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.”