V
The dope-runner dropped Rico at the edge of town. It was about five o’clock in the morning and still dark. A heavy fog had come in from Lake Erie and a damp, cold wind was blowing. Rico walked up and down to keep warm while waiting for a car. He felt pretty low.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “right back where I started from.”
The headlight on the streetcar cut through the fog. The motorman didn’t see Rico and ran past him.
“Ain’t that a break?” said Rico.
There wouldn’t be another car for half an hour. Rico decided to walk. He turned up his coat collar against the damp wind and lit a cigar. His mind was full of resentment. Yeah, by God, a lousy streetcar wouldn’t even stop for him.
Rico got a room at a bachelor’s hotel on the waterfront, and went to bed. It was about five o’clock in the evening when he woke up. He doused his face at the washstand, put on his overcoat, and went out.
He ate at a little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split a bowl of soup when things were going bad. But the place had changed. New management, new waiters, new everything. Toledo seemed small and dingy and quiet to Rico. He was a little bit puzzled.
“Didn’t used to be like this,” he said.
As soon as he finished his meal he walked over to Chiggi’s, which was about two blocks away. But the place was dark, and when Rico went up to the door to peer in he saw that it had been padlocked by the Federal Authorities.
“Ain’t that a break?” he said.
He had no place to go.
There was a fruit store next to Chiggi’s and Rico went in. A little Italian girl came to wait on him.
“Listen, sister,” said Rico, “you know where Chiggi is now?”
“I get my grandfather,” she said.
She went into the back of the store and returned with an old Italian who had crinkly grey hair and wore earrings.
“Listen, mister,” said Rico, “could you tell me where Chiggi is now?”
The old man just looked at him. Rico felt a little uneasy.
“No speak English?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the old man, “I speak good English. What do you want with Chiggi?”
“Well,” said Rico, “Chiggi used to be a pal of mine, but I been away for three or four years and now I don’t know where to find him.”
“Chiggi has had trouble,” said the old man; “he is in the prison.”
“Yeah?” said Rico. “Atlanta, hunh?”
“Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi is in Atlanta. It is too bad. Chiggi was good to the poor. When my wife was sick and my business was not going good, Chiggi gave me money.”
“Yeah,” said Rico. “Chiggi staked me too.”
Rico took out a cigar and gave it to the old man.
“Listen,” he went on, “do you know where any of Chiggi’s old bunch is?”
“Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi’s boy has got a place a couple of blocks from here.”
The old man wrote down the address for Rico.
Young Chiggi was a dressed-up wop and thought he was a lot better than his father. He wouldn’t even wait on a customer, but sat all day in the back of his joint reading the Police Gazette or playing solitaire. Things were breaking good for Young Chiggi and he was thinking about selling out and going to Chicago or Detroit.
He had been in the beer and alcohol racket for over three years, first with his father, then by himself, and now with Bill Hackett, known as Chicago Red. He bought diamonds and automobiles and he kept his woman in a big apartment.
When Rico was shown into his office by one of his bartenders, he didn’t even look up but went on with his game of solitaire. The bartender went out and Rico sat down across from Young Chiggi.
“Chiggi,” said Rico, “I want to talk to you a minute.”
Chiggi didn’t look up.
“All right,” he said.
“Listen,” said Rico, “put them cards down. I want to talk business.”
Chiggi looked up and stared at Rico.
“Say,” he said, “where the hell do you get that stuff! I don’t know you.”
“Your old man was a pal of mine,” said Rico.
“Well, Buddy,” said Chiggi, “that don’t help you none with me, ’cause me and the old man had a split-up. He thought he was so damn wise, see, but they got him behind the bars and I’m running loose.”
“Yeah?” said Rico, “well, that’s a tough break for the old man. You see, your old man staked me once and I thought I’d look him up and get even. I’m pretty well heeled right now and I’m looking for a place to lay in.”
Chiggi looked at Rico with interest.
“Looking for a place to lay in, huh? Bulls after you?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Chiggi put his cards away. Then he took out a couple of cigars and offered Rico one. They sat smoking.
“Well,” said Chiggi, “maybe I can take care of you.”
“That’s the talk,” said Rico; “got some rooms up above?”
“No,” said Chiggi, “but a friend of mine’s got a boarding house next door that’s OK. Now about that jack the old man staked you to, you can give it to me, ’cause he owes me plenty.”
Rico said nothing, but took out his fold and counted out a hundred and fifty dollars. He knew he had to buy his way in.
Rico selected his room carefully. It was on the side of the house and could not be reached from the outside as there were no porches near it. It had two doors, one opening into the front hall, one into the back hall. The doors themselves were heavy and could be barred from the inside. It was a good hideout.
Rico’s plans were vague. He had plenty of money, and if he went easy with it he would be able to live a year or more in comparative comfort. But Rico could not bear the thought of a year of inactivity. What would he do with himself? He had no vices. He couldn’t amuse himself by getting drunk, or taking dope, or playing faro. He didn’t mind losing a couple hundred dollars gambling occasionally, but you can’t put in a whole year gambling. He thought if things went right that maybe he’d move on to New York, but that would be risky and one slip and he was gone. No, he didn’t see much ahead of him.
Rico spent most of the day in his room, lying on the bed reading, or else going over and over in his mind the episodes leading to his rise and fall. The resentment he had been experiencing ever since he got to Hammond had grown till it had become almost an obsession. He was never in a good humour. When he was not reading or thinking about Chicago, he would pace up and down his room and wait for night. He got so, finally, that he could sleep twelve hours every day and this helped some.
At night he would go down to Chiggi’s and play pool or shoot crap. Sometimes there would be a big poker game and he would sit in. He was known as “Youngstown Louis” and nobody in the place had the slightest idea who he really was.
Everything was against Rico. The very virtues that had been responsible for his rise were liabilities in his present situation. He had no outlet for his energy; the self-discipline which had marked him out from his fellows was of no use to him here; and the tenacity of purpose that had kept him at high tension while he was the Vettori gang chief had no object to expend itself on.
“I am nobody, nobody,” Rico would say.
Sometimes at night he would go to one of the call-houses on a nearby street and spend a couple of hours with one of the women. But he got very little pleasure from these infrequent debauches. He used to wonder what had happened to the blonde he had spent old Chiggi’s stake on, and was positive that if he could find her it would do him a lot of good, but she had disappeared and nobody had any idea where she had gone.
Rico tried to buy his way in. Chiggi was agreeable but Chicago Red was not. Chicago Red had taken a dislike to Rico from the first and never missed an opportunity of bullying him. Chicago Red had left Chicago under a cloud. There was a rumour that he had got in bad with a South Side gang over there and had left to keep from getting bumped off. Red was over six feet tall and weighed about two hundred pounds; he had muscles like a wrestler, a bull neck, and enormous hairy hands.
Rico kept away from him as much as possible to avoid trouble. But Red seemed to take a delight in worrying Rico, probably because, despite the fact that Rico never argued with him, and always let him have his way, he felt that Rico was not impressed.
One night there was a big poker game going on in Chiggi’s back room. Rico was winning. About midnight Red came in and wanted to sit in, but there was no place for him.
“Louis,” he said, “get the hell off that chair and let a man get in the game.”
“Not a chance,” said Rico.
“Listen, dago …” said Red.
“Don’t call me dago,” said Rico, looking hard at Red.
“Get off that chair or I’ll throw you off,” said Red starting towards Rico.
But Chiggi grabbed Red from behind and pulled him into the next room.
When the game broke up, Chiggi came in and said to Rico:
“When you get settled up, come in the office.”
After the other players had gone, Rico went into Chiggi’s office. Red was sitting with his feet on the desk and Chiggi was walking up and down.
“Well, dago,” said Red, “did you clean ’em?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
“Sit down, Louis,” said Chiggi; “we want to talk to you.”
Rico sat down.
“Louis,” said Chiggi, “I don’t know whether you’re wised up or not, but we have been hitting the rocks. The bulls got two of our men and a big load of alcohol, and a couple of days ago another one of our carts got hijacked at Monroe. See, so we’re pretty low.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“Well,” said Chiggi, “we want a stake, don’t we, Red?”
“Yeah,” said Red, “and we ain’t any too particular where we get it.”
“Well,” said Rico, getting up, “you got a lot of guys around here. Ask them.”
“Listen, Red,” said Chiggi, “you keep your goddamn lip out of this.”
Red got to his feet suddenly and stood glaring at Chiggi.
“Why, you lousy small-time wop, I guess you don’t know who you’re talking to, do you?” He raised his arm and pointed at Rico.
“You see that guy there, he thinks he’s the best there is, got it? He think’s he’s the biggest dago outside of Italy, and here you go honeying after him like we couldn’t get a stake no place else. But I ain’t begging no goddamn dago to stake me.”
Chiggi looked helplessly at Rico.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and while we’re talking, I’m getting sick of the way that bird there sits around and don’t say nothing and acts like he was God-only-knows-who. Yeah, I’m getting good and sick of it, Chiggi.”
“Well,” said Chiggi, “when you get real sick of it, why beat it.”
Red laughed.
“Gonna stick to your dago buddy, are you? Well, he’s got the jack. But what’re you gonna do when you need a guy that’s got the guts?”
This was too much for Rico. He said:
“What do you know about guts? I guess you ain’t so tough or they wouldn’t’ve run you out of Chi.”
“Will you listen to that!” said Red. “All right, buddy, you said your piece and you sure spoke out of turn. Why, dago, where I come from you wouldn’t live five minutes. Now I’m gonna show you how they treat smart dagos in Chi.”
Red made a motion towards his coat pocket, but Rico beat him to it. He pulled his gun from the holster under his armpit and covered Red.
“Red,” he said, “in Chicago I wouldn’t let you rob filling-stations for me.”
Red stood with his hands up, looking from Rico to Chiggi.
“Don’t bump him off, Louis,” said Chiggi.
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet on him,” said Rico; then glaring at Red he went on: “You been getting away with this rough stuff too long, Red. I’m Cesare Bandello!”
Red’s mouth fell open and he stood staring at Rico. Chiggi took Rico by the arm.
“Are you Rico?” he cried.
Rico nodded and put up his gun. Red dropped his hands, sank into a chair and wiped the sweat from his face.
“You sit down, Chiggi,” said Rico, “and I’ll do the talking.” Chiggi sat down.
“Lord,” said Red, “so you’re Rico? Steve Gollancz told me you was a big fellow.”
“Steve never seen me,” said Rico.
Chiggi leaned forward eagerly.
“You gonna put in with us, Louis?”
Rico said:
“I’ll put in a third, but I got to boss the works or I won’t put in nothing.”
Chiggi looked at Red.
“That’s OK with me,” said Red.
Chiggi got to his feet and danced a few steps.
“Hurray for us,” he cried.