V
Otero helped Rico out of his coat, then, while Rico doused his face at the washstand, he sat down, tipped back his chair and rolled himself a cigarette.
“You better lay down, Rico, and get some rest,” said Otero; “you ain’t looking so good.”
“I’m OK,” said Rico.
But this was bravado. He had slept only four hours in the last two days; his face was pale and drawn and he suffered from an intermittent fever. His wound, though a slight one, was not healing properly, and The Sheeny had warned him that he had better take it easy. Inactivity at any time was abhorrent to Rico; now it was impossible. His big chance had come. Nothing could stop him now but a hunk of lead in the right spot.
Rico, a little unsteady on his legs, stood staring at Otero.
“You’re sure making yourself at home,” he said.
“Well,” said Otero, “I think I stay.”
Rico laughed.
“Listen, I don’t need no nurse. Beat it.”
“No,” said Otero, tossing away his cigarette and starting to roll another one, “I think I stay.”
Rico walked over to the bed and stood staring at it. If he had been alone he would have flopped down and been asleep in an instant.
“Think I’ll catch a little sleep,” he said; “you beat it, Otero.”
Otero didn’t say anything. He finished rolling his cigarette, lit it, and tipped his hat down over his eyes.
“Goddamn it,” cried Rico, “beat it! I’m sick of you trailing me like a Chicago Avenue bull. I ain’t gonna drop in my tracks.”
“All right,” said Otero, “you lay down. I finish my cigarette.”
Rico threw himself on the bed, fully dressed except for his coat. He put his hands under his head and tried to keep awake by staring at the ceiling. But in a moment he was asleep.
Otero sat looking at his chief. All along he’d known. Rico was a great man like Pancho Villa. Even in Toledo when he and Rico were sticking up filling-stations, he knew. A little, skinny young fellow with a little moustache, sure, that’s what everybody saw. But everybody didn’t have the eyes of Otero.
Otero flung his second cigarette on the floor and rolled another one. Rico turned from side to side in his sleep and mumbled. His face was white and drawn. Otero got to his feet and went over to look at him. No, Rico was not well. Otero put his hand on Rico’s forehead. Fever! He stood looking down at his chief, shaking his head.
“Like hell!” cried Rico; “you can’t hand Rico none of that bunk. No Irish bastard’ll ever put no cuffs on Rico.”
Otero went back to his chair and sat dozing under his big hat, while Rico tossed from side to side and talked.
Someone knocked at the door. Otero was slow in opening his eyes, but Rico sat up, stared for a moment, then jumped out of bed and got his automatic.
“Go see who it is,” he said to Otero; “don’t open the door. Ask them.”
Otero went over to the door and called:
“Who’s there?”
There was a short silence, then a voice with a marked Italian accent said:
“A couple of right guys. We want to see Rico.”
Otero turned and looked at Rico, who came over to the door.
“Listen, you right guys,” said Rico, “I’ll give you a one-two-three to get out of the hall and then I’m gonna start pumping lead. Got it?”
There was a pause.
“Rico,” said another voice, a deeper voice with no trace of an accent, “you don’t know me, but I’m Pete Montana and I want to talk turkey.”
Otero and Rico exchanged a stupefied look.
“Pete,” said Rico, “do you know the Big Boy?”
“Sure.”
“What’s his name in full?”
“James Michael O’Doul.”
“All right, Otero,” said Rico, “let ’em in.”
Otero unbarred the door. Rico, with his gun still levelled, stood a little behind the door, watching.
Pete Montana, followed by Ritz Colonna, his lieutenant, came in. Montana, in private life Pietro Fontano, was a big, solemn, respectable-looking Italian. He was dressed very quietly, wore no jewellery, and carried a cane. Colonna, once a ham prizefighter, was a small, bull-necked man with a battered, dark face. His clothes were shabby and he wore an old cap on the side of his head.
Montana and Rico stood measuring each other. Rico looked small and frail beside the robust Montana, but Rico wasn’t impressed, for Montana looked fat and puffy, like Sam Vettori. Otero barred the door.
“Get a couple of chairs, Otero,” said Rico.
Otero dragged up the only two chairs in the room and Montana and Colonna sat down. Otero squatted on his heels with his back to the wall and Rico sat on the bed.
“Mopping up, ain’t you, Rico?” asked Montana, who kept his eyes lowered.
“Well,” said Rico, “Arnie was double-crossing me.”
“He wasn’t no good,” said Colonna; “I was just aching to bump that bird off.”
Montana motioned for him to be quiet.
“They slung some lead, didn’t they, Rico?”
“Yeah, and I stopped some of it. Nothing to shout about.”
“If he’d’ve got you, his number was up,” said Montana, “you know, I been watching you ever since you muscled in on Sam Vettori.”
“Sure thing. We been taking an interest in you, ain’t we, Ritz?”
“Yeah?”
Ritz grinned.
“That’s the word,” he said.
“Sure,” said Montana, “you’re on the up and up with us.”
“Well,” said Rico, “that’s OK with me.”
Montana looked up at Rico suddenly.
“Any guy that can muscle in on Sam Vettori and Little Arnie is on the up and up with me. The Big Boy’s with me there.”
Rico smoked and said nothing. But he wondered what the game was. Was Pete Montana getting soft like Sam Vettori? Could it be possible that the great Pete Montana was turning sap? All this palaver and softie talk. Rico’s head began to buzz.
“Look,” said Montana, “I used to work Arnie’s territory myself, but it slowed down, you know what I mean. It wasn’t worth nothing when Kips Berger had it, and after Arnie got it I didn’t pay no attention. I got all I can handle, ain’t I, Ritz?”
“That’s the word,” said Ritz.
“Yeah,” said Montana, “by rights that territory’s mine, get the idea? I could get all the protection I wanted, but I don’t muscle in on no right guy, see? Kiketown’s yours, Rico.”
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “I ain’t looking for no trouble with you, Pete.”
“That’s the talk,” said Montana; then he turned to Ritz: “see, Ritz, you had the wrong steer.”
“Yeah, I had the wrong steer,” said Ritz.
Montana turned back to Rico.
“Yeah,” he said, “some wise guys was giving Ritz a lot of bull. Ritz said you was trying to muscle in on my territory.”
Rico thought he was dreaming. So this was the great Pete Montana. A guy that couldn’t turn over in bed without getting plastered all over the front page. All that softie stuff was a front. Pete Montana was scared.
“No,” said Rico, “them guys don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Montana smiled blandly.
“Maybe we can team up on a job or two, Rico. I like your work. The Big Boy’s no fool and he thinks you’re the goods. Yeah, maybe we can team up, but I ain’t making no promises. Only this. I ain’t looking for no split on Arnie’s layout. She’s yours.”
“Don’t forget the hideout chief,” said Ritz.
Montana smiled again.
“By God, I sure enough did forget it. Yeah, Rico, some of Ritz’s boys had got a hideout a half a block from Arnie’s joint. That’s OK, ain’t it?”
Rico’s manner changed. He lost his affability and his face became serious.
“Well,” he said, “as long as there ain’t no cutting in. I won’t stand for no cutting in.”
Montana looked at Ritz. Ritz said:
“Hell, there won’t be no cutting in.”
“What do you say, Pete?” asked Rico.
Montana meditated, pulling at one of his thick lips. Otero sat watching Rico. Caramba! Here was little Rico telling the big Pete Montana where to get off. Otero never took his eyes off Rico’s face.
“Well,” said Montana, “they’re my men and I’m behind them. If there’s any cutting in, why, I’ll settle with you, Rico. Christ, no use for us to fight over a little thing like that. Anyway, if we get along, I’ll put you in on the alcohol racket.”
“All right,” said Rico, “you and me can do business, Pete.” Montana got up and offered Rico his hand. They pumped arms briefly. Then Pete said:
“Well, I guess we’ll saunter. But let me give you a tip, Rico. You’re getting too much notice, get the idea? You got the bulls watching you. I know a new guy has always got to expect that, but take it easy for a while. They’ll go to sleep; they always do.”
Rico admired Montana’s shiftiness, but he wasn’t fooled. Pete was trying to tie him up, make him leery.
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “a new guy has got a lot to learn.”
Montana smiled blandly, certain he had scored.
“Well,” said Montana, “so long. Maybe I’ll drop down to your new joint and give it the once over some night.”
“All right,” said Rico, “just let me know.”
Otero unbarred the door. Montana started out; Ritz offered his hand to Rico, then followed his chief. Otero barred the door.
Rico stood in the middle of the room, staring into space. Otero said:
“He ain’t so much.”
Rico laughed out loud.
“Otero,” he cried, “you said a mouthful.”