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.