Part
VII
I
It was dark when Rico reached the outskirts of Hammond. He drove into a field, took the licence 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 trouble, why, things are OK. 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 moustache 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 streetcar.
“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 lookout 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 lookout led Rico down a long, dark hallway and to a door at the end of it. Lights showed over a transom. The lookout 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, grey 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: $5,000, offered by management of Casa Alvarado. $2,000, 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 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 favours, 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 quieten the tumult as it had 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 Avarado 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 a while. I got a guy out here that’s plenty tough and I got to humour 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, Mickey?” 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 towards 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 boyfriend 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; “what 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, Mickey. I seen all of your boyfriend that I want to see.”
Sansotta followed them out into the cabaret, trying to persuade 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.
“Goddamn 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, huh?”
“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 archlight.
“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 lookout 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 OK 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 streetcar 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 streetcar 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 grey 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, huh? 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 OK. 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 hideout.
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 humour. 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 rumour 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, and 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 towards 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 have 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 goddamn 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 think’s 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 goddamn dago to stake me.”
Chiggi looked helplessly at Rico.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “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 towards 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 OK 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 the 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, be happened to glance at the window. When he did, a face which had been pressed against the windowpane 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.
“OK, 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 towards 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 the end. Rico took out his gun and moved slowly towards 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 alleyway, 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 sledgehammer 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?”