I
It was dark when Rico reached the outskirts of Hammond. He drove into a
field, took the license plates off and buried them, and got out of his
jumpers. Then he took some clean waste from the tool box and wiped the
grease from his face.
“What a cinch,” he said.
Things had gone a lot better than he had expected them to. There hadn’t
been a hitch of any kind. A motor cop out in Blue Island had waved to
him even. Rico laughed. You never know. When you’re looking for things
to go right they never do. When you’re looking for trouble, why, things
are O.K. Yeah, funny!
Rico walked to the car line. He was wearing a plain, dark suit and an
army shirt Arrigo had given him. He had shaved off his mustache and the
hard, short bristles on his upper lip worried him. Rico felt very proud
of his escape. It was a good idea to dress himself up like a garage
mechanic and drive across town in broad daylight. Yeah, it was a
good idea and if things broke right he’d write to one of the papers and
tell them all about it. Only the postmark would give him away. Not so
good. Well, anyway, he could tell Sansotta about it.
Rico got on a street-car.
“Well, how’s things?” he said to the conductor.
“All right,” said the conductor; “getting cooler, ain’t it? Reckon
we’ll have winter before we know it.”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
II
Rico went up the alley at the side of Sansotta’s place and knocked at
the back door. It was a long time before somebody came and took a look
at him through the shutter. A voice with a marked Italian accent said:
“Who are you?”
“Where’s Sansotta?” asked Rico.
“What do you care?”
“Listen, buddy,” said Rico, “don’t get all het up. I’m right. Go
tell Sansotta that Cesare wants him.”
In a few minutes the door opened and a hand motioned for Rico to come
in. The hall was dark and Rico stumbled going up the stairs. The
look-out took hold of his arm.
“The boss’s up in his room. I’ll take you up. Where you from, buddy?”
“Youngstown,” said Rico.
“Where’s that?”
“Over east.”
The look-out led Rico down a long, dark hallway and to a door at the
end of it. Light showed over a transom. The look-out knocked three
times and the door was opened. Rico went in.
“Well,” said Sansotta, locking the door, “here you are?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Sansotta was a small, bowlegged Italian with a dark, scarred face. He
had on a striped suit, brown and red, and a stiff collar the points
of which were so high that his chin rested on them. There was a big
diamond stud in his shirtfront.
“You must’ve got a break,” said Sansotta.
Rico explained how he had got away.
“Pretty nifty,” said Sansotta; “I got to hand it to you on that,
Cesare.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “it was a good idea.”
Sansotta went over to a table, opened a drawer and took out a handbill
which he gave to Rico. Rico smiled.
“Raised the ante, did they? Last I heard it was five grand.”
Rico read the handbill over and over and stared at the Bertillon
pictures.
“Them pictures don’t look like me,” he said.
Sansotta pursed his lips and scrutinized them.
“Not since you got the tickler off. No, and you look thinner in them
pictures. How long ago was they taken?”
“About seven years ago.”
The handbill read:
Wanted for murder: Cesare Bandello, known as Rico. Age: 29. Height: 5
ft. 5 in. Weight: 125. Complexion: pale. Hair: black and wavy. Eyes:
light, gray or blue. His face is thin and he walks with one foot
slightly turned in. Does not take up with strangers. Solitary type,
morose and dangerous. Reward: $5000, offered by management of
Casa Alvarado. $2000, offered by City of Chicago, for capture dead or
alive.
“Well,” said Sansotta, “where you headed for?”
“I’m gonna stick around here for a while,” said Rico.
“Yeah?” said Sansotta; “pretty close to trouble, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Rico, “they ain’t got any idea which way I went. I
got a big stake and I don’t have to worry none.”
“You sure went up fast over in the big burg,” said Sansotta, looking at
Rico with a sort of awe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and the hell of it was, I was just getting started.
Everything was on the up and up when one of the gang turned softie.
Ain’t that hell?”
Rico had been very much elated over his escape from Chicago, so elated
in fact that he had forgotten all about his troubles; but, now that the
excitement of the escape had passed, the thought of how much he had
lost struck him full force. He felt resentful.
“Yeah,” said Sansotta, “that’s the way it goes. It’s a tough game.
They picked up two of my men last night.”
“That so?” said Rico, paying no attention.
Sansotta got up.
“Well, Cesare,” he said, “I got business or I’d stick around and chin
with you. Want to stay here with me till things blow over?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
III
Night after night Rico lay awake looking at the arc light outside his
window. His mind was filled with resentment and he went over and over
the incidents which had led to his fall. Now that it was too late, he
saw the mistakes he had made. He should have plugged Gentleman Joe;
that’s all. When a guy begins to turn softie, why there ain’t no good
in him. Yeah, he had been too easy. Another thing. He should have
played Scabby up; that guy was in a position to do him all kinds of
favors. But Scabby was a hard guy to get along with; he always thought
somebody was trying to make a fool of him and he always had a chip
on his shoulder.
Sometimes Rico would fall asleep for a little while, but his sleep was
full of dreams and he would toss from side to side and wake up with a
start. Then he would get up and smoke one cigarette after another and
think about Montana and Little Arnie and the Big Boy. Often, in these
short naps, he would see The Greek lying on his back in the alley, or
the little Italian girl sweeping the hall, or Ma Magdalena helping him
put the grease on his face. Then he would awake in confusion and stare
at the unfamiliar arc light a long time before he could realize where
he was.
In the day time it wasn’t so bad. He could play cards with Sansotta and
some of his gang, or shoot crap on a pool table in the back room. Rico
always played to win and while the game was in progress he forgot his
troubles. But even this was but a partial alleviation. He was nobody.
Just an unknown wop who seemed to have unlimited resources. Sansotta
was the only one who knew who he was. He had taken his uncle’s name,
Luigi De Angelo, and around Sansotta’s he was called Youngstown
Louis, or usually plain Louis. No, he was nobody. When a card game got
hot and one of the players thought he was getting gypped, a look from
Rico did not quiet the tumult as it had done in Little Italy. A look
from Rico meant nothing. He was cursed with the rest of them. Often the
desire to show these two-bit wops who they were yelling at would make
him writhe in his chair, and his hand would move toward his armpit,
but he couldn’t risk it. He had his neck to think about, and there was
Sansotta, a good guy, doing what he could for him. Rico kept saying to
himself, you are nobody, nobody, but it was galling.
Sometimes he would go to his room early and just sit in the dark and
think. He would imagine himself in the Big Boy’s wonderful apartment;
he would see the big pictures of the old time guys in their gold
frames, the one grand crockery, and the library full of books; or he
would recall the night when Little Arnie’s Detroit toughs tried to bump
him off and how when he came back to The Palermo the people stood on
the chairs and shouted: “Rico! Rico!” God, it was hard to take!
The stories in the magazines about swell society people that he
used to read with such eagerness failed to interest him now. After a
paragraph or two he would fling the magazine aside and swear.
“Yeah,” he would say, “ain’t that great! The damn dressed-up softies.
Got everything in the world and never had to turn a hand for it.”
Rico was filled with resentment and when he spoke, rarely now, it was
to denounce or ridicule something. The wops around Sansotta’s, though
they were obtuse enough, were not long in noticing this, and Rico began
to be known as Crabby Louis.
They would say: “Well, Crabby Louis, it’s your shot;” or “All right,
Crabby, deal the cards.”
The only thing that really interested Rico was the trial of Sam
Vettori. Joe Massara, who had turned State’s evidence, had been
sentenced to life. “Lord,” said Rico, when he read Joe’s sentence,
“I never thought they’d give Gentleman Joe a jolt like that after he
turned State’s. Them boys means business.” Sam’s trial had been rushed
because of the hubbub raised by Mr. McClure and other influential
men, and the outcome was never in doubt. Sam Vettori was sentenced to
be hanged.
When Rico read the verdict he lay back in his chair and looked at the
wall.
“Well, old Sam had a long whack at it,” he said; “never seen the inside
of a prison in his life. A guy’s luck’s bound to turn.”
Then he went over in his mind the robbery of the Casa Alvarado and all
the steps which had led to his own rise and fall.
“It made me and it broke me,” he said.
On New Year’s Eve Rico dressed up more than usual and went down into
Sansotta’s cabaret. It was jammed and unable to get a seat he went into
Sansotta’s office and had one of the waiters bring him a meal. He sat
with the door open and watched the antics on the dance-floor. There was
plenty of liquor about and the crowd was pretty rough. Rico saw a big
blonde dancing with a fat Italian. She gave him a look and he motioned
for her to come in the office. She nodded. Rico got up and closed the
door. In a few minutes the Blonde came in.
“Well, kid,” she said, “what’s on your mind?”
“I got a room upstairs,” said Rico, “that ain’t occupied.”
“The hell you have,” said the Blonde.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and I got a bank roll that ain’t got any strings on
it.”
“Now you’re talking,” said the Blonde, putting her arm around Rico.
“Well,” said Rico, “let’s go.”
“Listen,” said the Blonde, “I’ll be back after while. I got a guy out
here that’s plenty tough and I got to humor him.”
“Aw, hell,” said Rico, “I’ll take that toughness out of him. Stick
around.”
The Blonde looked at Rico and laughed.
“Say,” she said, “you ain’t big enough to talk so big.”
“No,” said Rico, resentful, “I ain’t so big.”
“Listen, honey,” said the Blonde, “this boy would eat you alive.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
The fat Italian opened the door and came in.
“What’s the idea, Micky?” he said to the Blonde.
“Why, I just happened to bump into an old friend of mine,” said
the Blonde, scared.
Rico got up and stood looking at the fat Italian.
“What’s it to you!” he said.
“Why, listen, kid,” said the fat Italian, “you better go get your
big brother cause if you make any more cracks I’m gonna dust off the
furniture with you.”
The Blonde took the fat Italian by the arm.
“Come on, Paul,” she said, “let’s go dance.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “take that bird away before something happens to
him.”
The fat Italian pulled away from the Blonde and started toward Rico.
“That’s one crack too many,” he said.
But Rico, standing with his back against Sansotta’s desk, perfectly
calm, reached under his armpit and pulled his gun. The fat Italian
hesitated and looked bewildered.
“Well,” said Rico, “kind of lost your steam, didn’t you?”
The fat Italian turned and looked at the Blonde.
“That’s a nice boy friend you got,” he said.
The Blonde stood there with her mouth open.
“All right, big boy,” said Rico, “we can get along without you.”
Sansotta opened the door and stood looking from one to the other.
“What’s the matter, Paul?” he inquired.
The fat Italian pointed at Rico.
“That bird there tried to grab my girl, and when I told him about it he
pulled a gat on me.”
Sansotta’s face darkened.
“Put that gun up, Louis,” he said, staring hard at Rico; “where you
think you’re at? Listen, Paul, Louis’s a new guy here and he don’t know
the ropes.”
“Well,” said the fat Italian, “he sure is quick with a gun.”
“That’s all right, Paul,” said the Blonde, laughing, “he needs a
handicap.”
Rico, furious, put on his hat and started to go. But Sansotta said:
“Wait a minute, Louis, I want to see you.” Then turning to the fat
Italian: “I’m sure sorry this happened, but you know how it is
when a guy don’t know the ropes, he’ll butt in where it ain’t healthy
to butt in, see? Louis’s all right, but he’s got a bad temper.”
“Ain’t he!” said Paul. “Well, I guess we better be moving up town. I
ain’t any too anxious to hang around where you’re liable to get bumped
off.”
“Aw, stick around, Paul,” Sansotta implored; “you won’t have no more
trouble.”
“No,” said Paul, “I’ll be moving. Come on, Micky. I seen about all of
your boy friend that I want to see.”
Sansotta followed them out into the cabaret, trying to ♦pursuade them
to remain, but Paul went over to the check-window and got their wraps.
Rico sat down and went on with his meal. Sansotta came in and slammed
the door after him.
♦ “pursuade” replaced with “persuade”
“Goddam you, Cesare,” he cried, “why don’t you be more careful? That
guy is Paolo, the political boss. He can close me up tomorrow if he
wants to.”
“Take it easy,” said Rico; “how the hell did I know? You think I’m
gonna let a guy take a bust at me?”
Sansotta took out a cigar and began to chew on it.
“Cesare,” he said, “you got to be moving. I can’t have you hanging
around here no more. It’s too dangerous.”
Rico dropped his fork and stared at Sansotta.
“Giving me the go-by, hunh?”
“Yeah,” said Sansotta, “you got to be moving.”
Rico got to his feet and stood looking at Sansotta.
“Just on account of a small town ward-heeler,” he said; “why that guy
couldn’t boss a section gang. You’re a hell of a guy, Sansotta. After
all the jack I spent in this dump.”
“I can’t help that,” said Sansotta, “you got to be moving right away.”
Rico laughed.
“Don’t get funny,” he said.
“Don’t you get funny,” said Sansotta; “you ain’t in no shape to get
funny.”
“Maybe you better call the bulls and turn me up,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Sansotta, “you got to be moving, that’s all.”
IV
Rico was acutely conscious of his position. A lonely Youngstown yegg
in a hostile city without friends or influence. Yeah, funny! Just a
no-account yap in a burg like Hammond and not four months ago he had
been a big guy in a big burg.
He put on his ulster and went out. The wind was cold and it was
snowing. He walked around for a while, keeping to the dark streets,
then, chilled through, he went into a little Italian restaurant for a
cup of coffee and a sandwich.
The waiter, an Italian boy with a handsome dark face, brought Rico his
food. When he set it down on the table he grinned and said:
“Well, happy New Year.”
Rico looked up in surprise.
“Yeah,” he said, “thanks.”
He felt better. This anonymous friendliness cheered him up. While he
was eating, he watched the Italian boy, who was wiping off the
counter and singing.
“Nice kid,” thought Rico.
When Rico had finished his coffee, he lit a cigarette and sat smoking.
He felt comfortable. Looking around the restaurant, he saw that there
was a mechanical piano up front. Like Pete’s!
“Say,” he called, “let’s have a little music.”
“Sure,” said the boy.
He put a slug in the piano. It played Farewell To Thee in tremolo. Rico
felt sad. He called the boy back and gave him a dollar.
“Keep the change, kid,” he said.
The mechanical piano stopped on a discord, and Rico got to his feet.
While he was putting on his coat two men came in the front door. One of
them went up to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee, but the other
stopped and stood staring at Rico.
Rico, noticing the man’s scrutiny, put his hand inside his coat and
started out, but the man touched him on the shoulder and whispered:
“Things ain’t going so good, are they, Rico?”
Rico stared at the man and demanded:
“Who the hell are you?”
Then he recognized him. It was Little Arnie’s doorman, Joseph
Pavlovsky, one of the guys he had chased.
“I’m one of Arnie’s boys,” said Pavlovsky; “I been in Hammond ever
since you gave us the rush.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“Straight,” said Pavlovsky. “I been in the beer racket over here and I
cleaned up. I’m going back to the big burg next month.”
Rico envied him.
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“You sure pulled one on ’em, Rico,” said Pavlovsky; “you always was a
smart boy, Rico.”
“Aw, can that,” said Rico, and, pulling away from Pavlovsky, he went
out.
The wind was blowing hard now and it had stopped snowing. Rico turned
up his coat collar and started toward Sansotta’s. But he hadn’t gone
half a block when he realized that he was being followed. He turned
just in time to see two men pass under an arclight.
“It’s Little Arnie’s boy,” he said, “looking for seven grand.”
Rico took out his gun, got behind a telephone pole, and fired a warning
shot. The two men ran for cover and Rico ducked down an alley, ran for
two blocks, then turned up another alley and doubled back. He had lost
them.
When the look-out let him in he said:
“Louis, the boss wants to see you.”
Rico went up to Sansotta’s room.
“Well?” he said to Sansotta.
“Cesare,” said Sansotta, “a friend of mine is pulling out for Toledo
tomorrow night. He’ll take you for fifty bucks.”
“What’s his game?”
“Running dope.”
“It’s O.K. with me,” said Rico.
Rico went up to his room, took off his overcoat, and flung himself down
on the bed. He’d have to pull out now whether he wanted to or not.
V
The dope-runner dropped Rico at the edge of town. It was about five
o’clock in the morning and still dark. A heavy fog had come in from
Lake Erie and a damp, cold wind was blowing. Rico walked up and down to
keep warm while waiting for a car. He felt pretty low.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “right back where I started from.”
The headlight on the street-car cut through the fog. The motorman
didn’t see Rico and ran past him.
“Ain’t that a break?” said Rico.
There wouldn’t be another car for half an hour. Rico decided to walk.
He turned up his coat collar against the damp wind and lit a cigar. His
mind was full of resentment. Yeah, by God, a lousy street-car wouldn’t
even stop for him.
Rico got a room at a bachelor’s hotel on the waterfront, and went to
bed. It was about five o’clock in the evening when he woke up. He
doused his face at the washstand, put on his overcoat, and went
out.
He ate at a little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split
a bowl of soup when things were going bad. But the place had changed.
New management, new waiters, new everything. Toledo seemed small and
dingy and quiet to Rico. He was a little bit puzzled.
“Didn’t used to be like this,” he said.
As soon as he finished his meal he walked over to Chiggi’s, which was
about two blocks away. But the place was dark and when Rico went up to
the door to peer in he saw that it had been padlocked by the Federal
Authorities.
“Ain’t that a break?” he said.
He had no place to go.
There was a fruit store next to Chiggi’s and Rico went in. A little
Italian girl came to wait on him.
“Listen, sister,” said Rico, “you know where Chiggi is now?”
“I get my grandfather,” she said.
She went into the back of the store and returned with an old
Italian who had crinkly gray hair and wore earrings.
“Listen, mister,” said Rico, “could you tell me where Chiggi is now?”
The old man just looked at him. Rico felt a little uneasy.
“No speak English?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the old man, “I speak good English. What do you want with
Chiggi?”
“Well,” said Rico, “Chiggi used to be a pal of mine, but I been away
for three or four years and now I don’t know where to find him.”
“Chiggi has had trouble,” said the old man; “he is in the prison.”
“Yeah?” said Rico. “Atlanta, hunh?”
“Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi is in Atlanta. It is too bad. Chiggi
was good to the poor. When my wife was sick and my business was not
going good, Chiggi gave me money.”
“Yeah,” said Rico. “Chiggi staked me too.”
Rico took out a cigar and gave it to the old man.
“Listen,” he went on, “do you know where any of Chiggi’s old bunch is?”
“Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi’s boy has got a place a couple of
blocks from here.”
The old man wrote down the address for Rico.
Young Chiggi was a dressed-up wop and thought he was a lot better than
his father. He wouldn’t even wait on a customer but sat all day in the
back of his joint reading the Police Gazette or playing solitaire.
Things were breaking good for Young Chiggi and he was thinking about
selling out and going to Chicago or Detroit.
He had been in the beer and alcohol racket for over three years, first
with his father, then by himself, and now with Bill Hackett, known as
Chicago Red. He bought diamonds and automobiles and he kept his woman
in a big apartment.
When Rico was shown into his office by one of his bartenders, he didn’t
even look up but went on with his game of solitaire. The bartender went
out and Rico sat down across from Young Chiggi.
“Chiggi,” said Rico, “I want to talk to you a minute.”
Chiggi didn’t look up.
“All right,” he said.
“Listen,” said Rico, “put them cards down. I want to talk business.”
Chiggi looked up and stared at Rico.
“Say,” he said, “where the hell do you get that stuff! I don’t know
you.”
“Your old man was a pal of mine,” said Rico.
“Well, Buddy,” said Chiggi, “that don’t help you none with me, ’cause
me and the old man had a split-up. He thought he was so damn wise, see,
but they got him behind the bars and I’m running loose.”
“Yeah?” said Rico, “well, that’s a tough break for the old man. You
see, your old man staked me once and I thought I’d look him up and get
even. I’m pretty well heeled right now and I’m looking for a place to
lay in.”
Chiggi looked at Rico with interest.
“Looking for a place to lay in, hunh? Bulls after you?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Chiggi put his cards away. Then he took out a couple of cigars and
offered Rico one. They sat smoking.
“Well,” said Chiggi, “maybe I can take care of you.”
“That’s the talk,” said Rico; “got some rooms up above?”
“No,” said Chiggi, “but a friend of mine’s got a boarding house next
door that’s O.K. Now about that jack the old man staked you to, you can
give it to me, ’cause he owes me plenty.”
Rico said nothing, but took out his fold and counted out a hundred and
fifty dollars. He knew he had to buy his way in.
Rico selected his room carefully. It was on the side of the house and
could not be reached from the outside as there were no porches near
it. It had two doors, one opening into the front hall, one into the
back hall. The doors themselves were heavy and could be barred from the
inside. It was a good hide-out.
Rico’s plans were vague. He had plenty of money and if he went easy
with it he would be able to live a year or more in comparative comfort.
But Rico could not bear the thought of a year of inactivity. What would
he do with himself? He had no vices. He couldn’t amuse himself by
getting drunk, or taking dope, or playing faro. He didn’t mind losing
a couple hundred dollars gambling occasionally, but you can’t put in a
whole year gambling. He thought if things went right that maybe he’d
move on to New York, but that would be risky and one slip and he was
gone. No, he didn’t see much ahead of him.
Rico spent most of the day in his room, lying on the bed reading, or
else going over and over in his mind the episodes leading to his rise
and fall. The resentment he had been experiencing ever since he got to
Hammond had grown till it had become almost an obsession. He was never
in a good humor. When he was not reading or thinking about Chicago he
would pace up and down his room and wait for night. He got so, finally,
that he could sleep twelve hours every day and this helped some.
At night he would go down to Chiggi’s and play pool or shoot crap.
Sometimes there would be a big poker game and he would sit in. He was
known as Youngstown Louis and nobody in the place had the slightest
idea who he really was.
Everything was against Rico. The very virtues that had been
responsible for his rise were liabilities in his present situation. He
had no outlet for his energy; the self-discipline which had marked him
out from his fellows was of no use to him here; and the tenacity of
purpose that had kept him at high tension while he was the Vettori gang
chief had no object to expend itself on.
“I am nobody, nobody,” Rico would say.
Sometimes at night he would go to one of the call-houses on a nearby
street and spend a couple of hours with one of the women. But he got
very little pleasure from these infrequent debauches. He used to wonder
what had happened to the blonde he had spent old Chiggi’s stake on, and
was positive that if he could find her it would do him a lot of good,
but she had disappeared and nobody had any idea where she had gone.
Rico tried to buy his way in. Chiggi was agreeable but Chicago Red was
not. Chicago Red had taken a dislike to Rico from the first and never
missed an opportunity of bullying him. Chicago Red had left Chicago
under a cloud. There was a rumor that he had got in bad with a
South Side gang over there and had left to keep from getting bumped
off. Red was over six feet tall and weighed about two hundred pounds;
he had muscles like a wrestler, a bull neck, and enormous hairy hands.
Rico kept away from him as much as possible to avoid trouble. But Red
seemed to take a delight in worrying Rico, probably because, despite
the fact that Rico never argued with him, always let him have his way,
he felt that Rico was not impressed.
One night there was a big poker game going on in Chiggi’s back room.
Rico was winning. About midnight Red came in and wanted to sit in, but
there was no place for him.
“Louis,” he said, “get the hell off that chair and let a man get in the
game.”
“Not a chance,” said Rico.
“Listen, Dago....” said Red.
“Don’t call me, Dago,” said Rico, looking hard at Red.
“Get off that chair or I’ll throw you off,” said Red starting toward
Rico.
But Chiggi grabbed Red from behind and pulled him into the next
room.
When the game broke up, Chiggi came in and said to Rico:
“When you get settled up, come in the office.”
After the other players had gone Rico went into Chiggi’s office. Red
was sitting with his feet on the desk and Chiggi was walking up and
down.
“Well, Dago,” said Red, “did you clean ’em?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
“Sit down, Louis,” said Chiggi; “we want to talk to you.”
Rico sat down.
“Louis,” said Chiggi, “I don’t know whether you’re wised up or not,
but we been hitting the rocks. The bulls got two of our men and a big
load of alcohol, and a couple of days ago another one of our carts got
hijacked at Monroe. See, so we’re pretty low.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“Well,” said Chiggi, “we want a stake, don’t we, Red?”
“Yeah,” said Red, “and we ain’t any too particular where we get
it.”
“Well,” said Rico, getting up, “you got a lot of guys around here. Ask
them.”
“Listen, Red,” said Chiggi, “you keep your goddam lip out of this.”
Red got to his feet suddenly and stood glaring at Chiggi.
“Why, you lousy small-time wop, I guess you don’t know who you’re
talking to, do you?” He raised his arm and pointed at Rico. “You see
that guy there, he thinks he’s the best there is, got it? He thinks
he’s the biggest dago outside of Italy, and here you go honeying after
him like we couldn’t get a stake no place else. But I ain’t begging no
goddam dago to stake me.”
Chiggi looked helplessly at Rico.
“Yeah,” said Red, “and while we’re talking, I’m getting sick of the way
that bird there sits around and don’t say nothing and acts like he was
God-only-knows-who. Yeah, I’m getting good and sick of it, Chiggi.”
“Well,” said Chiggi, “when you get real sick of it, why beat it.”
Red laughed.
“Gonna stick to your dago buddy, are you? Well, he’s got the jack. But
what’re you gonna do when you need a guy that’s got the guts?”
This was too much for Rico. He said:
“What do you know about guts? I guess you ain’t so tough or they
wouldn’t’ve run you out of Chi.”
“Will you listen to that!” said Red; “all right, buddy, you said your
piece and you sure spoke out of turn. Why, dago, where I come from you
wouldn’t live five minutes. Now I’m gonna show you how they treat smart
dagos in Chi.”
Red made a motion toward his coat pocket, but Rico beat him to it. He
pulled his gun from the holster under his armpit and covered Red.
“Red,” he said, “in Chicago I wouldn’t let you rob filling-stations for
me.”
Red stood with his hands up, looking from Rico to Chiggi.
“Don’t bump him off, Louis,” said Chiggi.
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet on him,” said Rico; then glaring at Red he
went on: “You been getting away with this rough stuff too long,
Red. I’m Cesare Bandello!”
Red’s mouth fell open and he stood staring at Rico. Chiggi took Rico by
the arm.
“Are you Rico?” he cried.
Rico nodded and put up his gun. Red dropped his hands, sank into a
chair and wiped the sweat from his face.
“You sit down, Chiggi,” said Rico, “and I’ll do the talking.”
Chiggi sat down.
“Lord,” said Red, “so you’re Rico? Steve Gollancz told me you was a big
fellow.”
“Steve never seen me,” said Rico.
Chiggi leaned forward eagerly.
“You gonna put in with us, Louis?”
Rico said:
“I’ll put in a third, but I got to boss the works or I won’t put in
nothing.”
Chiggi looked at Red.
“That’s O.K. with me,” said Red.
Chiggi got to his feet and danced a few steps.
“Hurray for us,” he cried.
VI
Under Rico’s guidance Chiggi’s gang prospered. Chicago Red,
impressed by Rico’s reputation, carried out his orders and never
argued; Chiggi also. And Chiggi’s men were influenced by the attitude
of their former bosses. Rico made decisions quickly, seldom asked
for advice, and was nearly always right. Chiggi and Red were used to
doing things on a small scale and hated to split with the authorities,
but Rico had been in the game long enough to know that to make money
you’ve got to spend money. Through Antonio Rizzio, one of Old Chiggi’s
friends, now a minor politician, Rico got in touch with some of the
high-ups and bought protection. Chiggi’s alcohol runners were no
longer picked up and in a little while Chiggi’s business had doubled.
But, due to this increase in business, a new difficulty had risen:
hijackers. They waylaid Chiggi’s men and robbed them of their cargoes.
There was a well-organized gang of them around Monroe, Michigan, and
they began to cut into Chiggi’s profits. Rico tried rerouting his
runners and this was successful for a month or two, but the Monroe
gang soon got on to it, and the trouble started over again. Rico took
a chance. He ordered three sho-sho guns from a firm in Chicago. These
small automatic rifles, as formidable as machine guns, were concealed
in special cases under the seats of the trucks. Rico instructed his
runners in the use of them and after a few encounters the Monroe gang
decided that it would be more lucrative and also safer to confine their
hijacking to smaller bootleggers who were not equipped with artillery.
Rico was pleased with his success, but hardly satisfied. This was small
stuff and, as he could take no active part in it, he had a good deal
of time on his hands. Of course he was a pretty big guy for Toledo
and around Chiggi’s he was king, but, after all, Chiggi’s boys were a
mighty poor lot, worse even than Little Arnie’s, and their adulation
wasn’t worth much.
But that wasn’t the worst of it Rico knew that he had blundered badly
in revealing his identity to Chiggi and Chicago Red. Neither of them
was very dependable. Chiggi talked incessantly, contradicting
himself, forgetting what he had said two minutes after he had said it;
and all this talk was directed at one object: self-glorification. An
association with Cesare Bandello, of Chicago, was something to brag
about and Rico knew it. Chicago Red as a rule was not very talkative,
but when he got drunk he would boast about his former connection with
Steve Gollancz. Rico feared them both. Sometimes when the three of them
were alone together he would caution them. There was only one thing
that reassured Rico. Chiggi’s prosperity depended on him, and Rico knew
that both Chicago Red and Chiggi were aware of it.
At about seven o’clock one night Rico went out for supper. He ate at
the little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split a bowl
of soup when things were bad. He always sat facing the front door at a
table in the back of the place. In this position he could see everyone
who came in and also he could keep an eye on the people at the tables.
On his right and a couple of feet ahead of him was a little window
which looked out on an alley. While Rico was finishing his coffee
he happened to glance at the window. When he did, a face which had been
pressed against the window-pane was hastily withdrawn. Rico got up, put
on his hat and paid his check.
“I’m going out the back way,” he said to the counterman.
“O.K., boss.”
“If anybody comes in here and asks for Louis De Angelo take a good look
at him.”
“All right, boss,” said the counterman.
Rico went out through the kitchen door, which opened onto a little
cement court where the refuse from the restaurant was dumped. The big
garbage cans along the wall were in the shadow and, as Rico stepped
out, a man jumped up from behind one of the cans and put a gun against
him. Rico threw himself to the ground, the gun exploded harmlessly, and
the man made a break for the alley, stumbling over the cans. Rico fired
from a prone position and missed. Then he jumped to his feet and ran
out into the alley. The man had disappeared.
“God,” said Rico, “if that boy didn’t almost pull one on me.”
One of the cooks opened the back door and put his head out.
“What the hell!” he said.
“Damned if I know,” said Rico; “a couple of guys was popping at each
other out here in the alley.”
“Some of them bootleggers,” said the cook.
Rico took a cab back to Chiggi’s. He was very much perturbed. Whoever
that boy was he certainly meant business.
“Well,” said Rico, “somebody has sure spilled something.”
As soon as he came in Chiggi rushed up to him and grabbed him by the
arm.
“Louis,” he said, “Red’s drunk and we can’t do nothing with him.”
Rico stared at Chiggi.
“Where’s he been?”
“Why,” said Chiggi, “he’s been on a bat with some Chicago guys.”
“Hell,” cried Rico, “where is he?”
Chiggi led Rico back into one of the private rooms. Red was
sitting at a table with a half empty quart of whiskey on the table
beside him. When he saw Rico he cried:
“If it ain’t old Rico himself! By God, I been drinking all day. I can
hardly see but nobody can put me under the table, ain’t that so, boss?
Yes sir, I’d like to see the bastard that could drink Rico’s buddy
under the table.”
Rico turned to Chiggi.
“A guy tried to pop me over at Frank’s. This bird has spilled
something. I got to be moving.”
Chiggi’s eyes got big.
“You gonna pull out, Louis?”
“I got to,” said Rico; “somebody’s looking for that seven grand.”
“Jesus, Louis,” said Chiggi, “what we gonna do without you?”
“Best you can,” said Rico. “Go get me a cab, Chiggi, I’m moving right
now.”
Chiggi went out of the room. Rico took Red by the shoulders and shook
him. Red blinked his eyes.
“Red,” said Rico, “was you on a bat with some Chicago guys?”
“Was I?” cried Red; “spent a hundred bucks on them birds.”
“Any of them know me?”
Red rolled his head from side to side, and sang, then he smashed his
fists down on the table.
“Rico,” he said, “old Red’s going back to the big burg, yes sir, old
Red’s tired of this tank town. Old Red’s got a good stake now and he’s
moving. They run me out once but I ain’t scairt of them no more. I’m
going back and show ’em who Red Hackett is. Yeah bo!”
Rico shook him.
“Listen, Red,” he said, “did any of them birds know me?”
Red lolled his head, trying to focus his eyes on Rico.
“One of them guys was a personal friend of yours,” said Red; “fact, he
asked me if you wasn’t laying up here, see, he knew all right; wasn’t
no harm in telling him nothing.”
“Who was he?” shouted Rico.
Red thought for a moment then he said:
“I can’t seem to remember. He’s a wop, all right, a bald-headed wop.”
“Scabby!” Rico exclaimed.
Good God, wasn’t that a break! Scabby hated him and Scabby would sell
his own mother out for a split on seven grand. Rico felt resentful.
Just his damn luck to get mixed up with a bunch of yellow-bellies and
softies.
Chiggi came in.
“Cab out in front, Louis,” he said.
Rico pointed at Red.
“That guy spilled the works. For two bits I’d bump him off.”
Rico was furious. He made a move toward his armpit, but one of the
bartenders opened the door and yelled:
“The bulls!”
“What!” cried Rico.
The bartender was trembling all over and his face was white.
“Police car out in front, boss.”
Rico made a dive for the door but Chiggi grabbed him by the arm.
“Out the back, Louis.”
Chiggi leapt across the room and pulled a switch and all the lights in
the place went out. Then he took Rico by the arm and led him through
the hall and out into a little court at the rear.
“So long, Louis,” he said.
Chiggi slammed the door. Rico was in utter darkness.
“A hell of a chance I got,” he said.
He stepped cautiously out into the alley back of the court and took a
look around. The alley was blind to his right; to his left it came out
onto a main thoroughfare and there was a bright arc light at that end.
Rico took out his gun and moved slowly toward the arc light.
“You can’t never tell,” he said; then, in an excess of rage: “They’ll
never put no cuffs on this baby.”
When he was within fifty feet of the main thoroughfare a man appeared
at the end of the alley way, a big man in a derby hat. He saw Rico
and immediately blew a blast on his whistle. Rico raised his gun and
pulled the trigger; it missed fire.
Rico was frantic. He wanted to live. For the first time in his life he
addressed a vague power which he felt to be stronger than himself.
“Give me a break! Give me a break!” he implored.
The man in the derby hat raised his arm and Rico rushed him, pumping
lead. Rico saw a long spurt of flame and then something hit him a
sledge-hammer blow in the chest. He took two steps, dropped his gun,
and fell flat on his face. He heard a rush of feet up the alley.
“Mother of God,” he said, “is this the end of Rico?”
Transcriber’s Notes
1. Italicised words are indicated by _underscores_.
2. Basic misspelled words have been corrected. Local speech spelling
and grammar has been left unchanged.
3. “* * * * *” indicates a “thought break” represented in the printed
book as a larger gap between paragraphs.
4. “Edit Distance” in Corrections table below refers to the
Levenshtein Distance.
Corrections:
Page Source Correction Edit distance
208 Valesquez Velázquez 1
260 shriek of breaks shriek of brakes 2
280 pursuade persuade 1