Part
II
I
“Hear me,” said Rico, his face twitching, “he’s turned yellow. He’s turned yellow. What the hell you expect from a choir boy!”
Otero said nothing but sat with his chair tipped back against the wall smoking a cigarette, his eyes closed. Sam Vettori stood in the middle of the room and stared at his watch.
“Keep your shirt on, Rico,” said Vettori, “you’re on edge.”
“Sure, Rico,” said Otero.
Carillo came in without knocking. Vettori put away his watch.
“Well!”
“OK, boss,” said Carillo, “Tony’s in the alley.”
Vettori took out his watch again.
“Rico, it’s eleven-thirty-five. What do you say?”
“Let’s get going.”
Otero got slowly to his feet, stamped out his cigarette, and taking the riot gun from the table in front of him, slipped it under his overcoat. Rico examined his big automatic.
Carillo went out, softly closing the door. Otero walked over and patted Rico on the shoulder.
“OK, now, eh, Rico?”
Rico smiled. Vettori’s face was covered with sweat and he pulled out a big white silk handkerchief to mop it.
“Rico,” he said, “from now on you boss the job. Only, get this: for the love of God, no gunwork. That’s all. I ain’t ripe for the rope.”
Rico said nothing. Otero shrugged.
Vettori, still mopping his face, opened a window and a gust of cold air rushed in.
Rico took out his little ivory pocket comb and mechanically combed his hair. Then he put on his hat and tilted it over his eyes.
“Well,” he said to Otero, “let’s go.”
Otero followed Rico out. Vettori called:
“Make it clean, Rico. Make it clean.”
They went down the back stairs. Carillo was waiting at the foot of the stairs and held the alley door open for them. The alleyway was dark and Otero stumbled.
“Caramba!”
“Watch that gun,” said Rico.
Tony was sitting at the wheel of a big, open Cadillac. He tossed his cigarette away and said:
“Well, here we are.”
Rico said nothing, but got into the front seat with Tony. Otero got into the back seat. Carillo stood looking at them for a moment, then closed the door. Tony stepped on the starter.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s go, but take it easy. We got lots of time.”
They took it easy. Tony drove along as leisurely as though they were going to a New Year’s party. Rico leaned back and smoked, watching all the passing cars. Otero, who had removed the riot gun and had it on the seat beside him, was sitting bolt upright, his hands on his knees. He could never get used to riding in an automobile. Rico turned and saw the gun.
“Put that rod on the floor,” he said.
Otero obeyed.
It had got colder. The snow was no longer falling and a chilly wind was blowing up in gusts from the lake. The streets were nearly deserted. Over west a whistle began to blow, discordant and shrill.
“Well,” said Tony, nodding in the direction of the whistle, “it won’t be long now.”
But Rico leaned over and hissed in his ear.
“Police car!”
A big Packard with a hooded machine-gun in the back seat passed them. There were two plainclothes men in the front and two in the back.
“What’ll I do?” asked Tony.
One of the men leaned out and stared back at them.
“Jesus,” said Tony, “he’s looking at us.”
“Keep your shirt on,” said Rico, putting his hand on Tony’s arm.
Otero took a cigarette from his pack and rolled it between his palms.
The police car slowed up. Rico’s fingers closed on Tony’s arm.
“Here’s an alley,” said Rico, “duck!”
Tony took the turn on two wheels, just missing a parked car. Otero was thrown from one end of his seat to the other, losing his cigarette. The Cadillac’s exhaust roared in the narrow alleyway. There was nothing but darkness ahead of them.
“It’s a blind,” said Tony.
“No,” said Rico, “I know this place like a book. Turn to your right at the end.”
Rico leaned out and stared back. Then he laughed.
“Ain’t that like the damn dummies! Nothing in sight.”
They came back to Michigan Boulevard by a wide detour. Here the wind blew fiercely, raising little whirlwinds of snow. Now there were whistles blowing in all parts of town. Rico looked at his wrist watch.
“Five of twelve. All right, Tony. Step on it.”
“What time, Rico?” asked Otero.
Rico told him.
“Fine, fine,” said Otero, “eh, Rico?”
Half a block down the street they saw the huge electric sign of the Casa Alvarado. The street was deserted except for the parked cars. They drove along slowly now.
Rico leaned out.
“That’s a break,” he said, pointing to a parking place where they couldn’t be hemmed in. “Listen, Tony, this ain’t going to be no cinch, so you better give us a lift.”
Tony pretended to be preoccupied with parking.
“Get me?”
Tony was pale and his lips were twitching.
“That ain’t my stand, Rico,” he said.
Rico looked at him. Tony sat silent for a moment, then, pulling at the visor of his cap, said:
“But you’re the boss, Rico.”
“OK,” said Rico, smiling. “Now, Otero, get this. I go first. You follow me with the big rod. I stick up the cashier. Tony swings the sacks. Got it?” Rico took three small neatly-folded canvas sacks out of his pocket and handed them to Tony. “Otero, you watch the door. If you see anybody coming in, let ’em come in, then back ’em up against the wall. If things go right, I’ll tap the box. Got it?”
Rico looked at his watch. It was three minutes past twelve.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Otero got out lazily, hiding the riot gun under his coat. Rico got out, followed by Tony.
“Got your rod, Tony?” asked Rico.
Tony nodded.
“All right, keep it in your pocket. Maybe you won’t need it right away. If anybody gets funny, why, pull it.”
“OK,” said Tony, “but for God’s sake, Rico, no gunwork.”
Otero said:
“You leave Rico alone. He does what is right.”
Whistles were blowing all over town. They walked up the carpet which was laid across the pavement under the canvas marquee. Inside there was a blaze of lights and they could hear the music. The lobby was deserted except for two check-girls, one waiter, a cigar clerk, and the cashier, a pale woman with a green eyeshade, who was perched on a stool. Joe Massara, in a big ulster and a derby hat, was standing at the cigar counter, kidding the clerk. He saw them out of the corner of his eye and nodded twice.
They came in quickly, Rico in front with his big automatic at ready, Otero slightly behind him and to the left, carrying the sawed-off shotgun hip-high, Tony in the rear, his hand in his overcoat pocket.
Before Rico could say anything, Joe Massara faced them, put his back up against the counter and raised his hands.
“My God,” he cried, “it’s a holdup.”
One of the check girls screamed piercingly. The waiter’s knees buckled and he almost fell. The others stood petrified.
“You’re goddamn right it’s a holdup!” shouted Rico, trying to intimidate them, “and it ain’t gonna be no picnic. Get that, all of you birds. I got lead in this here rod and my finger’s itching. One crack out of any of you and they’ll pat you with a spade. All right, Tony.”
Tony, white as chalk, took the sacks out of his pocket and walked over to the cashier’s desk. The cashier was standing behind the register, hands raised. When Tony came up she said:
“Take anything you want, only for God’s sake don’t touch me.”
“OK,” said Tony, “clean out the box but don’t get funny.”
Tony held the sacks while the cashier scooped the money into them. Tony saw pack after pack of wrapped greenbacks drop into the sacks. He began to feel a little better.
Rico left the cashier to Tony, but looked at each of the others in turn, his eyes, under his tilted hat, intimidating them as successfully as the big Luger in his hand. Otero stood behind him and a little to the left, impassive, the riot gun hip-high.
The manager opened the door of his office and with a dazed look hesitated for a moment, then, with a great sigh, put his back against the wall and raised his hands. He was a Czech with a swarthy complexion which gradually turned greenish.
Rico glared at the manager.
“Stay put, you!” he said.
“All right, all right,” said the Czech.
Joe Massara said:
“Jesus, my arm’s paralyzed.”
“Yeah,” shouted Rico, “well, don’t let it drop.”
“All set,” cried Tony.
Otero was busy at the door with a man in a top hat who had just come in. The man couldn’t believe his eyes and kept muttering:
“Good Lord! Good Lord!”
Otero backed him against the wall.
In the club proper, beyond the big arched doorways, the band was playing loudly, horns were tooting, people were shouting.
“All right,” said Rico, “get out your gat, Tony. I’ll tap the box inside.”
“God,” said Tony, “it’ll take too long.”
Rico looked at him. Tony, holding the sacks in one arm, pulled out his gun. Rico walked over to the manager.
“Listen,” he said, “I want action. Go in and open that box and slip me the jack. One funny move and I’ll blow your guts out.”
“Oh, my God!” cried the Czech.
They disappeared. There was a dead silence in the lobby. One of the check girls began to cry.
“Nice little holdup,” said Joe.
Nobody said anything.
“Yeah,” said Joe nonchalant, “fine little holdup.”
He smiled at the waiter, who looked hastily away and turned agonized eyes on Tony as if to say: “Look, I can’t help what that bird’s saying.”
Two more men came in the street door and were backed up against the wall by Otero. The seconds seemed like hours to Tony, who was slowly losing his nerve.
The manager reappeared, followed by Rico, who had his gun pressed against the manager’s back. Rico’s pockets bulged.
“Good Lord,” hissed Tony, “let’s go.”
Three men and two women came out into the lobby from the club proper. They stopped, petrified.
The strain was beginning to tell on Rico, whose face was ghastly.
“Stick up your hands, you,” he cried, “and don’t move.”
Two of the men and both of the women put up their hands, but the third man, burly and red-faced, hesitated.
“Good God,” said Joe, “it’s Courtney, the bull.”
Joe’s mask of nonchalance slipped from him instantly; he dropped his hands and reached for his gun.
“Beat it,” cried Rico to Tony and Otero.
They made a break for the door. One of the women with Courtney fainted and fell hard, hitting her head.
“Don’t touch her,” cried Rico, “my finger’s itching.”
Joe followed the others, backing out with his gun in his hand. Courtney’s face was purple. He glanced at his wife, lying pale and unconscious on the floor, then, shouting “you dirty bums” reached for his gun. Rico fired. Courtney took two steps towards Rico, staring. Then he fell heavily, his arms spread.
At the door Rico collided with a drunken man, who was just entering. The man tried to hug him, but he knocked him down with a blow of his fist.
Rico jumped on the running-board and bellowed:
“Open her up, Tony. This ain’t no picnic.”
Tony was unnerved and tears were dripping down onto his hands. Joe and Otero sat silent in the back seat. Otero rolled a cigarette between his palms. Nobody said anything.
Tony took a corner, careening. The wind had died down a little and it had begun to snow again, a thin, cold, powdery snow. The whistles were still blowing, but fainter now, one leaving off, then another.
“Well,” said Rico, “I plugged him.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, “I seen him fall. Like a ton of bricks.”
“Well,” said Otero, “what can you do? The fool, pulling a gat!”
Tony said nothing, but sat with his eyes fixed.
“It’s our hips for this,” said Joe.
Otero shrugged and lit a cigarette.
“Losing your guts, Joe?” asked Rico.
“Me!” said Joe.
Tony turned into the alleyway back of The Palermo. Rico put the sacks under his coat and jumped out. Otero and Joe followed him.
“Tony,” said Rico, “ditch that can, then come back for your split. Hear what I say. Ditch it good and proper. We’ll wait.”
“Look,” said Joe, “I got to have my split now. I’m on at one-twenty. Boy, I can’t miss that turn.”
“OK,” said Rico.
Tony drove off down the alley. Rico knocked at the door and Carillo let them in.
II
When they came in Vettori was standing in the middle of the room mopping his forehead with his big white silk handkerchief. Beads of sweat stood out all over his swarthy, fat face.
Rico threw the sacks on the table and began to empty his pockets.
“There’s the dough,” said Rico, “looks like a good haul.”
Joe sat down at the table under the green-shaded lamp without taking off his hat or coat. Otero took the riot gun from under his coat and locked it up in a cupboard. Vettori knew there was something the matter. His eyes narrowed.
“Well,” he said again.
“Everything was OK,” said Rico, “only I had to plug a guy.”
Vettori fell down into a chair and stared out the window.
“Yeah,” said Joe, trying to smile, “and the guy was Courtney.”
Vettori put his head on the back of his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he sat up suddenly and banged on the table with both fists.
“Goddamn!” he cried, “what did I tell you, Rico! What did I tell you! Love of God, didn’t I tell you no gunwork?”
Rico was white with rage.
“Listen, Sam, you think I’m gonna let a guy pull a gat on me. What the hell! Any more of them cracks and this is my last job.” Vettori made an elaborate, tragic gesture.
“Yeah, you bet this is your last job.”
Joe took of his derby and put it beside him on the table. His face was dead white.
“You said it,” said Joe. “They’ll get us sure for this.”
Vettori shook his big head slowly from side to side.
“They’ll get us dead sure for this.”
Rico began to comb his hair.
“Maybe you better go over and give yourself up,” he said; then dropping his sarcastic tone, “listen, how the hell they gonna get us? Why, you’re the finest bunch of yellow bastards I ever seen.”
“Not me,” said Otero.
Joe tried to smile.
“Wait till you see the papers.”
Rico came over and leaned on the table.
“Listen, don’t they always play that stuff up in the papers. Courtney’s the only guy in the place that ever seen one of us before. Come on, snap out of it. And split the dough.”
But Vettori sat inert, mopping his face. Suddenly he asked:
“Where’s Tony?”
“He’s ditching the can,” said Rico.
“Suppose they pick him up?”
Rico began to open the sacks.
“That’ll be just too bad,” said Joe.
Rico laughed.
“A fine bunch of yeggs!”
Vettori got to his feet in a fury.
“You, Rico! Shut your mouth. You think I want to hang because you get yellow and shoot somebody.”
Rico, very calm, put his hand in his pocket and said:
“Sam, you get funny with me and you won’t get no split at all. Only a horseshoe wreath.”
“Oh, hell, Sam,” said Joe, “we’re all in it, ain’t we? Come on, split the dough.”
Vettori sat down. Otero stood a little behind him, watching.
“Since you want it, Sam,” said Rico, his face pale and drawn, “you’re gonna get it. Listen, you split even, that’s all. Hear me! You get an even split.”
Vettori said nothing. Joe sat rigid, ready to dive under the table. For months Scabby had been predicting this break; now it had come. Joe feared Vettori and Rico equally, but something told him that Rico would win.
Vettori let his hands fall on the table.
“All right, Rico,” he said, “I split even. Sit down and we’ll divvy.”
But Rico didn’t move.
“You got a gun on you, Sam?” he asked.
Vettori looked up at him.
“Sure I got a gun on me.”
“Well, don’t try to use it.”
“No,” said Otero, “don’t try to use it.”
Vettori’s face went slack. He sat tapping on the table with his fat fingers.
“Rico,” he said finally, “I split even on the square.”
Rico’s victory was complete. Joe looked at him with admiration. Sam was a tough bird, but Rico was tougher.
Vettori got up, walked across the room and stood looking out the window.
III
Joe handed Rico a sheet of paper full of figures. Rico read: 9,331.75.
“All right,” said Rico, “split it five ways and we’ll make up Scabby’s split between us.”
Otero sat with his chair tipped back against the wall, smoking a cigarette with his eyes closed. Vettori was playing solitaire and swearing softly to himself.
Joe looked at his watch.
“Quarter till. I got to beat it. Say, Sam, call Carillo and let him get me a cab, will you?”
Sam heaved himself to his feet and called Carillo. In a moment the bouncer put his flattened face in the door.
“Three dicks downstairs, boss.”
“Who are they?” asked Vettori.
“Flaherty and two guys I don’t know, boss. They want to see you.”
Vettori stood looking at the floor. Carillo jumped in and shut the door.
“Christ,” he said, “they’re coming up.”
Rico leapt to his feet, ran across the room and opened a panel in the wall.
“Come on, Joe,” he said, “you can slip out the back way. Stay where you are, Otero, and go right on smoking. Send Joe’s cab around in the alley, Bat.”
Vettori looked at Rico.
“You suppose they know something, Rico?”
“Not unless they picked Tony up. You don’t know nothing, Sam, see? I’ll be right here listening, and if there’s any trouble, why, it’ll be tough on the dicks.”
Vettori scooped up the money, wrapped his coat around it, and handed it to Rico. Joe went through the panel, followed by Rico. There was a knock at the door.
Vettori nodded and Carillo opened the door. Two plainclothes men stepped in and stood looking around the room. One was tall and burly in a huge ulster; the other was short and very young. They both had their right hands in their overcoat pockets.
“All right, Carillo,” said Vettori, “go ahead. That’s all.”
“Wait a minute,” said the burly one, “tell Flaherty we’ll be down in a couple of minutes, for him to wait.”
“Sure, sure,” said Carillo.
He went out closing the door softly.
“Well,” said Vettori, “you want to see me?”
“Yeah,” said the burly one, who did all the talking, “we want to see you, Vettori.”
“Well, here I am!”
Otero opened his eyes long enough to look at them, then closed them again and went on smoking.
“Vettori,” said the detective, “we want some information.”
“Well?”
Vettori sat down at the table and began to shuffle the cards.
“There’s a big Cadillac draped around a pole a couple of blocks down the street, and we just wondered if you knew anything about it.”
Vettori began to lay out a game of solitaire.
“How should I know anything about it? Ain’t it got no licence plates on it?”
“Sure, but they’re phoney.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was stolen about eight o’clock tonight on the North Side and we got a pretty good description of the guy that stole it.”
“Well,” said Vettori, “I got a good business. What the hell’d I be doing stealing automobiles.”
He laughed and shook his head.
“Oh, you got me wrong,” said the detective with elaborate innocence. “You see, it’s piled up right straight down the street from here and I thought maybe it was some of the guys from your joint, see? I mean some of the young guys that come here to dance.”
“Well,” said Vettori, “how would I know?”
The detective took out a cigar and began to chew on it.
“Wasn’t there nobody in it?” asked Otero.
“Yeah,” said the detective, “one guy. But he beat it.”
“I don’t know nothing about it,” said Vettori.
“Well, no harm in asking,” said the detective. “Come on, Mike, let’s get going. I guess Vettori don’t know nothing about it.”
The two of them walked slowly to the door. The big one turned.
“Say, Vettori,” he said, “did you hear the news?”
Vettori looked up.
“What news?”
“Why, some bastard bumped Cap. Courtney off over at the Casa Alvarado.”
“Yeah?” said Vettori, “some guys are sure careless with the lead. That’s a tough break.”
The young detective opened the door and they started out.
“Ain’t it?” said the big one. “Well, so long.”
As soon as the door closed, Vettori went over and shot the bolt, then peeped out through the shutter. Rico came out of his hiding place.
“Well,” said Vettori, glancing at Rico, “things ain’t going so good.”
Rico shrugged.
“They don’t know nothing. Just feeling around. Listen, Sam, where’s your guts? We got to stick together on this.”
“I know,” said Vettori, falling back into his chair, “but I never seen things break so tough.”
Rico held out a roll of bills.
“Here’s your split, Sam.”
Vettori took the bills and stuffed them into his pocket. Rico handed Otero his. Otero got up and put on his overcoat.
“I think I go see my woman,” he said.
When he had gone, Rico went over and sat down beside Vettori.
“Listen, Sam,” he said, “I been taking orders too long. We’re done. Get the idea? But we got to see this through. We get a break and we’ll come clean. Only we got to shoot straight. See what I mean? I got a rope around my neck right now and they can only hang you once. If anybody gets yellow and squeals, my gun’s gonna speak its piece.”
“That’s OK with me,” said Sam.
They sat silent. Downstairs the jazz band was playing and the saxophone was sending vibrations along the floor. Vettori laid out another game of solitaire.
“Funny for Tony to crash,” he said.
“He lost his nerve,” said Rico.
“You suppose he’ll show?”
“Not till tomorrow if he’s got any sense. I’ll leave his split with you.”
IV
Rico went over to see Ma Magdalena, the fence. Her fruit store was still open and her son Arrigo was sitting half-asleep beside a pile of oranges.
“Hello,” he said.
“Where’s Ma?” asked Rico.
Arrigo pulled a cord which rang a bell in the rooms beyond the store. Ma, leaning on her stick, came out into the store. Seeing Rico, she said:
“Oh, it’s you! Well, well! Come back. Come back.”
“Can I come too, Ma?” said Arrigo.
“You stay and mind the store, you lazy loafer,” said Ma, shaking her stick at him.
Arrigo sat down once more by the pile of oranges.
Rico followed Ma Magdalena back into her little office. She pulled up a chair for him and he sat down, then she got out a bottle.
“You talk, I drink,” she said, sitting down beside him and pouring herself a drink.
Rico took out his split, peeled off a few bills and handed her the rest.
“Plant it,” he said.
She took the roll, counted it, and put it down inside her dress.
“Had a big New Year’s Eve, did you?”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “plenty big. There’ll be lots of fun tomorrow.”
“Well, well,” said Ma, “that’s the way it goes.”
She poured herself another glass of wine, then she reached over and touched Rico with her stick.
“Look, Rico, you ain’t got a nice little girl who wants a big diamond ring, have you?”
“Me, buy a diamond ring for a skirt?”
Ma Magdalena made a clucking noise and shook her head.
“You are cold, Rico. Don’t like wine. Don’t like women. You are no good, Rico.”
Rico smiled.
“Me, I like women once in a while, but I ain’t putting out no diamond rings.”
Leaving Ma Magdalena’s, Rico went in the direction of Sicily Pete’s.
At Sicily Pete’s the mechanical piano was playing. Three men, all Italians, and two girls, both Americans, were sitting at a front table. They were drunk. They played with their food, spilled their coffee, and banged on the plates with their knives. Pete stood behind the counter, scowling.
When Rico came in he said:
“Hello, my friend, where have you been keeping yourself?”
“I haven’t been around lately. Got some noisy birds, ain’t you?” Pete shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, the fools. They drink gin. That is no drink for an Italian.” Rico took out his cigarettes and offered Pete one. They stood smoking. One of the girls pulled up her dress and fixed her garter. Rico smiled.
“Get an eyeful of that, Pete.”
“Yes, yes,” said Pete, “that’s all I get, an eyeful. Every night I stand here while other people have a good time.”
The girl looked up at Rico and he winked at her. She said to one of the men:
“Look at that smarty over there. He thinks he’s cute.”
The man looked foggily at Rico. Pete put his hand on Rico’s arm.
“My friend, don’t start no trouble, please. That’s all we have around here, trouble. With one thing and another, I think I go back to Italy.”
Rico turned his back on the girl.
“OK,” he said.
While Pete was getting Rico a cup of coffee, a newsboy came in:
“Extra! Extra! All about the big holdup.”
Rico bought a paper and glanced at the three-inch headlines.
Thugs kill Captain Courtney
in Casa Alvarado holdup
Rico showed Pete the paper.
“Another killing,” he said.
“Yes,” said Pete, “kill, kill, that’s all they do. I wish to God I was back in Sicily. The Mafia, what is that? That is a kindergarten.”
One of the Italians bought a paper and started to read the account of the holdup aloud. All the people round the table stopped eating to listen. Rico sipped his coffee and watched them.
V
Tony hadn’t slept all night. He lay in the cold dark room, sweating. The covers felt as heavy as lead and from time to time he tossed them off, only to pull them over him again as the lake wind, streaming in the window, made him shiver. At intervals he would fall into a doze. Then he would see a windy street, feel a car skidding under him, feel a sickening jolt. He would wake with a start and sit up in bed.
“They’ll get us for this,” he kept repeating, “they’ll get us sure.”
Tony smoked cigarette after cigarette. In his despair he cast about for someone to put the blame on. It was all Midge’s fault. Wasn’t she always after him to make more jack so she could put on the dog? Hadn’t he tried to go straight and drive a taxi and make an honest living? Yeah, and hadn’t Sam Vettori and Rico offered him money to quit his job and give them a lift on their stickups? Well, you couldn’t quit a gang; once you were in, you were in!
Tony sat up in bed and looked out across the roofs outside his window. The sun was coming up and a cold, windy winter morning was dawning. Suddenly, he began to feel sick at his stomach. He lay down, but that didn’t help him, then he tossed from side to side.
Tony had to vomit. He jumped out of bed and ran for the bathroom. When he came out his mother was lighting the stove. She acted as if she didn’t see him. He went back to his room but stopped in the doorway.
“Hello, mom,” he said.
His mother paid no attention.
“Say,” said Tony, “what’s the matter?”
His mother turned and with her hands on her hips stared at him.
“Go back to bed, you loafer,” she said, “I am sick of you. You are no good on earth. Just like your father.”
“Aw, mom,” said Tony.
“Don’t try to salve me,” said Tony’s mother. “You go back to bed and get sober. You think I don’t know nothing, don’t you? Just like your father.”
“I’m not drunk,” said Tony, “I’m sick.”
His mother turned her back and went on with her cooking. Tony went into his room, slammed the door, and got back into bed. A deadly depression settled on him. The world looked black.
He heard his mother go out, then he got up, dressed and made himself some toast and coffee. Anyway, he wanted his split.
On the way to Vettori’s he met Father McConagha. The priest was a big man with a big, pale face. He walked with a rolling gait and there was something arrogant about him. Tony took off his hat.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, Antonio,” said Father McConagha. “Where have you been, my boy? I haven’t seen you for months.”
“I been working,” said Tony.
“What sort of work?” asked Father McConagha, putting his hand on Tony’s shoulder.
“I been driving a taxi.”
The priest nodded his head slowly.
“That is good work, Antonio.”
Tony couldn’t look at Father McConagha and kept twisting his hat in his hands and staring at it. Father McConagha talked to him for a minute or two about the rewards of honesty and the happiness to be derived from doing your work faithfully, then he said:
“Antonio, one day your father asked me to look out for you. Your father was a good man, but weak. Remember this, Antonio, if you are ever in any trouble I am the one to come to.”
Tony flushed and said:
“Thank you, Father.”
When Father McConagha had gone, Tony began to speculate. Did he know anything? Why, on this very morning, had he said something about being in trouble? Tony respected and admired Father McConagha. He felt that he could always turn to him.
Talking with the priest had made him feel stronger, but now that the priest had gone all the hopelessness of the night before rushed back on him. He took out a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands.
“They’ll get us sure for this,” he said.
VI
Seal Skin couldn’t get Otero sober. She made him eat tomatoes and she gave him a cold bath, but nothing seemed to do him any good. He walked about the flat in his underclothes singing songs in Bastard Spanish and bragging about what a great brave man he was. Only one man in the world braver: Rico.
Seal Skin was dead for sleep, but she didn’t shut her eyes for fear Otero would do some crazy thing like shooting out the window at the street light (he had done this one night) or going out in his underclothes.
Otero sat at the table with his automatic beside him, singing at the top of his voice.
“Look,” he cried, “I am Ramón Otero, a great brave man. I ain’t afraid of nobody or nothing. I can drink any man in the world under the table and I can outshoot any man that walks on two legs. Only Rico; he is my friend. He is a great man like Pancho Villa and I love him with a great love. I would not shoot Rico if he shot me first. Rico is my friend and I love him with a great love.”
Then he got up and, snapping his fingers, began to dance, stamping with his heels, wiggling his hips, till Seal Skin nearly fell out of her chair laughing.
Towards morning he went to sleep with his head on the table. Seal Skin picked him up and carried him to bed (he weighed about a hundred and fifteen pounds), then, too tired to take off her clothes, she climbed in beside him.
VII
Rico bought all the papers he could find and went up to his room to read them. He sat at his table, his hat tilted over his eyes, with a pair of scissors in his hand, cutting from the papers all the articles dealing with the holdup and the killing of Police Captain Courtney. He arranged the clippings in a neat pile, then read them over and over.
One said:
… the thug who shot Police Captain Courtney was a small, pale foreigner, probably an Italian. He was dressed in a natty overcoat and a light felt hat.
Another:
… Courtney’s murderer was described by one eyewitness as a small, unhealthy-looking foreigner.
Rico tore up this clipping.
“Where do they get that unhealthy stuff!” he said. “I never been sick a day in my life.”