I
Sam Vettori sat staring into Halsted Street. He was a big man, fat as a hog, with a dark, oily complexion, kinky black hair and a fat, aquiline face. In repose he had an air of lethargic good-nature, due entirely to his bulk; for in reality he was sullen, bad-tempered and cunning. From time to time he dragged out a huge gold watch and looked at it with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.
Near him at a round table sat Otero, called The Greek, Tony Passa, and Sam Vettori’s lieutenant, Rico, playing stud for small stakes. Under the green-shaded lamp Otero’s dark face looked livid and cavernous. He sat immobile and said nothing, win or lose. Tony, robust and rosy, scarcely twenty years old, watched each turn of the cards intently, shouting with joy when his luck was good, cursing when it was bad, more out of excitement than interest in the stakes. Rico sat with his hat tilted over his eyes, his pale, thin face slightly drawn, his fingers tapping. Rico always played to win.
Vettori, puffing, pulled himself to his feet and began to walk up and down.
“Where you suppose he is?” he asked the ceiling. “I told him eight o’clock. It is half-past.”
“Joe never knows what time it is,” said Tony.
“Joe’s no good,” said Rico without taking his eyes off the cards, “he’s soft.”
“Well,” said Vettori, stopping to watch the game out of boredom, “maybe so. But we can’t do without him, Rico. I tell you, Rico, he can go anywhere. A front is what he’s got. Swell hotels? What does it mean to that boy? He says to the clerk, ‘I would like please a suite.’ A suite! You see, Rico. We can’t do without him.”
Rico tapped on the table, flushing slightly.
“All right, Sam,” he said, “some day he’ll turn yellow. Hear what I say. He’s not right. What’s all this dancing? A man don’t dance for money.”
Sam laughed.
“Oh, Rico! You don’t know Joe.”
Tony stared at Rico.
“Rico,” he said, “Joe’s right. I know what I’m saying. All that dancing is a front. He’s smart. Have they ever got him?”
Rico slammed down his cards. He hated Joe and he knew that Tony and Vettori knew it.
“All right,” he said, “hear what I say. He’ll turn yellow some day. A man don’t take money for dancing.”
“I win,” said Otero.
Rico pushed the money towards him and got to his feet.
“Well, if he don’t show up in ten minutes I’ll take the air,” said Rico.
“You stay where you are,” said Vettori, his face hardening.
Tony watched the two of them intently. Otero counted his money. One day, Vettori had said to Rico, “You are getting too big for us.” Tony remembered the look he had seen in Rico’s eyes. Lately they had all been talking about it. Rico was getting too big for them. Scabby, the informer, said: “Tony, mark what I say. It’s Rico or Sam. One or the other.”
“I’ll stay ten minutes,” said Rico.
Vettori sat down by the window and stared into Halsted Street.
“Two-fifty,” said Otero.
“I’ll match you for it,” said Tony.
“No,” said Otero.
Joe Massara opened the door and came in.
“Well,” said Vettori, “you call this eight o’clock?”
Joe got out of a big ulster. He was in evening clothes. His black hair was sleek and parted in the middle. He was vain of his resemblance to the late Mr. Rudolph Valentino.
“Sorry,” said Joe, “the bridge was up. Well, what’s the dirt?”
“Draw up a chair,” said Vettori, “all of you.”
They grouped themselves around the table under the green-shaded lamp. Joe put his hands on the table so they could see his well-manicured nails and the diamond ring the dancer, Olga Stassoff, had given him.
“Now,” said Vettori, “I’ll do the talking. I know what I got to say and you birds keep quiet till I’m through …”
“How long will it take?” asked Joe, smiling.
“Shut up and listen,” said Rico.
“All right, all right,” said Vettori, patting them both, “no bad blood. Now: ever hear of the Casa Alvarado?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “it’s an up and up place. One of Francis Wood’s joints. I nearly got an engagement there once.”
Rico spread out his hands.
“See? They know him. He won’t do.”
“No, they never seen me. It was all done through an agent.”
“All right,” said Vettori, “that’s the place.”
Joe looked startled. Rico smiled and taking off his hat began to comb his hair with a little ivory pocket comb.
“It’d be tough,” said Joe, “what’s in it?”
“Plenty,” said Vettori. “They only bank once or twice a week. They’re careless, get that; because they’ve never been tapped. It’s easy.”
Joe took out a gold cigarette case which he handled with ostentation.
“Well? I’m listening.”
Vettori refused a cigarette and pulled out a stogie. Downstairs a jazz band began to play and a saxophone sent vibrations along the floor.
“Nine o’clock,” said Otero.
Vettori lit his stogie.
“They got a safe,” he said, “that a baby could crack. Too easy to talk about. But that’s on the side. What we’re after is the cashier. The place is lousy with jack. I got the lowdown from Scabby. Well, what do you say, Joe?”
“Yeah,” Rico cut in, “take it or leave it. We ain’t begging you.” Vettori’s face hardened but he said nothing.
“If you say it’s good,” said Joe, “it’s good with me.”
“All right, all right,” said Vettori. “Now, you Tony; we want a big car. Get that. A big, fast car. Get one when I tell you. Steve’s got the plates all ready. Yeah?”
“I’m on, Sam.”
Tony pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a flourish, but his hands shook a little.
“Rico and Otero,” said Vettori, looking at each in turn, “will handle the rods. Yeah?”
Rico said nothing. But Otero smiled, showing his stained teeth, and said:
“That’s us, eh, Rico?”
“Well,” Vettori went on. “I guess we got that over. Now, Joe, I want you on the inside. Dress yourself up like you are, see, and fix it so you’ll get there at midnight. All the whistles’ll be tooting and everybody’ll be drunk and won’t know nothing. See? Now you get there at midnight and go to the cigar counter for change. At twelve-five the fun’ll begin. We’ll set our watches by telephone, because I don’t want you here that night. All right. Rico and Otero come in quick, maybe Tony, too, if you can get a good safe place to park. That’s up to Rico. He’s bossing the job.”
Rico looked at Joe.
“Now, they’ll stick you up if everything’s OK. If not, give them the high sign and they’ll beat it. We ain’t taking no chances, because one night don’t make much difference, only New Year’s Eve’s a good night, see? All right. You play like you don’t know them, got it? But while they’re working, you got your eyes open, see? And if something happens, you got a rod, but don’t use it. We got to watch that.”
Vettori shifted his stogie and shook his finger sideways at Rico.
“That’s your trouble, Rico. The Big Boy can’t fix murder. He can fix anything but murder. Get that. You’re too quick with the lead. If that guy over at the pool room’d died we wouldn’t none of us be sitting here right now. …”
Otero broke in vehemently, surprising them.
“But he had to! He had to! Rico does what is right.”
“All right,” said Vettori, “but take it easy. Now, Joe, you got your hands up, but you watch. If nothing happens nobody knows the difference. But if something does happen, you pull the rod and help the boys get out. All right. Here’s the dope. Get what’s in the cash register first. Get that because that’s easy. If things go right, tackle the safe; it’ll probably be open. Another thing: no frisking in the lobby. That’s too dangerous and takes too long. Let the yaps keep their money. All right.”
Vettori took a map from his pocket and spread it out on the table. The men crowded round him.
“You go straight in,” said Vettori, marking the route with a pencil, “on the right is the checkroom; watch the girls behind the counter, Joe. On the left is the cigar counter and the cashier’s desk. At the end of the lobby is a big door; the real joint’s beyond that. If things go right, nobody in the place’ll know it’s been stuck up, except maybe some yaps in the lobby. Get the idea? With all them horns tooting and all that damn noise, see? All right. On the right of the lobby is a door and that goes into the manager’s office. The box is in there. The manager’s a goddamn bohunk and there ain’t an ounce of fight in him. See? Scabby give me the lowdown.”
Vettori rolled up his map, put it in his pocket, then looked at his watch.
“Well,” he said, “got it all?”
Joe turned his diamond ring round on his finger and looked at the table.
“What’s the word, Joe?” said Rico.
“It’s a tough one, Rico. What’s the guarantee?”
“Guarantee, hell!” cried Rico. “Why, a blind guy could do your stand.”
“Well, I ain’t doing no time for fifty bucks,” said Joe.
Vettori laughed.
“I’ll give you a couple hundred now,” he said.
Joe nodded.
“All right. I’m in. Never mind the couple hundred.”
They all got to their feet. Below them the jazz band was still playing and the saxophone was still sending vibrations along the floor.
“What’ll you have, boys,” said Vettori, “want some drinks sent up?”
“Not me,” said Tony, “I’m going over and see my woman.”
Otero clapped his hands.
“He’s got a woman.”
Rico hit Otero on the back.
“The Greek’s got a woman too,” said Rico.
Otero with his hands cupped made a series of curves in the air. Joe was patronizing; Olga Stassoff, the dancer, was his woman.
“A beauty is she, Otero?”
“Si, señor.”
“Well,” said Vettori, “want any drinks sent up?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “send me up a snort. I guess Rico’ll take milk.” Rico didn’t drink.
“All right about Rico,” said Vettori in a good humour, “he’s a smart boy.”
Tony went out followed by Vettori.
“I think I go see my woman,” said Otero.
Joe laughed. Rico said:
“Goodbye, Otero. Give Seal Skin a rub for me.”
When Otero had gone, Joe said:
“Has old Seal Skin got The Greek hooked yet?”
“Well,” said Rico, “he spends a lot of jack on her. She ain’t much to look at and she’s pretty old, but what’s the difference?”
Joe never could figure Rico out. Women didn’t seem to interest him.
Rico went over to the window and stood looking out at the electric sign on a level with his eyes.
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Dancing
Rico and Joe felt queer alone together. They were silent. Joe took out his gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Snow began to fall past the window.
“Look,” said Rico, “it’s snowing.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, looking up mechanically, “snowing hard.”