Part
VI
I
Rico felt small and unimportant in the Big Boy’s apartment. He was intensely self-centred 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.
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 this 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, labouring 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 shirt front, 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 Velasquez. “That baby set me back one hundred and fifty berries.”
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, 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 it 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 came 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 soon 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. Then 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 corner, 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. OK. 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 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 anything 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 buses, 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 arms 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, 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 the flask and took another pull at it before he answered her. The colour 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 the 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 feedbag 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 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.”
“OK, 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 goddamn luck! Penned up in a room three storeys 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.”
“Goddamn 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’ve 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.
“OK,” 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 plainclothes 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.”
“OK,” 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 the cell, but he was ready to drop. They had him; they sure to God had him.
The turnkey swung the big barrel 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 ever 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 high-hat 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 favour 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 eighteen 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 goddamn 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 goddamn 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 plainclothes 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 plainclothes 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 startled. 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.
“OK,” 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 grey 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, huh?”
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 grey. Morning sure was slow in coming.
Suddenly 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 grey 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 grey-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 towards 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 grey-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 grey-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 the 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 favour 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 of 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 goddamn 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, huh? 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 with 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.
“OK,” 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. Goddamn 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, huh?”
“Go to hell,” said Sam.
Scabby raised his gun but it misfired. 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 onto 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, huh?”
“Rico was always OK 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.”
“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.
“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 towards 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 travelling 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?”
“OK, 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 hideout. It ain’t gonna be easy, because the bulls’re probably scattered all around. But once we get there, we’re OK”
“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 halfway 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.
“Goddamn 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 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:
“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 hideout, 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 hideout. 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.”
“OK,” 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 getaway.”
“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 $3,000.
“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.”