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.