II
Vettori was sitting in his little office on the main floor. On the other side of the wall the jazz band was playing, but he paid no attention. The noise of the jazz band was the same to him as the ticking of a clock to an ordinary person. He felt very pleasant and comfortable over his bottle of wine and his plate of spaghetti. Things were right!
He congratulated himself on his subordinates. Each man a specialist. Yes, yes! That was the way to do. None of this hit or miss stuff for Sam Vettori. Rico the best gunman in Little Italy; a swelled head, all right, but he can be handled, and there you are! Otero so crazy about Rico he “don’t know nothing.” Follow Rico any place; do anything Rico tells him. And handy with a rod. Well, well. Not bad for a Mexican. As a rule foreigners were not right with Sam Vettori, but in general he had an open mind, and Otero was the goods. And look at Joe Massara, there was a man for you! A swell Italian who could pass anywhere. One winter in Florida, so they say, Joe passed himself off as a count and hooked a rich widow for plenty. Yes, yes! That was Joe for you. As an inside man you couldn’t beat him. And Tony! He could drive a car sixty miles an hour straight up the Tribune Tower. Only one thing, sometimes Tony was undependable. Used to be a choir boy at St. Dominick’s and that stuff. But he had outgrown that, maybe; anyway he was dead scared of Rico and that would shut his mouth.
Vettori leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and unbuttoned his vest. Spaghetti and wine, what is better!
The band stopped playing. Bat Carillo, the bouncer, put his head in the door.
“Couple of hard guys looking for trouble, boss,” he said.
Vettori looked up.
“Yeah? Know them?”
“Never seen them before.”
Vettori heaved himself to his feet and walked with Carillo to the swinging doors which separated the backrooms and kitchen from the club proper. He pushed the door open about a foot and peered in. Carillo pointed.
Vettori laughed and closed the door.
“Some of them dumb Irish,” he said; “let ’em alone unless they get bad and start something, then bounce ’em.”
“OK, boss,” said Carillo.
Waiters passed Vettori in the corridor, sweat dropping from their faces, steam rising from the dishes on the slanted trays. Vettori rubbed his hands.
“Business is good. Well, well! We won’t none of us die in the poor house.”
When he got back to his office he found Scabby, the informer, waiting for him. Scabby was dark and undersized with a heavy, sullen, blotched face. Passing as a police informer, he was in reality a member of the Vettori gang. He played a dangerous game as he informed on other gangs. His life wasn’t worth a cent and he was jumpy and quick with a gun.
“Well, well, Giovanni,” said Vettori, “what’s the news?”
“Everything’s jake,” said Scabby, taking off his hat and revealing a shining bald head.
Vettori called a waiter.
“Some spaghetti for this man here,” he said, “and a bottle of wine.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Scabby without smiling; he never smiled; his face was melancholy and lined, and sagged like a hound’s. “The boys on?”
“All set,” said Vettori. “It looks easy.”
Scabby nodded.
“It ought to be. But no gunplay, get that, Sam. The Big Boy’d raise hell if he knew what was up.”
Vettori’s face hardened.
“I heard that once, Scabby. That’s enough. This is too good to pass up.”
“All right,” said Scabby, “I’ve had my say. But things ain’t what they used to be, Sam. It’s getting dangerous. They’ve even got the Big Boy scared. It’s the damn newspapers. They play that crime stuff off the boards. Big headlines, see? That’s the trouble.”
They sat silent. Vettori, absorbed, puffed on his stogie. Finally he said:
“Listen, Scabby, you ain’t heard nothing, see? I got to keep these boys on their toes. Especially Joe. Don’t spill nothing about the Big Boy.”
Scabby shook his head vigorously. Vettori took out his billfold and handed Scabby a fifty.
“That’s part of your split, Scabby. Keep your eyes open, that’s all.”
Scabby pocketed the money. The waiter came in bringing the spaghetti and the wine. Carillo put his head in the door.
“Reilley, the dick’s, up front.”
Vettori nodded.
“He’s OK. If he sticks around, send him back in about half an hour.”
“Sure,” said Scabby, “I’ll be out of here in less than that.”