pepi was one of the auditors and he
immediately repeated Little Arnie’s assertions to his woman, Blue
Jay, who ran at once to Blondy Belle. Yes, Little Arnie, who was fifty
percent fool, had played his hand badly.
Blondy lit a cigarette and lay down on the davenport.
“Come over here and sit down,” she said; “I’ll give you an earful.”
“I ain’t got no time,” said Rico.
Blondy blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Arnie’s double-crossing you right now!” said Blondy.
“What you got on your mind?” said Rico; “spill it.”
“All right,” said Blondy. “Arnie’s giving you a split on the house,
ain’t he? What’s the split?”
“Thirty percent.”
“How do you know you’re getting thirty?”
“I look at the books.”
Blondy laughed.
“Them books is crooked.”
“Straight dope?” asked Rico, his face hardening.
“Sure,” said Blondy, “I wasn’t gonna say nothing. It wasn’t none
of my business, but Arnie’s been peddling a lot of loose talk about me
and I don’t take that.”
“All right,” said Rico, “now you know so damn much, how we gonna prove
it?”
“It’s a cinch,” said Blondy; “hand Arnie’s boy, Joe Peeper, some dough
and he’ll spill the news. Joe hates Arnie.”
“Good!” said Rico, banging the table with his fist; “I’ll run Arnie out
of town and declare you in, Blondy. You got brains.”
Blondy looked at him.
“You stick to me, boy, and we’ll own the town.”
“Don’t get swelled up,” said Rico, “just because you happened to be in
the know.”
That’s what she liked about Rico. He was hard to impress.
“Hell of a lot of thanks I get for it,” said Blondy.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Rico, his head buzzing with projects,
“you’ll get something better than thanks.”
Rico went to the closet and got his coat and hat.
“Wait a minute, big boy,” said Blondy, “you ain’t heard it all.
Listen, that joint of Arnie’s is worth plenty of dough. He ain’t gonna
give it up without a battle.”
“Hell,” said Rico, “he’s yellow.”
“Sure he is. But he’s tricky. Rico, if you can’t work the Joe Peeper
stunt, here’s a lever. Remember Limpy John?”
“Sure,” said Rico, “they bumped him off.”
“Who did?”
“The cops.”
Blondy laughed.
“They thought they did. Arnie bumped him off.”
Rico grinned.
“I got you.”
Rico put on his overcoat.
“Be round tonight?” asked Blondy.
“No, I got business.”
“Monkey business.”
“No, I got to go cross town. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”
Blondy lay back on the davenport.
“You’ll sure be missing something,” she said.
“I’ll ketch up,” said Rico.
When Rico had gone, Blondy played a couple of rolls on the pianola,
then she drank half a pint of liquor and went back to bed.
V
Rico found the door of his apartment unlocked. Before entering he
unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his automatic. Only one person had
a key to his apartment except himself: Otero. If Otero wasn’t in there
then whoever was in there was in trouble. Rico opened the door slowly.
Otero was sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall, smoking
a cigarette and dozing.
“Otero!”
Otero opened his eyes.
“Hello, boss.”
Rico locked the door behind him.
“Listen, don’t you know better than to leave that door open?”
“I forgot, Rico.”
Rico took off his overcoat and hat.
“You better keep your head working, boy,” said Rico, “or you’ll get
your neck stretched. What you doing here, anyway?”
Otero got up from his chair and stood dangling his hat.
“I want money.”
Rico looked at him.
“I’m broke, boss. I ain’t got a cent.”
Rico laughed. Otero seemed so helpless.
“You mean to tell me you ain’t got a cent out of that Casa Alvarado
split?”
Otero shrugged.
“What in hell did you do with it?”
“Well, Seal she spends money, spends money. I take it out of my pocket
till I ain’t got any more.” Otero shrugged and rolled a fresh cigarette.
Rico took out his billfold and handed Otero a fifty.
“I’ll take that out of your next split.”
Otero smiled.
“That’s all the same to me, boss.”
He was speaking the truth. He hadn’t the slightest conception of the
value of money. He spent till what he had was gone, then he asked
Rico for more. Rico shook his head.
“Listen, Otero, ain’t you never gonna get no sense! You got over a
grand and a half out of that Casa Alvarado stand. And here you are
broke. Why some guys work a whole year for less than that.”
Otero shrugged.
“I have worked for two pesos a week.”
Rico took some small change out of his pocket and handed it to Otero.
“Go down to the corner and get a couple of Tribunes. Get three.”
“Three of the same kind?”
“Sure.”
Otero went out. Rico opened the window a few inches and sat down
beside it. There was a touch of Spring in the air and it made him feel
restless. He wanted to be doing things. In a week or less, he’d have
Little Arnie’s big gambling joint. That meant dough and plenty of it.
He’d turn it over to Sam Vettori and let him run it. Sam was looking
for something to do. Then maybe he could muscle in on the North Side
graft. That wasn’t easy. Pete Montana was a wise bird and he had
the North Side tied up. Well, maybe the Big Boy could help him there.
Rico jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down.
Otero came in with the papers. Rico took them from him and tore one of
them apart till he came to the magazine section. There it was. Big type
proclaimed:
ITALIAN UNDERWORLD CHIEF GIVEN BIG FEED
Otero, looking over Rico’s shoulder, saw the flashlight picture. In his
excitement he pushed Rico aside and placing his finger on a section of
the picture, cried:
“There I am!”
Rico took the other two papers apart and got out the magazine sections.
Then he put the three sections side by side and compared them.
“All too dark,” he said.
Nevertheless, having chosen the clearest one of the three, he took his
scissors and cut it out.
I want one too,” said Otero.
“All right,” said Rico, “help yourself.”
VI
DeVoss was standing in the lobby when Rico came in. DeVoss looked
him over thoroughly, positive that he was out of his element in an
atmosphere as exclusive as that of The Bronze Peacock. Not that Rico
looked the least bit shabby. If anything, he was dressed more carefully
than usual, from his modish derby to his fawn-colored spats. The big
ulster he was wearing hid the loud striped suit and a plain dark
muffler hid the loud striped tie. No, sartorially Rico could pass at
The Bronze Peacock. But there was something vulgar and predatory about
him that did not escape DeVoss.
“That’s a bad one there,” he told himself.
Rico glanced about the lobby, taking everything in from habit. It was
not a good plant but it could be worked. Not that he had any intention
of working it, but you never know. He came up to DeVoss and said:
“Excuse me, but where’ll I find the manager of this place.”
DeVoss looked at him coldly.
“I’m the manager.”
Rico grinned.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we got a mutual friend. The Big Boy tells me
you and him does business together.”
DeVoss’s manner changed abruptly.
“Oh, yes. You’re one of his friends, are you? What can I do for you?”
“I want to see Joe Massara.”
“That’s easy,” said DeVoss, “he’s back in his dressing-room. I’ll take
you back.”
Rico followed DeVoss and they went up a few steps at the end of the
lobby and came out into the club proper. It was empty except for a
couple of electricians who were working on the stage spotlights.
“So you’re one of the Big Boy’s friends,” said DeVoss, curious.
“I’m Rico.”
DeVoss looked at him, startled.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re Rico.”
All the way up the rear corridor DeVoss kept looking sideways at
Rico. One of Little Arnie’s men had told him about the new Vettori gang
chief. Dangerous as dynamite! He congratulated himself on his acumen.
By God, he kept repeating to himself, I knew he was a bad one.
DeVoss knocked at Joe’s door. Someone called “come in.” DeVoss opened
the door and Rico followed him into the room. Joe was sitting in his
shirt sleeves, his vest off, displaying a pair of fancy suspenders.
(Rico made a mental note of the suspenders. His taste ran more to fancy
sleeve garters. But if men like Joe were wearing fancy suspenders, why,
he’d have to get himself a pair.) Olga Stassoff, in a black, red and
gold Japanese kimono, was lying on a lounge, holding a Pekingese on
her chest and rubbing its face against her own. A big man in evening
clothes was standing with his back to the door. When Joe saw Rico he
got to his feet in a hurry and stood smiling a little uneasily. The big
man turned around.
“Mr. Rico wants to see you, Joe,” said DeVoss; then he put his hand on
Rico’s arm and said: “When you get done with Joe, why, come up to
the office and we’ll have a little drink.”
“Sorry,” said Rico, “I don’t use it. But thanks just the same.”
DeVoss’s eyebrows rose.
“You mean you don’t drink!”
“Rico drinks milk,” said Joe, trying to be funny.
But Rico didn’t even smile.
“Yeah,” he said, “sometimes I drink milk.”
“Well, drop in anyway on your way out,” said DeVoss.
DeVoss closed the door. Rico noticed that the girl in the Japanese
kimono was staring at him. She didn’t look like much to him; too
skinny; all the same he insolently ran his eyes over her. The big man
said:
“I guess there’s no use for us to offer you a drink.”
Joe took Rico by the arm.
“Olga, I want you to meet Rico. Rico, this is Olga Stassoff.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Rico.
Olga sat up and tried to smile, but it was no use. Rico was
repulsive to her, principally because she was certain that he had
killed Joe’s friend, Tony, but also because he stared at her insolently
with his small, pale eyes.
“This boy here,” said Joe, taking the big man familiarly by the arm,
“is Mr. Willoughby, the millionaire.”
“Why bring that up?” said Willoughby.
Rico had an instinctive respect for wealth. Money was power. He smiled
affably and offered his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
Willoughby shook hands strenuously, then he inquired:
“Have you got some private business with Joe?”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “but there ain’t no hurry about it.”
“That’s all right,” said Willoughby. “Olga and I’ll go over next door.
Eh, Olga? When you get through, why, give us a rap and we’ll come back.
Don’t suppose I could persuade you to join us in a little supper before
the show?”
Rico was flattered.
“Well,” he said, “I might.”
“Good,” said Willoughby; then taking Olga by the hand he pulled
her to her feet. But Olga hesitated and stood looking from Joe to Rico.
“Run along, baby,” said Joe.
“Well, don’t take all night about it,” said Olga.
“I won’t keep him long,” Rico put in.
When Olga and Willoughby had gone Rico said:
“Flying pretty high, ain’t you, Joe?”
“Willoughby’s just one of Olga’s fish. He’s gonna back her in a big
show.”
“Yeah? Well, if that bird’s got a million bucks you both better clamp
onto him. Nice little Jane you got, Joe.”
“Olga’s O.K.,” said Joe.
Rico unbuttoned his ulster to display his finery. He had on one of his
striped suits. It was dead black with a narrow pink stripe. The color
scheme was further complicated by a pale blue shirt and an orange and
white striped tie adorned with the ruby pin.
Joe stared at him.
“All lit up, ain’t you, Rico?” he said.
Rico nodded, pleased.
“Yeah, I kind of got it into my head I ought to dress up now.”
“They tell me you crowded Sam out,” said Joe.
Rico looked at him.
“Didn’t nobody tell you the boys was giving a banquet for me?”
“Yeah, they told me,” said Joe, hurriedly, “but it was on at the wrong
time for me.”
Rico took out a cigar and bit off the end of it.
“I ain’t seen you since the big stand.”
“No,” said Joe, looking at the floor. “I been laying low. They had me
scared.”
Rico banged his fist on the arm of his chair.
“Goddam it, Joe, what you got up your sleeve?”
Joe looked startled. He sat silent and from time to time raised his
eyes to glance at Rico, who was staring at him.
“Spill it, Joe,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Joe, “I been making pretty good money with my dancing.
Olga and me has got a turn together that’s going over big. They want to
put us in a show. Listen, Rico, I got enough of the racket. This
last stand damn near fixed me. Jesus, but we was lucky.”
“We ain’t out yet,” said Rico, “and we don’t want no softies spoiling
things.”
Rico and Joe stared at each other for a moment. Joe began to get pale.
“You ain’t dumb, Joe,” said Rico, “what the devil! You mean to tell me
you’re gonna quit the racket. Why, boy, you ain’t seen nothing yet. In
a couple of weeks I’m gonna take over Little Arnie’s joint. The Big Boy
even wants to be declared in. Listen, Joe, you’re a smart boy and I can
use you. To hell with that dancing stuff. As a front it’s O.K., but no
man’s gonna make his living that way.”
Joe slumped down in his chair.
“I got your number, Joe,” Rico went on, “it’s that damn skirt. She’s
making a softie of you, Joe.”
“Lord, Rico,” said Joe, “can’t a guy quit? I ain’t gonna spill nothing.
You think I want to get my neck stretched?”
“Yeah? Look at Tony. He turned soft and they patted him with a spade.
Once a guy turns soft he ain’t no good in this world. Didn’t
Humpy get soft on Red Gus and turn State’s? Yeah! Who got the neck
stretching? Red Gus. Humpy got fifteen years and he’ll be out in half
of that.”
Joe slumped further down in his chair.
“Rico, you know I ain’t yellow.”
“All right,” said Rico, “if that’s the dope, I can use you. Ottavio and
me has been figuring on a little stand that won’t be half bad. I need a
good inside man, Joe. A cut will be worth two grand at least.”
Someone knocked at the door. It was DeVoss. He came over to Rico and
said:
“Mr. Rico, there’s a couple of dicks out in the lobby. When I asked
them what they wanted, they said they was just looking around.”
Rico said:
“Two bits it’s Flaherty. All right, Mr. DeVoss, thanks.”
DeVoss went out. Joe got to his feet and turned agonized eyes on Rico.
“What did you have to come clear across town for, Rico? Can’t you let
me alone?”
Rico paid no attention to him.
“There’s one Irishman,” he said, “that ain’t long for this world.”
“Rico,” said Joe, “for God’s sake stay over in your own end of town. I
don’t want the bulls coming here.”
“Listen,” said Rico, his eyes glowing, “if I hear any more of this
softie stuff I’ll only be back once more.”
Willoughby and Olga came in.
“Didn’t you rap for us?” asked Willoughby.
“No, that was DeVoss,” said Rico, “but we’re done. Say, Mr. Willoughby,
I sure am sorry but I got to pass up that invitation of yours. I got
some important business with a couple of guys.”
“Sorry,” said Willoughby.
“Yes, we’re sorry,” said Olga, trying to be affable on Joe’s account.
Rico shook hands with Joe.
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“All right, Rico,” said Joe.
When Rico emerged he saw DeVoss coming down the corridor. He looked
somewhat agitated.
“They’re sure enough looking for you, Mr. Rico. For Lord’s sake
don’t cause no trouble in my place.”
Rico grinned.
“There won’t be no trouble unless them damn dummies out there start it.”
Rico followed DeVoss back through the club. On the stage the orchestra
was tuning up and a few early couples were sitting at the tables. When
they got to the lobby Rico saw Flaherty and another detective. Flaherty
came over to him.
“Well, Rico,” he said, “kind of out of your territory, ain’t you?”
“What the hell of it?”
Rico buttoned his ulster and carefully arranged his muffler.
“Oh, nothing. Don’t you remember I told you I was keeping an eye on
you? Sure thing. I’m interested in young guys that want to get up in
the world.”
“Aw, can that,” said Rico.
He noticed that people were coming into the place; in the club the
orchestra had begun to play. He remembered what the Big Boy had said
about DeVoss.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, “no use causing DeVoss
no trouble. You bulls got about as much regard for a guy as a couple of
hyenas.”
“You’re long on regard yourself, ain’t you, Rico?” said Flaherty,
laughing.
Rico nodded to DeVoss and went out. Flaherty and the other detective
followed him. Rico was standing at the curb under the canvas marquee.
They came up to him. He stared at Flaherty.
“Listen, Flaherty,” he said, “did you ever stop to think how you’d look
with a lily in your hand?”
“I never did,” said Flaherty, with a sneer. “I been at this game for
twenty-five years and I’ve got better guys than you hung, and I never
got a scratch.”
Rico took out a cigar and lit it. A taxi drew up at the curb.
“Well, here’s my wagon,” said Rico, “want to take a ride?”
“No,” said Flaherty, “when we take a ride together I’ll have the cuffs
on you.”
“No Irish bastard’ll ever put no cuffs on Rico!”
Flaherty’s face got red, but he turned on his heel and was about
to go when Rico said:
“And another thing, Flaherty, you was always O.K. with me, see, but now
you ain’t. You ain’t got nothing on me and you ain’t got no business
trailing me every place I go. Take a tip. Sam and me’re getting tired
of seeing you guys climb the stairs. The first floor’s open to anybody,
they even allow cops in there, but the upstairs is private.”
“Yeah?” said Flaherty, who had succeeded in controlling his temper.
“Yeah. Some day one of you wise dicks is gonna make a one way trip up
them stairs.”
“Getting up in the world, ain’t you, Rico?” said Flaherty, “maybe you
better run for mayor.”
Rico slammed the door of the cab. Flaherty turned to the man with him
and said:
“I’ll get that swell-headed Dago if it’s the last thing I ever do.”