I
Rico felt small and unimportant in the Big Boy’s apartment. He was
intensely self-centered and as a rule surroundings made no impression
on him. But he had never seen anything like this before. He sat in the
big, panelled dining-room, eating cautiously, dropping his fork from
nervousness, and looking furtively about him. From time to time he
pulled at his high, stiff collar, and when he caught the Big Boy’s eye
he grinned.
Joe Sansone had dressed him so that he would look presentable. It
had taken a good deal of management and tact, but Joe Sansone was a
stickler for clothes and persevered with Rico, who swore at him at
first and wouldn’t listen.
“Look, boss,” he said, “you’re getting up in the world. Ain’t none
of us ever been asked to eat with the Big Boy at his dump. Hear what
I’m telling you. Nobody’s ever crashed the gates before but Pete
Montana. See what I mean? You don’t want the Big Boy to think you ain’t
got no class.”
Joe had his own dress suit cleaned and pressed, and punctually at five
he presented himself at Rico’s door with the outfit under his arm. Rico
had resisted from the beginning; first, he balked at the suspenders,
then the starched shirt. Joe, laboring with the studs, the buttoned
shoes, the invincible collar, cursed and sweated. Rico resisted. But
Joe won.
As Joe was ten pounds heavier than Rico, the dress suit was not
precisely a perfect fit, but as Joe said “men are wearing their clothes
a lot looser now.” To which Rico sardonically replied: “Yeah? Say, they
rig you up better than this in stir.”
Finally Joe got Rico into his harness. Rico stamped about declaring
that he’d be goddamned if he’d go out looking like that. Why, the Big
Boy would think he was off his nut.
“You look fine, boss,” said Joe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “all I need is a napkin over my arm.”
But Joe moved Rico’s bureau out from its corner and tipped the
mirror so Rico could get a full length view of himself. He was won
over immediately. Why, honest to God, he looked like one of them rich
clubmen he read about in the magazines. The enormous white shirtfront,
the black silk coat lapels, the neatly-tied white tie dazzled him.
“I guess I don’t look so bad,” he said to Joe; “we got plenty of time,
let’s go down to Sam’s place for a while.”
Rico played with his dessert and looked about the room. The Big Boy
ate with gusto, smacking his lips. The magnificence of the Big Boy’s
apartment crushed Rico. He stared at the big pictures of old time guys
in their gold frames; at the silver and glass ware on the serving
table; at the high, carved chairs. Lord, why, it was like a hop dream.
He shook his head slowly.
“Some dump you got here,” he said.
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, glancing negligently about him, “and I sure
paid for it. See that picture over there?” He pointed to an imitation
♦Valesquez. “That baby set me back one hundred and fifty berries.”
♦ “Valesquez” replaced with “Velázquez”
Rico stared.
“Jesus, one hundred and fifty berries for a picture!”
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “but that ain’t nothing. See that bunch of
junk over there?” He jerked his head in the direction of the serving
table. “That stuff set me back one grand.”
Rico stared.
“One grand for that stuff?”
“Sure,” said the Big Boy, “that’s the real thing. Only what the hell,
I say! A plate’s to eat off of, ain’t it? What’s the odds what it’s
made of? But I got a spell about two years ago. I had a pot full of
money and I thought, well, other guys that ain’t got as much dough as
I got put on a front, so why shouldn’t I? Sure, I could buy and sell
guys that’s got three homes and a couple of chugwagons. So I got a guy
down at a big store, you know, one of them decorators, to pick me out a
swell apartment and fix it up A-1. So he did. I got a library too and
a lot of other stuff that ain’t worth a damn. I was talking to a rich
guy the other day and he said I was a damn fool to buy real books
because he had a library twice as big as mine and dummy books. What the
hell! If a guy’s gonna have a library, why, I say do it right. So there
you are. I got so damn many books it gives me a headache just to look
at ’em through the glass. Shakespeare and all that stuff.”
“Yeah?” said Rico, stupefied.
A servant took away their dessert and brought coffee. Then he passed a
humidor full of cigars. Rico took one of the fat, black cigars, lit it,
and tipped his chair back. What a way to live!
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “I got a lot of dough tied up in this dump. I
get rent free, though. Eschelman, the contractor, owns this dump and he
knows how I stand in the city. Boy, he puts up what he pleases and gets
away with it. See the idea, Rico? If a guy stands in with me, he owns
the burg.”
“Sure,” said Rico, “you’re a big guy.”
“I get him contracts, too,” said the Big Boy; “course I get mine out of
it, but I made that guy. When he come here from down state he didn’t
have an extra pair of pants, now he’s climbing. Yeah, if I had a
wife and a couple of kids, why, I’d build me a big house out in some
swell suburb, but as it is, I’d just as leave be here on one floor. I
got everything I need and then some.”
“Sure,” said Rico.
“Let’s go in the library,” said the Big Boy, “it’s more comfortable in
there.”
The Big Boy told the servant to take their coffee into the library.
Then he got up and Rico followed him. The Big Boy put his hand on
Rico’s shoulder.
“Kind of lit up yourself tonight, ain’t you, Rico?”
“Yeah, I thought I better put on the monkey suit.”
“That’s right, Rico. May as well learn now.”
“Sure,” said Rico.
The Big Boy motioned Rico to a chair, then sat down. Rico looked about
him at the great expanse of glass guarding tier after tier of books.
Lord, if a guy’d read that many books he’d sure know a lot!
“Rico,” said the Big Boy, “let’s talk serious.”
“All right,” said Rico.
The Big Boy leaned forward in his chair and stared at Rico.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m gonna talk and you ain’t gonna hear a word I
say, see, this is inside dope and if it gets out it’ll be just too bad
for somebody.”
“You know me,” said Rico.
“All right,” said the Big Boy; “get this: if I didn’t think a hell of
a lot of you I wouldn’t be asking you to eat with me. You’re on the
square, Rico, and you’re a comer, see. You got the nerve and you’re
a good, sober, steady guy. That’s what we need. Trouble with most of
these guys they ain’t got nothing from the collar up. O.K. Now, listen.
Pete Montana’s through.”
Rico nearly leapt out of his chair.
“Yeah?”
“Now don’t get excited,” said the Big Boy, “because, when it gets
out, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Ritz Colonna and a couple of other
lowdown bums is gonna make a rush, see, and that means that
somebody’s gonna get hurt.”
“Sure,” said Rico, settling back.
“But not you,” said the Big Boy; “you’re gonna lay back and let them
dumb eggs bump each other off, then we’ll get our licks in, see? Pete’s
through. The Old Man’s gonna have a talk with him tomorrow or the next
day and Pete’s gonna mosey. He’s all swelled up, thinks he’s king and
all that stuff, but wait till the Old Man gets through with him. Why,
he can hang that guy. Besides that, he can turn the Federal guys loose
on him for peddling narcotics. And boy, how he peddles them! He built
that big house of his on ’em. Well, see how things are? I can’t spill
no more.”
“Well,” said Rico, “I’m on.”
“All right,” said the Big Boy, “but listen: I’m doing a hell of a lot
for you and when I get you planted I want plenty of service.”
“You’ll sure get it,” said Rico.
Rico, with the Big Boy’s cigar still between his teeth, lay back in the
taxi and stared out at the tangle of traffic on Michigan Boulevard.
Things were sure to God looking up! Five years ago he wasn’t
nobody to speak of; just a lonely yegg, sticking up chain-stores
and filling-stations. Chiggi had sure given him the right dope. He
remembered one night in Toledo when he was pretty low. There was a
blonde he used to meet at one of the call-houses and she sure did
satisfy him, but, boy, she had to have the coin on the nose or there
wasn’t nothing doing. Well, he didn’t have a red. He was just sitting
there in Chiggi’s thinking about the blonde, when Chiggi came over
and said: “Listen, kid, you got big town stuff in you. What you want
around here? Get somebody to stake you or hit the rods. Hell, don’t be
a piker.” Well, Chiggi staked him, but he blew the stake on the blonde,
oh, boy what a couple of days, and then he hit the rods with Otero.
Little Italy sure looked good to them. They didn’t have a good pair
of pants between them, and a bowl of mulligan tasted better than the
stuff he’d ate at the Big Boy’s. Well, here he was riding taxis and
hobnobbing with guys like James O’Doul, who paid one grand for a bunch
of crockery. Yeah, here he was!
Rico saw nothing but success in the future. With the Big Boy
behind him he couldn’t be stopped, and when he once got some place he
knew how to stay there. Play square with the guys that are square with
you; the hell with everybody else.
Rico smoked his cigar slowly (he had six more of them in his pocket),
and looked absently at the jam of traffic: taxis, Hispano-Suizas,
Fords, huge double-decked busses, leaning as they turned corners.
Rico dropped the cigar butt out the window. Lying back in his seat he
observed:
“And I thought Pete Montana was such a hell of a guy!”
II
Olga was only partly dressed when Joe burst in on her. She looked at
him, startled.
“My Lord,” she said, “what makes you so pale, Joe?”
“Got any liquor?” demanded Joe.
Olga opened a drawer and handed him a flask. He tipped it up and took a
long pull, then he stood with the flask in his hand staring at the wall.
“Joe,” Olga insisted, “what’s wrong with you?”
Joe came to himself, screwed the top on the flask, and handed it back
to Olga.
“Boy, I got a shock,” said Joe.
Olga came over and put her arm around him.
“Tell Olga all about it.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I was finishing up my Pierrot dance, see, and you
know when it’s dark and they got the spot on you you can’t see nothing.
Well, I was circling the outside of the floor like I do before I take
that last leap when some dame at a corner table gives a yell, a hell of
a yell. Sibby hears the yell and switches on all the lights and here
I am, right in front of a dame that looks like she’s off her nut. She
was standing up and she had her hands on the table and she was staring
right at me. If I didn’t feel funny, boy! Well, there was a guy with
her and he kept asking her what was the matter, but she wouldn’t say
nothing. I thought she was gonna jump right on me, she looked so funny,
yeah, that dame sure looked funny.”
Joe paused and meditated. Olga laughed.
“Listen,” she said, “you better lay off the liquor.”
“No, straight,” said Joe, “you know I kind of got the idea she
recognized me or something, but, hell, I never seen her before. She’s
an old dame, about forty, and she’s got peroxide hair. There was a guy
with her, a nice-looking guy, and he kept saying, ‘What’s the matter,
Nell, what’s the matter, Nell,’ but he couldn’t get nothing out of her.”
Olga laughed again.
“Well, this ain’t nothing to write home about,” she said. “I thought I
was gonna get a thrill. We better change bootleggers, Joe.”
“Aw, lay off,” said Joe. “I’m telling you, you’d’ve got all the kick
you’re looking for if you’d heard that dame yell.”
“Well, what happened?” demanded Olga, who was getting impatient.
Joe got out the flask and took another pull at it before he answered
her. The color had come back into his face now and he felt much better.
“Soon as the boss found out there was something wrong he came in
and asked this dame if he could do anything for her. And she says,
‘Yes, get me a taxi.’ The guy with her says, ‘What the devil, Nell.’
And she says, ‘I want to go home.’ So they went out. Boy, the way that
dame looked at me, like I was, God, I don’t know what!”
“Say, listen,” said Olga, “you been hitting the pipe?”
“Aw, lay off,” said Joe; “that dame’s got something on her mind, see.
She’s got something on her mind.”
Someone knocked. Olga called “come in” and a waiter opened the door and
bowed.
“Mr. Willoughby wants to know if we can bring the table in now, Miss
Stassoff.”
“Sure,” said Olga, “bring it in.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the waiter, then he cupped his hands and called down
the corridor: “Allez!”
Joe lay down on the lounge and lit a cigarette. Olga went over to her
dressing-table, made up her face, and put on her Japanese kimono.
Two waiters came in carrying a table; a third followed with a cloth and
silver. When the table was set one of the waiters said:
“Mr. Willoughby wants to know if he can come back now.”
“Sure,” said Olga, “tell him to come right back.”
“Shall we start to serve?”
“Yeah,” said Olga, “right away.”
When the waiters had gone, Joe said:
“I’m getting fed up with this Willoughby guy. He’s a dumb egg.”
“Sure he’s dumb,” said Olga, “but I don’t hold that against him. What I
like about that bird is that he don’t get his hand stuck in his pocket
when the boy comes around with the bill.”
“He sure don’t, that’s a fact,” said Joe, laughing.
“Well, then don’t be so particular,” said Olga; “guys like him are few
and far between.”
Willoughby tapped lightly on the door and then came in. He was freshly
shaven and he looked chubby and boyish.
Joe got up and shook hands with him. Olga said:
“Was you out front?”
“Yes,” said Willoughby; “by the way, Joe, what was all the
commotion?”
“See,” said Joe, turning to Olga. “She thought I was making it up, Mr.
Willoughby.”
“No, he wasn’t making it up,” said Willoughby, serious. “I never heard
such a scream in my life.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Joe; “boy, my hair stood straight up.”
A waiter came in carrying a wine bucket, followed by another waiter
carrying the soup.
“Well,” said Willoughby, “shall we monjay, as they say in France?”
“Oui, monsieur,” said Olga.
“Sure,” said Joe, “I’m ready for the feed-bag in any language.”
They sat down. One of the waiters poured the wine. Willoughby held his
glass up to the light.
“I hope you like this stuff,” he said, “it’s out of my own cellar.”
“I’d like to sleep in that cellar,” said Olga.
“Well,” said Willoughby, “you have a standing invitation.”
They ate in silence for a moment, then Joe said:
“Say, Mr. Willoughby, what you suppose was the matter with that dame?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Oh, forget it, Joe,” said Olga, “she was probably full of hop.”
III
Willoughby passed the cigarettes and they all left the table. Joe went
back to the lounge, Olga sat in one of the armchairs, and Willoughby
pulled up an ottoman and sat facing her.
Willoughby hesitated before he said:
“Olga, when we going to take that little trip?”
“I don’t know,” said Olga.
“What little trip?” asked Joe, looking at Olga.
“Why, I got a cabin up in Wisconsin,” said Willoughby, “and I thought
before it got cold it would be nice for Olga to go up and take a rest.”
“Yeah?” said Joe.
As soon as Willoughby lowered his eyes, Olga winked at Joe.
“Maybe I could pull it,” said Olga.
“Sure,” said Joe, “Olga works too hard, that’s a fact. A little rest
wouldn’t hurt her none.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Willoughby. “She could sure get
a rest up there. I got a couple of nice motor boats and the fishing’s
great.”
“Fishing!” said Olga, looking at Joe.
“Well,” Willoughby considered, “maybe you wouldn’t care for that, but
there are any number of things you could do. Anyway, the air’s great,
nothing like this Chicago muck.”
“Sounds good,” said Olga.
The waiters came in to take away the table, but they were immediately
followed by DeVoss, who motioned them out. There was something so
strange about DeVoss’s actions that Joe sat up and stared at him.
DeVoss said:
“Joe, there’s a couple of guys looking for you.”
“Yeah?” said Joe. “What kind of guys?”
“Bulls,” said DeVoss, “what you been up to?”
Olga got to her feet and stood staring at DeVoss. Willoughby
exclaimed:
“What’s all this! What’s all this!”
Joe took an automatic from his hip pocket and put it in Olga’s
dressing-table. Olga took hold of DeVoss’s arm and said:
“Tell them Joe ain’t here. Joe, honey, beat it. I’ll see if I can find
out what it’s all about.”
Willoughby was staring stupefied at Joe. He pointed to the
dressing-table.
“What do you carry that thing for?” he demanded.
Olga said:
“Oh, be quiet!”
Joe grinned at Willoughby.
“Just in case,” he said.
“Listen, Olga,” said DeVoss, “this is serious. I could tell the way
they acted. I told them I didn’t think Joe was here but they just
laughed.”
Joe stood undecided.
“Joe,” DeVoss went on, “remember that time Mr. Rico was over here and a
couple of bulls shadowed him? Well, the big one’s here.”
“Flaherty!” cried Joe.
Olga gave Joe a push.
“Beat it, Joe. You know them bulls. They’ll frame you.”
“O.K., honey,” said Joe.
“Why, Joe,” said Willoughby, “you mean to tell me you’re in some kind
of trouble?”
“Oh, be quiet,” said Olga.
Joe grabbed his hat from a chair and started for the door.
“Goodbye, honey,” he said to Olga, “you’ll hear from me.”
“Better face the music,” said Willoughby.
“Go out through the kitchen,” said DeVoss.
Joe opened the door but closed it immediately and said:
“It’s all up. Here they come.”
He looked in agony at Olga. Wasn’t this just his goddam luck! Penned
up in a room three stories above the pavement. He made a dash for the
dressing-table, but Olga grabbed his arm.
“For God’s sake, Joe,” said DeVoss, “don’t cause no trouble in my
place. I don’t know what they want you for and I don’t give a damn.
I’ll get you a lawyer and see you through, but, for God’s sake,
don’t do no shooting in my place.”
Willoughby, stunned, sat staring till his cigarette burned his fingers,
then he said:
“Don’t worry, Joe. I’ll see you through too.”
“Goddam it,” cried Joe, “you think I’m gonna let ’em take me like I was
a purse-snatcher on his first stand.”
He pushed Olga away from him and was pulling at the dressing-table
drawer, when the door opened and Flaherty came in, followed by Spike
Rieger. Flaherty had his right hand in his coat pocket.
“Joe,” said Flaherty, “step away from that drawer and make it snappy.”
Joe knew Flaherty’s reputation. That boy used his rod and argued
afterwards. Joe moved away from the dressing-table and stood staring at
the floor.
“What’s the idea, Flaherty?” he demanded.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “we got a big audience here and I ain’t much on
embarrassing people, so you better just come along and we’ll have a
nice little talk.”
“Aw, can that,” said Joe.
Willoughby walked over to Flaherty.
“My name’s Willoughby,” he said, “John C. Willoughby. I suppose you’ve
heard of me. Say, what’s this all about anyway? Why, I’ve known Joe for
nearly a year and as far as I know he’s a nice young fellow.”
“Yeah,” said Flaherty, “Joe’s a pretty smooth young fellow, but we
caught up with him.”
“Well,” said Willoughby, “I don’t know what he’s done, but I’m willing
to go on his bail.”
Flaherty turned to Rieger.
“I don’t suppose there’ll be much talk about bail, do you, Spike?”
Rieger grinned and shook his head.
“No bail!” Willoughby exclaimed.
“Aw, it’s just one of their wise frame-ups, Mr. Willoughby,” said Joe,
but his face was white.
“Well, we’ll see about this,” said Willoughby. “I’ll have my lawyer
down in half an hour.”
“Listen,” said Flaherty, “there ain’t nobody gonna see this bird for
twenty-four hours.”
Olga flung herself on the lounge and began to cry.
“And let me give you an earful, Mr. Willoughby,” said Flaherty;
“for a guy of your class you sure ain’t very careful about who you mix
up with. These two birds here are taking you, see, and if I was you I’d
snap out of it and forget all about getting a lawyer.”
“If that ain’t a bull for you,” said Joe.
“Don’t pay no attention to him, Jack,” said Olga.
“Certainly not,” said Willoughby.
“All right, Spike,” said Flaherty, “I guess we wasted enough time on
these birds. Put the cuffs on him.”
Olga jumped up and made a grab for Rieger, but DeVoss caught her from
the back and held her.
“You can’t do nothing that way, Olga,” he said, “you’ll just make it
tough for Joe.”
Olga screamed with rage and kicked back at DeVoss.
“Ain’t dames awful?” said Flaherty.
Willoughby went over to Olga and tried to talk to her, but she
continued to struggle. Rieger took out his handcuffs and walked over to
Joe.
“Wait a minute,” said Joe, “you can’t put no bracelets on me.
Where’s your warrant?”
Rieger took the warrant out of his pocket and handed it to Joe. Joe
read it slowly, then, without comment, handed it back.
“Well, Joe,” said Flaherty.
Joe didn’t say anything; he just held out his wrists.
“What do they want you for, Joe?” cried Olga.
“Never mind,” said Joe, “they ain’t got no case.”
Olga stopped struggling.
“You mean it, Joe?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “they ain’t got no case at all. I’ll be out in
twenty-four hours.”
“Shall I get my lawyer?” asked Willoughby.
“Ain’t much use,” said Joe.
DeVoss came over to Flaherty and said:
“Listen, Mr. Flaherty, take him out through the kitchen, can’t you? I
can’t have cops coming in here pinching people.”
“You got a nerve,” said Flaherty; “why, I ought to pull you in for
complicity. Didn’t you come back here and tip Joe off?”
DeVoss got pale.
“Honest to God, I didn’t tip him off. I just told him a couple of guys
wanted to see him.”
“Pipe down,” said Flaherty. “Come on, Joe, let’s take a ride.”
Joe’s face was ghastly, but he grinned.
“O.K.,” he said; “it’s the first ride I ever took with any of you
birds.”
“Well, I hope it’s the last,” said Flaherty.
“Want me to come down and see you, Joe?” asked Olga.
“No,” said Joe.
They put Joe between two policemen in the back seat of the police car.
Rieger and Flaherty sat in front. The traffic was light as it was
nearly three o’clock in the morning. Rieger drove carelessly, one hand
on the wheel most of the time, and talked to Flaherty.
“Boy,” said Joe, “that bird don’t care how he drives.”
“You ain’t got far to go,” said one of the policemen.
“No, but I ain’t sure of getting there.”
The policemen laughed.
“Say,” said Joe, “can I smoke?”
One of the policemen leaned forward.
“Say, chief, can this bird smoke?”
“No,” said Flaherty; “what the hell you think this is, Joe! Maybe we
better pick up a couple of girls for you.”
The policemen laughed.
“Funny thing,” said Joe, “you know, Flaherty, a friend of mine told me
the other day that he didn’t think you’d live long.”
“Yeah,” said Flaherty, “I know that friend of yours. He ain’t looking
any too healthy himself.”
* * * * *
For as late as it was there was a good deal of activity at the station.
A dozen plain-clothes men were waiting in the big room, when they
brought Joe in, and the Assistant County Prosecutor was standing at the
desk talking to the sergeant.
“Looks like big doings,” said Joe.
“Shut up,” said Flaherty; “recess is over. You open your mouth again
and I’ll close it for you.”
They took Joe up to the desk to book him.
“Well, you got him,” said the prosecutor, looking Joe over.
“Yeah, we got him,” said Flaherty. “Did you chase the newspaper guys?”
“Yeah,” said the prosecutor, “there won’t be no leaks to this.”
“O.K.,” said Flaherty.
The sergeant nodded to him.
“All right, chief.”
Flaherty took Joe by the arm.
“All right, Joe,” he said, “we’re gonna give you a nice little room.”
“With bath?” asked Joe.
“Listen, boy,” said Flaherty, “we’re gonna take all that smartness out
of you.”
Joe didn’t say anything. He was trying to keep up his front until they
locked him in his cell, but he was ready to drop. They had him; they
sure to God had him.
The turnkey swung the big barred door wide. Flaherty took Joe to the
door of his cell, unlocked the handcuffs, and gave him a push.
“All right, boy,” he said, “I’ll be back later.”
“Listen, Flaherty,” said Joe, “can’t I even have a smoke?”
Flaherty laughed, motioned for the turnkey to lock the cell door, and
disappeared down the corridor.
“Say, buddy,” said Joe to the turnkey, “can’t you get me a pack of
cigarettes?”
“Nothing doing,” said the turnkey, “not for fifty bucks. I got strict
orders on you, boy.”
The turnkey went away. Joe stood in the middle of his cell for a
moment, then he climbed up on his bunk and looked out the window. Far
away down a side street he saw a big electric sign: DANCING.
Joe flung himself down on his bunk. They had him; they sure to God did.
“If I can only stick it out!” he said.
IV
Joe awoke from a doze and turned to look out the window. Still dark.
He couldn’t have been asleep long. Wasn’t it never going to get
light! He got up and walked to the front of his cell. It wouldn’t be so
bad if there were some other guys to talk to; but the cells on either
side of him were vacant; also the ones across the corridor.
“They sure ain’t taking no chances with me,” said Joe.
He began to feel very uneasy. Something seemed to be dragging at his
stomach and he had a rotten taste in his mouth.
“Some of that highhat grub I et,” said Joe.
The turnkey came down the corridor and stopped in front of Joe’s cell.
“Say, buddy,” he said, “they’ll be wanting you up front pretty soon.”
“Yeah?” said Joe. “Listen, can’t you do me a favor and get me a pack of
cigs. I got plenty of money. Ask the sergeant.”
“Can’t cut it,” said the turnkey.
“What’s doing up front?” asked Joe.
“A show-up.”
“Yeah?” said Joe; then, “listen, I’ll give you a couple of bucks for
some cigs.”
The turnkey laughed.
“Say, there’s a guy in 18 that’d give me a hundred berries for
some snow. Not a chance. They sure are putting the clamps on us now.
It’s that goddam Crime Commission business. Tough on you birds.”
“Ain’t it!” said Joe.
The turnkey went away. Joe threw himself down on his bunk. Yeah, now
it was coming. That goddam peroxide dame had sure put the skids under
him. Well, there you was! Can’t tell how things are going to break. If
he’d’ve been wise he’d’ve sent Olga to see the Big Boy or Rico. But
then there’s no use letting a dame get too familiar with everything.
Anyway, he had an alibi. But Flaherty was a rough agent and you could
never tell what he would pull. Joe felt mechanically for his absent
cigarette case.
“Hell,” he said, “I lost my head! I lost my head! Rico ought to put a
hunk of lead in me. As long as I been in the game and then don’t know
no better. God, but I was dumb.”
He turned over irritably and sat up. He heard the keys clanking down
the corridor. A policeman stopped in front of his door and called:
“All right, dago.”
Joe got up. The turnkey unlocked the door. There were two policemen and
a plain-clothes man standing a little way down the corridor. When Joe
came out one of the policemen said:
“There’s the guy that plugged Courtney.”
They stared at him. Joe felt sick at his stomach.
“Yeah,” said the plain-clothes man, “they won’t do much to that bird.”
The turnkey took Joe by the arm.
“All right, kid,” he said.
Joe walked between the turnkey and the policeman, who had called
him. They took him into a big room where there were three policemen
and about a dozen prisoners. Joe saw Bugs Liska, Steve Gollancz’s
lieutenant. They exchanged a glance.
A police sergeant got to his feet and shouted:
“All right, you birds, let’s go.”
The turnkey pushed Joe into line. A big door was swung open and he saw
a small, brilliantly lighted room with a crowd of people lining the
walls. Joe looked for the peroxide blonde. There she was, pale and
hardboiled, between two bulls. Joe started. God, he had her now. She
was standing side of Courtney when he dropped. Joe began to sweat.
The line in single file was herded in. Bugs Liska, who was in front of
Joe, whispered:
“Say, what’s this all about?”
The sergeant heard him and leaping across the room grabbed him by the
shoulder.
“Any more of that,” said the sergeant, “and some of you bad eggs is
gonna get cracked.”
“Drop dead,” said Liska.
Joe found himself face to face with the blonde. She stared at him.
Flaherty walked along the line and examined the prisoners. When he got
to Joe, Joe looked away.
“How’s that bath?” asked Flaherty.
“O.K.,” said Joe.
Liska said:
“Say, Irish, what’s this all about?”
“Shut your dirty mouth,” said Flaherty.
A man Joe had never seen before, a big husky man with curly gray hair,
went over to the blonde and said:
“Is he in that bunch, Mrs. Weil?”
The blonde nodded.
“Well, Mrs. Weil, this is a very serious matter so don’t make any
mistakes. Now if you’re sure he’s in that bunch, point him out.”
The blonde compressed her lips and walked over to Joe.
“There he is. There’s the dirty skunk.”
“Jesus,” said Liska, glancing at Joe, “it’s your funeral, hunh?”
The blonde stood glaring at Joe.
“I hope they hang you,” she cried, “shooting a guy like Jim Courtney.”
“I never shot him,” said Joe.
“Shut up,” said Flaherty. “All right, sergeant, march ’em out.”
In the big room Liska said:
“Joe, it sure looks tough for you.”
“They can’t prove nothing,” said Joe.
The sergeant rushed at them.
“Where do you birds think you’re at!” he cried.
Stepping back, he struck Joe a hard blow with his fist. Mechanically
Joe set himself and raised his hands, then, coming to himself, he
dropped his hands and stood looking at the floor. Liska said:
“Say, sergeant, I guess I can go home, can’t I? My old mother’ll be
worried to death.”
The sergeant stared at Liska, then he laughed.
“I’m gonna hang on to you just for fun,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Liska. “Well not long, cause Steve’s gonna spring me.”
The sergeant motioned for the turnkey.
“Lock the dago up,” he said; “you plant yourself over there in a chair,
Bugs.”
* * * * *
Joe lay down and tried to sleep. Over his head the barred window began
to get gray. Morning sure was slow in coming.
Of a sudden he thought of Red Gus. He got to his feet and began to
walk back and forth. Yeah, they sure put the rope on old Gus and there
wasn’t a tougher guy in the world. Yeah, he was so tough he didn’t
die right away and kept kicking. Cops fainted and all that stuff. Joe
climbed up on his bunk and stood tiptoe to look out the window.
Morning was coming. He saw a milk wagon passing the jail. How come he
had to think of Red Gus?
He thought he heard a noise and turned around. There were two cops
standing in front of his cell, looking at him. Joe felt uneasy.
“Want me?” he called.
They didn’t say anything; they just stood there looking, then went away.
Joe got down from the window and sat on his bunk. No use trying to
sleep. Down the corridor someone began to scream. The turnkey passed
his cell on the run. Joe felt his hair stirring and sweat stood out on
his forehead.
“Christ,” he said, “it’s only that dope.”
In a minute the turnkey came back and stopped at Joe’s door.
“Couple of guys coming back to take a look at you,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Joe; “say, what was all the noise?”
“The dope blew his top again,” said the turnkey; “the Doc’s gonna give
him a shot pretty soon.”
The big man with the curly gray hair, Flaherty, and two policemen
came down the corridor.
“All right,” said Flaherty, “let him out.”
The turnkey unlocked the door and pushed Joe into the corridor. They
all stood staring at Joe; nobody said anything.
Finally the gray-haired man said:
“Well, it’s too bad. Nice-looking boy.”
“Yeah,” said Flaherty, “but he’s hell with a gun.”
Joe didn’t say anything. But Flaherty said:
“Joe, I never thought you was the kind of a bird that’d shoot a guy in
the back.”
Joe didn’t say anything.
“Hanging’s too good for you, Joe.”
“Poor old Jim never even had a gun on him. You lousy dago!” cried one
of the policemen, and took a step toward Joe.
Flaherty motioned him back.
“Just let the law take its course, Luke,” he said, “they’ll hang this
baby sure.”
“Will they?” said Joe.
The gray-haired man shook his finger at Joe.
“Yes, my boy, I’m afraid they will.”
“They can’t prove nothing on me,” said Joe; “I wasn’t even in that
end of town the night Courtney was bumped off. That dame’s full of hop.”
One of the policemen stepped past Flaherty and knocked Joe down.
Flaherty grabbed the policeman and pushed him back. Joe got to his feet
and stood holding his jaw.
“I’m gonna put it to you birds for this,” said Joe.
Both of the policemen made a rush at Joe, but Flaherty held them back.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “got an eyeful, Mr. McClure?”
Joe stared at the gray-haired man. So this was the Crime Commission guy
that was kicking up all the row. Joe took a good look at him so he’d
know him the next time he saw him. Maybe, if things broke right, he
could deliver a nice package at that bird’s house some morning.
“Yes,” said Mr. McClure, “lock him up, turnkey.”
The turnkey took Joe by the arm and flung him into his cell. Joe fell
on his hands and knees.
“Say,” said Joe, “what’s the idea?”
The turnkey came over and put his face against the bars.
“Orders, buddy,” he said, then he went away.
Yeah, it was orders all right. They wasn’t going to let up on him till
he spilled something. Joe felt panicky. He flung himself face down on
his bunk and began to sob.
“Won’t I never get out of here?” he said.
* * * * *
They had been questioning Joe for over two hours. He sat under a
blazing light and they sat round him in the darkness. Joe was so
thirsty that he could hardly swallow. They took turns at him: first,
Mr. McClure, then Flaherty, then Rieger. Flaherty sat near him and when
he was slow with his answers rapped him over the knuckles with a ruler.
But Joe stuck it out.
The turnkey took him back to his cell and gave him some water. Joe took
a big drink then lay down on his bunk and tried to sleep, but it was no
use. He felt hot all over and his tongue was swollen.
He put his hands under his head and lay looking at the square
spots of sunshine in the dark corridor.
“God,” he said, “I can’t stand much of this.”
In five minutes the turnkey came back.
“They want you again, kid,” he said.
“God, I can’t move,” said Joe.
The turnkey unlocked the door and came into the cell.
“Get on your feet,” he said, “and snap it up. The prosecutor’s in there
now and you’re gonna ketch hell.”
Joe got slowly to his feet and the turnkey led him down the corridor.
V
Sam Vettori sat half-dozing in an armchair watching a crap game. It
was about eleven o’clock in the morning and most of the blinds were
still down. All the wheels were covered and the chairs were piled up
on the tables. The game was desultory as nobody had much money. As it
wasn’t a house game, but merely some of the Vettori gang amusing
themselves, Sam occasionally staked one or another of the players.
Since the rise of Rico, Sam had confined his efforts to the managing
of Little Arnie’s old joint. He was making money hand over fist and he
was content to sit all day in his armchair and superintend the work of
his employees. He drank wine by the gallon and ate plate after plate of
spaghetti. In a month he put on fifteen pounds. As he was fat to begin
with, this added poundage made him immense. His aquiline features were
puffed out nearly beyond recognition and there were rolls of fat at the
base of his skull. Sam had loosed the reins and gone slack. Formerly,
effort had kept him in better condition, but now, perfectly at ease,
free of responsibility, the deadly lethargy which had threatened him
all his life took possession of him.
Sam crossed his legs with difficulty and took out a stogie. The crap
game had ended in an argument. Kid Bean loudly contended that he had
been gypped.
“Shut up, you guys,” said Sam, “I’m doing you a favor to let you
shoot in here. Any more of this kind of stuff and you don’t do it no
more. If you guys’d save your money you wouldn’t have to be fighting
over two bits.”
“Aw, rest your jaw,” said Kid Bean.
Joe Peeper took the dice and flung them out the window.
“Them babies’ll never bother me no more,” said Joe.
“Can you beat that!” said Kid Bean.
“Well,” said Sam, “since Blackie’s got all the jack, the rest of you
guys can pitch pennies. Listen, Kid, don’t forget you owe me two bucks.”
“You can take it out of my hide,” said the Kid.
“Your hide ain’t worth it,” said Sam.
Chesty, the doorman, came out of Sam’s office rubbing his eyes.
“Sam,” he said, “Scabby wants to see you.”
“Tell him to come out here,” said Sam.
“No,” said Chesty, “he wants to see you private.”
“Hey, Sam,” said Kid Bean, “give us a deck of cards, will you?”
“No,” said Sam, “you don’t even know what they’re for.” He pulled
himself slowly to his feet and turning to Chesty went on: “Get these
guys a pack of cards and lock ’em up some place. They’d bump each other
off for two bits and I don’t want this nice carpet spoiled.”
Yawning and stretching, Sam went into his office and shut the door.
Scabby was standing in the middle of the room, biting his nails.
“Want a bottle of wine or something, Scabby?” asked Sam.
“Christ, no!” cried Scabby.
Sam stared at him, then dropped into a chair.
“Well,” he said, “you look like you got something on your mind, so
spill it.”
Scabby was so nervous that he couldn’t control the muscles of his face.
“You’re goddam right I got something on my mind,” said Scabby, “Joe
spilled the works.”
Sam opened his eyes wide.
“Joe who?”
“Joe Massara,” said Scabby, “they nabbed him on the Courtney business
and he squawked.”
Sam’s jaw fell and he ran his hands over his face in a bewildered way.
“Yeah?” he said.
“It’s the God’s truth,” said Scabby; “boy, the bulls sure played this
one slick. Listen, I didn’t even know nothing about it. They kept the
newspaper guys out and when a couple guys who were in the know came
looking for Joe they told them that they must have him at the Chicago
Avenue station. And out at Chicago Avenue they sent ’em some place
else. Yeah, it’s all over now.”
This was too much for Sam. He just sat there staring at Scabby.
“God, Sam,” said Scabby, astonished, “don’t you get me? It’s all over.
Listen, if it wasn’t for you I’d be on my way right now. I don’t know
whether I’ll be named or not, but I ain’t taking no chances. Love of
God, Sam, don’t just sit there. You got to do something.”
“Joe spilled everything?” asked Sam, taking it in slowly.
“Yeah, he stuck it out for four hours, but he didn’t have a chance.”
There was a flash of the old Sam Vettori. He got up and took Scabby by
the arm.
“Is Rico wised up?”
“No,” said Scabby.
“All right,” said Sam, “you keep your mouth shut.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” said Scabby.
Sam looked about him, bewildered.
“But, good God,” he cried, “what am I gonna do?”
“Well,” said Scabby, “I got a can down here and I’m hitting East. Want
to go with me? I’ll take a chance.”
Sam looked his bewilderment. Things were moving too fast for him. Why,
he hadn’t been out of Chicago for twenty years. He hadn’t been out of
Little Italy for over five. Just pick up and beat it.
“What the hell!” said Sam, “I got a good business.... God, what am I
gonna do?”
Scabby stared at him.
“Why, Sam,” he said, “you must be losing your mind.”
Sam wiped the sweat from his face and sank back into his chair.
“Joe spilled it, hunh? Rico said he’d turn yellow.”
Scabby took him under the arms and tried to pull him to his feet,
but Sam pushed him away.
“No use running,” he said, “they’ll get you sure. I ain’t gonna go
running all over hell and back and a bunch of bulls chasing me.”
Scabby swore violently in Italian.
“No,” said Sam, “no use running.”
“Well,” said Scabby, “this bird’s gonna pull his freight. Sam, you must
be full of hop.”
Sam sat staring at his shoes.
“Listen,” said Scabby, “I can’t waste no more time. Are you gonna pull
out or ain’t you?”
Sam didn’t say anything.
“O.K.,” said Scabby; “I’m moving.”
“Wait,” cried Sam. “Scabby, listen to me. I been good to you, ain’t I?”
“You sure have.”
“I give you the money to bring your old man over here, didn’t I? And I
give you the money to bury him, didn’t I?”
“You sure did.”
“Well, listen, Scabby, if Rico gets away, pop him. Goddam him; he’s
busted us all. Pop him, Scabby, for old Sam.”
“He won’t get away,” said Scabby.
“You don’t know that guy,” said Sam, getting shakily to his feet; “sure
to God as I’m a Catholic, you don’t know that guy. He’s got a run of
luck and it may last.”
“If he gets away I’ll pop him,” said Scabby.
The door was flung violently open and Killer Pepi stepped in.
“I heard you bastards,” he said. “The Kid told me there was something
up. Double-crossing the boss, hunh?”
“Go to hell,” said Sam.
Scabby raised his gun but it missed fire. The Killer shot from his hip,
then ran out, slamming the door.
“Did he plug you, Scabby?” cried Sam.
“No,” said Scabby, “but I heard her sing.”
The window behind Scabby had a bullet hole in it.
“He’ll spill it sure,” said Sam, his face puckered.
“Won’t do him no good,” said Scabby, “’cause the bulls are on their
way. Well, Sam, I’m moving.”
Sam just looked at him. Scabby raised the window and climbed out
on the fire-escape.
“Love of God, Sam,” said Scabby, “you got to do something.”
Sam took his hat from the hook.
“I’ll go see the Big Boy.”
“It won’t do you no good, Sam.”
They heard someone running down the hall, then, there was a shot,
followed by a rush of feet. Chesty flung open the door.
“The bulls!” he cried.
Scabby disappeared down the fire-escape. Sam took out his automatic and
put his back against the wall. Spike Rieger put his head in the door,
then drew it back hastily.
“Sam,” he called, “better give up.”
“All right,” said Sam, flinging his gun on the floor.
Spike Rieger came in followed by two policemen.
“Put the cuffs on him,” said Spike.
Sam held out his hands and one of the policemen snapped on the
handcuffs.
“Spike,” said Sam, “did you pick the Killer up on the way in?”
“No,” said Spike, “we don’t want him for nothing.” Turning to the
policemen Spike said: “All right, put him in the wagon.”
“Listen, Spike,” said Sam, “did you get Rico?”
“I don’t know,” said Spike. “Flaherty’s after him. I guess you know
Gentleman Joe squawked, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Sam, indifferently, “but you ain’t got no case against me.”
Spike laughed.
VI
The Killer knocked at Rico’s door but got no response. He knocked again
and again, then, getting impatient, he put his shoulder to the door and
flung it open. No Rico. The Killer stood in the hall, wondering where
Rico could have gone. From the landing above him, the landlady yelled:
“Hey, what did you do to that door?”
“The hell with the door,” said Pepi; “do you know where the guy
that lives there is?”
“No,” said the landlady, “but I seen him go out with a fellow.”
“What kind of a fellow?”
“A little fellow.”
Otero! Killer took the stairs at a jump but slowed his pace as he
reached the main floor. There was a police car at the curb. Flaherty
got out leisurely and stood talking to one of the policemen in the
front seat. Pepi went over to him.
“Looking for the boss?”
“Yeah,” said Flaherty, “the Big Boy sent me down. I want to have a talk
with him.”
“Yeah?” said Pepi. “Getting wise to yourself, hunh?”
“Rico was always O.K. with me.”
“That’s the talk,” said Pepi. “Well, the boss is upstairs by himself.”
When Flaherty and one of his men had gone into the building, the Killer
grinned at the others and walked slowly away, but, as soon as he had
turned the corner, he broke into a run.
There were two little Italian kids sitting on the steps of the
stairway that led up to Otero’s. They made way for Pepi.
“Otero upstairs?” he asked.
One of the kids said:
“That funny little guy?”
“Yeah,” said Pepi.
“I think I seen him go up.”
“Yeah,” said the other kid, “I seen him.”
Pepi took the stairs at a run and rapped at Otero’s door. Seal Skin
opened it a few inches but Pepi pushed her aside and walked in. Otero
was sitting with his feet on the bed, smoking a big cigar.
“Where’s the boss?” asked Pepi.
“At Blondy’s. What’s the matter?”
“Joe squawked,” said Pepi, “and the bulls is looking for Rico. Get your
coat on and beat it, Otero. I’ll go after the boss.”
Otero leapt to his feet and struggled into his coat.
“Bulls looking for me too?”
“Sure,” said Pepi, “it’s the Courtney business. You beat it, Otero.
This ain’t no picnic.”
“No,” said Otero, “I go with Rico.”
“You damn dummy,” said Seal Skin.
“Yeah,” said Pepi, “you beat it, Otero. Get out of town. They don’t
want me for nothing. I’ll see if I can’t get Rico on the phone; if I
can’t I’ll go after him. Listen, the bulls is over at Rico’s right now.”
“Caramba!” cried Otero, and, slipping his automatic into his coat
pocket, he ran out into the hall and down the stairs.
“The damn dummy!” said Seal Skin.
Pepi stood looking at Seal Skin then he said:
“Sure he’s a damn dummy, but he’s right.”
Before Otero had gone half a block in the direction of Blondy’s, he
saw a police car coming toward him. He ducked into a drugstore. It was
empty except for a clerk who stood staring at Otero.
“Show me the back way out, you!” said Otero.
“Say!” said the clerk.
Otero took out his gun. The clerk threw himself down behind the
counter. Otero ran out through the prescription room and found the back
door, which opened into an alley. One end of the alley was blind, the
other came out onto a busy street. Otero ran toward the open end,
praying in Spanish.
All along the curbs on both sides of the street pushcarts were drawn up
and peddlers were calling their wares. A slow-moving crowd of Little
Italians blocked the pavements. Otero, because of his size, disappeared
into the crowd, and, although he was forced to go slowly, he was safe
from observation. Half a block from Blondy’s he ducked down an alley,
crossed a long cement court and climbed the fire-escape.
Blondy’s bedroom window was locked. Otero beat on it with his fist.
For a moment there was no response, then he saw the bedroom door open
slowly and Blondy’s face appeared. She ran over and unlocked the
window, then she turned and called:
“Rico, it’s The Greek.”
Rico came into the bedroom. He had his hat on.
“Did Pepi get you?”
“No, what the hell?”
The phone rang and Blondy went to answer it.
“They got Joe and he squawked,” said Otero.
Rico looked at him. Blondy came running back.
“My God, Rico,” she said, “the bulls’re after you. Joe squealed.
You ought to plugged that softie, Rico. You ought to plugged him.”
Rico stood in the middle of the room, staring. By an effort of the
will, he rid himself of an attitude of mind which had been growing on
him since his interviews with Montana and the Big Boy. He was nobody,
nobody. Worse than nobody. The bulls wanted him now and they wanted
him bad. Goodbye dollar cigars and crockery at one grand, goodbye
swell food and Tuxedos and security. Rico was nobody. Just a lonely
Youngstown yegg that the bulls wanted. His face was ghastly.
He swung his fist at the air.
“I ought to plugged him! I ought to plugged him!”
Otero stood staring at Rico. Blondy was putting on her hat.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s go.”
Blondy said:
“Take me, Rico.”
Rico shook his head.
“Nothing doing, Blondy. I’m traveling fast and I can’t be bothered
with no dame.”
“Jesus, Rico,” said Blondy, unable to realize what had happened,
“everything was going so nice.”
“Sure,” said Rico, “but it’s all over now and that’s that. You stay
planted, Blondy, and as soon as I get a chance I’ll send you a stake.”
Otero crawled out the window onto the fire-escape and Rico followed
him. Blondy began to scream.
“Shut your mouth,” said Rico, “and if the bulls come up the front way
kid ’em along. Make ’em think you got me hid, see?”
“O.K., Rico,” said Blondy.
Otero and Rico went down the fire-escape. They stopped at the foot of
the fire-escape and Rico took Otero by the arm.
“Listen,” he said, “here’s the dope. We got to get to Ma Magdalena’s.
She’s got most of my jack and a good hide-out. It ain’t gonna be easy,
because the bulls’re probably scattered all around. But once we get
there, we’re O.K.”
“All right,” said Otero.
They started. Rico knew every alley in the district, and he led Otero
by such a safe route that they were soon within a block and a half of
Ma Magdalena’s without having crossed a main thoroughfare.
“Now,” said Rico, “we got to watch our step. If the bulls are cruising,
they’re cruising this street sure.”
“All right,” said Otero.
“Listen,” said Rico, “don’t be afraid to use your gat if the fun
begins. They can only hang you once.”
“I ain’t afraid,” said Otero.
They left the alley and were half way across the street when somebody
shouted at them to halt. Without turning, they broke into a run.
“It’s only one bull,” said Rico.
A bullet sang over them and they heard the blast of a policeman’s
whistle. Otero stopped in his tracks, turned, took a steady aim and
fired. The policeman staggered forward three or four steps and fell to
his knees.
“Got him,” said Otero.
Rico turned. The policeman was kneeling in the middle of the street,
trying to steady his hand for a shot.
“Duck,” cried Rico, simultaneously with the firing of the policeman’s
gun.
Otero twisted sideways, looked at Rico with surprise, then dropped his
gun, and began to walk up the alley holding his stomach. Rico put his
arm around him and, pulling him over to the side of the alley where he
could keep a telephone pole between them and the policeman, guided him
along. But after a few steps, Otero pulled away from Rico and cried:
“Run, Rico, run. They got me sure. I can’t feel nothing.”
Rico grabbed him and tried to pull him along, but he resisted.
“Goddam you, Rico,” cried Otero, “run! I can’t go no farther. I’m done
for.”
Rico heard the roar of a police car. He released Otero, who staggered
away from him and then fell flat on his back.
“Run, Rico,” said Otero.
Rico climbed a fence, ran up through a filthy back yard, and in at an
open back door. There was a young Italian girl sweeping in the hall. At
Rico’s sudden appearance, she dropped her broom and flattened herself
against the wall. Rico took her by the arm.
“Listen, sister,” he said, “the bulls’re after me. I’m going out the
front way, see, but if the bulls come through here you tell ’em I
hopped the fence next door and doubled back. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” said the girl, then looking up at Rico, “I know you.”
“Yeah?” said Rico. “Well, do your stuff then, sister.”
In the alley behind the house there was a shriek of ♦brakes and someone
cried in a loud voice:
♦ “breaks” replaced with “brakes”
“He went in that way!”
The girl picked up her broom and went on sweeping. Rico ran out through
the front hall, down the long flight of stone steps, and crossed the
street leisurely.
VII
Ma Magdalena let him in at the alley door.
“Well, Rico,” she said; “got yourself in a nice fix, didn’t you?”
Rico grinned.
“Yeah,” he said, “who told you?”
“The bulls were here and searched the place.”
“Didn’t find the hide-out, did they?”
Ma Magdalena laughed.
“What a chance!”
Rico followed Ma down into the basement. She led him through a short
tunnel and back into the hide-out. A small, round opening just large
enough to admit one person had been pierced in a heavy stone wall. In
front of the wall rows of pine shelves had been built and these were
filled with canned goods. The section of the shelves which hid the
opening was hinged and could be swung open.
Rico followed Ma through the opening and came out into a little room
with a cot in one corner, a table, and one chair. Rico took off
his hat and sat down.
“They got The Greek,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Ma.
Rico took out a cigar and lit it.
“Listen,” he said, “I want to stay here a couple of days. Then I’m
gonna pull out. Get me some magazines and keep me posted.”
“All right,” said Ma, “but it’s gonna cost you, because I’m taking
chances, see, I’m taking big chances.”
“Well,” said Rico, “you got my roll, help yourself.”
Ma Magdalena smiled broadly.
“That’s the talk, Rico. Old Ma’ll sure take care of you.”
“O.K.,” said Rico; “now, get this: in two days I want a car.”
“Arrigo’s got a car. If we go hooking one, it might spoil your
get-away.”
“That’s good,” said Rico; “all right, I want a jumper suit, you know,
one of them suits like a garage mechanic wears, and a razor.”
“All right,” said Ma Magdalena.
When she had gone, Rico took off his coat and shoes, and lay down on
the cot. His nerves were jumpy and he couldn’t seem to get settled. He
flung his cigar away and turned his face to the wall.
“Just when I thought things was on the up and up,” he said.
Rico felt resentful, but his resentment was not directed at any
specific group or person; it was vague as yet. He turned from side to
side on his cot, then he gave it up.
Ma Magdalena came back with a big mug of coffee and a couple of papers.
Rico sat down at the table.
“They got Sam,” said Ma.
“Well,” said Rico, “that’s hips for Sam.”
Rico took the papers from her and glanced at the headlines.
GENTLEMAN JOE WILTS GANG CHIEF NAMED AS SLAYER
Ma Magdalena went out. Rico sat reading the paper and sipping his
coffee.
Gentleman Joe Massara looks more like a movie actor than a gunman.
When arrested he was wearing an expensive Tuxedo and the rings that
were taken from him are valued at $3000.
“To hell with that,” said Rico.
He read on:
Cesare Bandello, known as Rico, the Vettori gang chief, was named as
the actual slayer of Courtney....
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and I’m the only one they ain’t gonna get.”