Part
III
III
Sam Vettori’s heavy, dark face looked puffy and his eyes were swollen. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately and he had been drinking whisky. As wine was his usual drink, the whisky indicated a state of mind the reverse of calm. He sat chewing a cold stogie and from time to time pouring himself a shot from the bottle at his elbow. Rico was playing solitaire, his hat tilted over his eyes. The Big Boy sat opposite Vettori, his derby on the side of his head, and his huge fists, fists which at one time had swung a pick in a section gang, lying before him on the table.
The Big Boy shook his head from side to side slowly.
“Not a chance, Sam,” he said, “I can’t do nothing for you. Why, you must be out of your mind. Listen, they’re after me hot and heavy. I got all I can do to take care of number one, see? Things was running too good for you, Sam. That’s your trouble. You thought I was God himself. But listen, I ain’t no miracle man. A stickup more or less, what’s that? But when it comes to plugging a bull like Courtney, that’s out! No, Sam. You’re on your own now. It ain’t gonna be none too healthy for none of us for a while. Just don’t lose your nerve, that’s the main thing. Just hang on and watch the guys that are in the know.”
“You leave that to me,” said Rico without looking up.
“OK,” said the Big Boy. “I think you’re the goods, Rico. But don’t get nervous with that gat of yours, or they’ll put a necktie on you. Get this. No more stickups. No more jobs. Just lay low, all of you. If you run out of jack, I’ll stake you. Now I got to beat it. Don’t call me up no more, Sam. Because I can’t do nothing for you and it might give the bulls an idea.”
The Big Boy got to his feet and stood leaning his huge hairy paws on the table.
“Why, you guys are lucky and don’t know it. Wood’s manager got so goddamn rattled he identified one of the plainclothes men as the guy that did the inside stand. Jesus, but it was rich! Spike Rieger was boiling. Pretty soon he pinned the manager down and the damn dummy said that the guys that did the job were Poles. So they went out and grabbed Steve Gollancz. Steve and his bunch had just tapped a bank and Steve thought they had the goods on him. It was funny as hell!”
The Big Boy put his head back and brayed. Sam Vettori drummed on the table irritably.
“All right, laugh,” said Sam.
“Sure, I’ll laugh,” said the Big Boy; “if you’d seen Steve’s face when he found out what it was all about, you’d split your pants laughing.”
“Steve’s the goods,” said Rico.
“You said a mouthful,” said the Big Boy, “he’s got them eating out of his hand. Well, I’m gonna beat it. You guys lay low and it might blow over. If things get hot, I’ll tip off Scabby and then you all better hit the rods. So long.”
The Big Boy went out slamming the door. They heard him go downstairs; he walked as heavily as a squad of police and banged each step with his heels.
Rico went on with his game of solitaire.
“Well,” said Vettori, “something just tells me we’re gonna get ours.”
“Oh, hell!” said Rico, pushing the cards away from him, “I’d like to get the guy that invented that game.”
Vettori swore softly to himself at Rico’s indifference, then, pouring himself another drink, he said:
“You think Joe’s safe, Rico.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “as long as they don’t nab him and put it to him. He can’t stand the gaff.”
“How about The Greek?”
Rico laughed.
“Safe as hell. Only thing with Otero, he gets lit and wants to raise hell. I had to knock him down a couple of times last night. He gets a little money and he goes nuts. That goddamn greaser never saw over five dollars all at once till I picked him up in Toledo. But he’s safe.”
“How about Tony?”
Rico didn’t say anything for a minute, but picked up his cards and began to shuffle them.
“I don’t know about Tony.”
Sam Vettori got up and walked back and forth, mopping his forehead at intervals with his big white silk handkerchief.
“Love of God, Rico, we can’t take no chances with him.”
Rico dealt out a couple of poker hands and began to play an imaginary game.
“You leave that to me, Sam,” he said.
Vettori put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“That’s the talk, Rico. We get a break, we may come clean.” Vettori dropped back into his chair and poured himself another drink, but Rico reached across the table and pushed the glass off onto the floor.
“Slow down on that stuff, Sam. You got to keep your head clear.”
Vettori looked at Rico in a fury, then he lowered his eyes.
“You got the right dope, Rico. That stuff don’t do nobody no good.”
Vettori took the whisky bottle and locked it up in a cupboard.
II
About nine o’clock Carillo put his head in the door. Downstairs the jazz band had just started to play.
“Well?” demanded Vettori, getting to his feet.
“Blackie wants to see you,” said Carillo.
“All right.”
Carillo went out.
“What you suppose he wants?” said Vettori.
Rico, who was sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall reading a magazine, shook his head without looking up or answering. He was deep in the reading of a story about a rich society girl who fell in love with a bootlegger. Rico read everything he could find that had anything to do with society. He was fascinated by a stratum of existence which seemed so remote and unreal to him.
Blackie Avezzano, who managed Sam’s garage, came in and shut the door behind him. He was small and bowlegged, and he was so dark that he had been taken for a mulatto many times.
Vettori impatiently exclaimed:
“Well, what’s on your mind, Blackie?”
Rico went on reading his magazine. Blackie sat down at the table and seemed to be making an effort to collect his thoughts.
“All right, spit it out,” said Vettori.
Blackie couldn’t speak very good English, but as Rico didn’t know a word of Italian and Vettori preferred to speak English, he did the best he could.
“Tony, he took sick. Listen, I tell you, Tony he no know what. He took sick. I see him, listen, I tell you, what-you-say, he no got his guts. The Madre she send me call the doctore. Listen, he say, Tony, what-you-say, you been a drink. Now listen, you cut out a drink. That’s all. Tony he no drink. What a hell! One bottle of beer he can no drink. He no got his guts, that’s all.”
Vettori looked at Rico, who went on reading.
“Rico,” he said.
“I heard him,” said Rico, “I ain’t deaf.”
Blackie got up and stood twisting his cap in his hand. Vettori took out his billfold and handed Blackie a ten.
“Blackie,” he said, “keep your eyes open, understand?”
“All right,” said Blackie, “I watch, see, I know. Tony no good. All right, I watch.”
When he had gone Rico said:
“Well, that’s that.”
“We can’t take no chances,” said Vettori.
“I’ll give him till tomorrow,” said Rico; “he can’t go far wrong with Blackie watching him. After that if he don’t settle down there won’t be no more Tony.”
III
Tony had always been of a rather easygoing nature and took things as they came. His emotions, it is true, were very unstable; with him anger was almost immediately followed by a grin, and depression lasted only long enough for him to recognize that he had felt such an emotion. No, he had never before experienced the loneliness which is the result of continued despair. Now he felt it and it was too much for him. He looked back on the past as a sort of fabulous period when he had had peace of mind.
He could enjoy nothing. The fear of arrest and hanging dogged him even at the movies, formerly his chief pleasure; and in the company of Midge, his woman, he was so preoccupied that she thought he had a new woman and treated him accordingly.
Then he began to have attacks of acute indigestion, and it got so bad that the very sight of food was repugnant to him. He lost weight rapidly.
There was nothing he could do. He could not find one avenue of escape. But little by little the thought of Father McConagha took possession of him. Tony was too unintelligent to know that what he needed most of all was someone he could unburden himself to. But he blundered toward that solution.
Blackie’s solicitude helped some. Blackie came to see him every night; and once, when Tony’s indigestion had been worse than usual, he had even gone for the doctor.
Tony’s mother put her hand on his shoulder.
“Antonio,” she said, “I think I’ll go across the street and see Mrs. Mangia. She is having a new baby. Only think! That will be twelve.”
Tony tried to smile.
“Twelve!” said Tony’s mother, shaking her head slowly from side to side, “and one is too much.”
“A bad egg like me is.”
“You ain’t a bad egg, Antonio,” said his mother, “you are only lazy.”
Tony said nothing.
“Listen, Antonio, I left some spaghetti on the stove. If you feel better eat some. You don’t want to get all run down.”
“All right,” said Tony.
Tony’s mother went out. As soon as the door was shut, Tony wished that she hadn’t gone. He was afraid. At the sound of footsteps in the corridor, he felt his hair rise and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
Blackie put his head in the door.
“How do you feel, Tony?” he asked.
“Hello, Blackie,” said Tony, “come on in and have a smoke.” Blackie took a cigarette from the proffered pack and sat down. While he smoked he kept glancing at Tony.
“Whatsa mat, Tony?” said Blackie. “You ain’t look so good.” Tony stared at Blackie for a moment, then he began to shake all over.
“Jesus, Blackie,” he cried, “I can’t stand it. They’ll get us sure. Have you seen tonight’s paper?”
Blackie shrugged.
“I can no read.”
“It’s all up with us,” said Tony. “My God, I don’t see how Rico stands it.”
“Rico no scared.”
“Well, he ought to be. He’s the one that done it.”
Blackie shrugged.
“No can help. What-you-say, Cortenni pull a gat. No can help.”
Tony suddenly became very pale. He heard an automobile stop in the street below. He ran to the window and looked down, then he turned and came back.
“I thought it was the cops,” he said.
“Look,” said Blackie, “you no better be sick. Listen, you no got your guts, Tony. Rico say, be a man. That is good. Be a man, Rico say. You no better be sick.”
“The hell with Rico,” said Tony.
Blackie shrugged.
Tony stood in the middle of the room for a minute or two looking at the floor, then, suddenly making up his mind, he went over to the hatrack and got his hat.
“Where you go?” asked Blackie.
Tony hesitated.
“I go too,” said Blackie.
“No, you go home,” said Tony, then looking steadily at Blackie he said: “Me, I’m going down to St. Dominick’s and see Father McConagha.”
“What,” cried Blackie, leaping up in alarm. “Tony, my God, you no tell him nothing.”
“I got to,” cried Tony vehemently.
Blackie took hold of Tony’s arm.
“Tony, my boy, don’t go. Listen. Tony, you no sick. Be a man. Hear what I tell you. You no live, see, you no live. Be a man.”
Tony pushed him away.
“You go home, Blackie.”
Tony went out. Blackie heard him walking slowly down the corridor. When he could no longer hear his footsteps, he leapt to his feet, opened a back window, went down the fire-escape, and took a shortcut through the alleys. He knocked at the back door of the Palermo and Carillo let him in.
IV
Vettori stared at Rico, who said nothing.
“Crazy! Crazy!” said Blackie. “I tell him, be a man, be a man. But he say, I got to, I got to.”
Rico hastily put on his overcoat.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Sam Vettori.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “that’s it. Now get yourself a can, Sam, and let’s go. We ain’t got any time to waste.”
Vettori rubbed both hands over his face.
“Not me,” he said.
Rico looked at him.
“Take Blackie,” said Vettori.
Blackie implored them with his eyes.
“Blackie’s no good,” said Rico.
“No,” said Blackie, “I no good.”
Carillo put his head in the door.
“Reilley’s downstairs, boss.”
“Take Carillo,” said Vettori.
Carillo stared at them suspiciously. Rico leapt across the room and grabbed him by the arm.
“Listen, Bat, can you drive a can?”
“Sure.”
“Will you let her out when I office you?”
“Sure.”
“All right, let’s go.”
“Take that black roadster, Carillo,” said Vettori, “but for God’s sake don’t smash it up.”
Carillo ran out leaving the door open. Rico walked over and closed the door, then he said:
“Sam, you ain’t got any more guts than Tony. Now listen, get down there and talk turkey to Reilley. Get that! By God, I guess I got to boss this job myself.”
Vettori looked at Rico with hatred. But he said:
“All right, Rico, you’re the boss now.”
Rico went out. Blackie said:
“Goodbye Tony!”
Carillo was waiting with the black roadster in the alleyway. Rico jumped in and the roadster leapt away. Carillo took a turn on two wheels.
“It’s a cinch he went the shortest cut,” said Rico.
“Sure,” said Carillo, “I know what I’m doing.”
“All right,” said Rico, “do it.”
The wind had risen and it began to snow, big, heavy flakes which sailed past the street lights. In a few minutes the ground was covered.
Carillo took the shortest cut and Rico, holding his big automatic on the seat beside him, sat straining his eyes. But there was no sign of Tony.
“If we miss him, I’ll kick hell out of Blackie,” said Rico.
“Keep your shirt on, boss,” said Carillo.
The tall spires of St. Dominick’s rose before them at the end of the block. The street was deserted. Carillo drove slowly now, hugging the curb. In a moment he pointed:
“There’s a guy.”
Rico leaned forward.
“Take it easy, Bat,” he said, “I think it’s Tony.”
“Tony,” called Rico.
“Yeah?” came Tony’s voice. “Who is it?”
Rico fired. A long spur of flame shot out in the darkness. Rico emptied his gun. Tony fell without a sound.
“All right now, Bat,” said Rico, “let her out.”
V
Joe and Olga were sitting in a quiet corner of a Gold Coast hotel dining-room. They were waiting for their dessert. Joe, comfortably full and inclined to be amiable, sat looking at Olga. She was the goods. Of course he stepped out with other broads occasionally when Olga was busy, but that didn’t count. Olga was the goods and she was his woman. Other men didn’t rate with her, that’s all. He studied her. There she sat with her round dark face, her high cheekbones, and her dark mascaraed eyes.
“Well,” said Olga, “take a good look.”
“Listen, baby,” said Joe, “you got it. I ain’t kidding. You got everything. There ain’t a woman in Chicago that’s got half your stuff. You make ’em all look silly.”
Olga reached across the table and patted his hand.
“I don’t believe it, but say it again. I like it.”
“No fooling.”
“What a line,” said Olga.
The waiter brought their dessert.
“I’ll tell you,” said Olga, looking at her wrist watch, “let’s go to a movie. I got time.”
Joe didn’t like movies very well; all that soppy love stuff! But now he wanted to please Olga.
“All right. Where’ll it be?”
Olga turned to the waiter.
“Bring us a paper, please.”
The waiter brought a paper and handed it to Joe. He unfolded it and started to turn to the theatrical page, but instead he read with absorption an article on the front page. Olga saw him swallow several times. When he glanced up at her there was a bewildered look in his eyes and his face begun to get pale.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“They got Tony,” said Joe.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Rico, I guess. He must have turned yellow.”
Joe ran his hand across his forehead, then he took out his gold cigarette case, but without ostentation this time and lit a cigarette. Olga took the paper from him. She read:
Antonio Passalacqua, known as Tony Passa, reputed to be a member of the Vettori gang, was found dead near the steps of St. Dominick’s Cathedral … as far as the police can ascertain no one saw him killed … when questioned Sam Vettori denied all knowledge of the shooting and intimated that it was the work of a rival gang … police say that this is likely.
“Jesus!” said Joe.
Olga turned quickly to the theatrical page.
“Joe, honey,” she said, “there’s a good comedy at the Oriental. What do you say?”
Joe crumpled up his cigarette and put it in the ashtray.
“Boy, Rico didn’t waste no time with him.”
“Joe, don’t you want to see that comedy?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “let’s go see it.”
Joe sat silent in the taxi all the way to the theatre. As they were getting out, he said:
“Boy, that Rico is sure careless with a rod.”
“Forget it, honey,” said Olga.
VI
When Rico came in, Seal Skin was sitting in a chair by the window and Otero was lying on the bed without his shirt, singing loudly. Rico walked over and put his hand on Seal Skin’s shoulder.
“Listen,” he said, “I thought you told me you was gonna look after The Greek?”
“I can’t do nothing with him,” said Seal Skin.
Rico went over to the bed and looked at Otero.
“Señor Rico,” cried Otero, “listen, I will sing for you.” Rico turned.
“Seal,” he said, “that bird’s gonna spill something if you don’t keep him sober.”
“Listen,” said Seal Skin. “I ain’t no nurse. A guy ought to look out for himself. What the hell can I do, anyway? I can’t knock him cold.”
“You never did have much sense,” said Rico.
“All right, wise boy. Let’s see what you can do.”
Rico took off his overcoat.
“Got any ice?”
“Sure,” said Seal Skin without moving.
“Well, goddamn it, get on your feet and get it.”
Seal Skin was afraid of Rico but she didn’t want him to suspect it. She got to her feet leisurely, picked up one of Otero’s big cigars, lit it, and stood puffing. Then, having demonstrated her lack of fear, she went to the kitchen for the ice.
Rico went over to the bed.
“Otero,” he said, “have you got any liquor around here?”
“What do I care for liquor!” cried Otero. “I will sing for you.” Rico slapped Otero’s face.
“A hell of a crew I’m mixed up with,” he said.
Otero looked at him, startled.
“What is wrong with me?”
“You’re a dirty yellow bum.”
“I am not a yellow bum,” cried Otero, trying to sit up.
Rico struck him hard this time, knocking him back on the bed. Otero put his hand to his face and looked at Rico.
“If you got any more liquor here you better tell me where it is,” said Rico.
Otero reached under his pillow and pulled out a quart bottle over half full. Rico slipped it into his pocket.
Otero’s face grew red.
“Rico,” he said, “you give me back my liquor.”
He tried to sit up, but Rico hit him and he fell back. Seal Skin came in with a couple of pieces of ice wrapped in a towel.
“What the hell you want to beat him up for?” she said.
“I’m gonna get him sober and keep him that way.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re gonna have a full-time job.”
Rico took the ice, a piece in each hand, and began to rub it over Otero’s face and chest. He rubbed hard and it hurt Otero, who struggled.
“Rico,” he said, “what have I done to you? Rico, you are my friend. Why do you treat me this way?”
“He’ll be bawling next,” said Seal Skin.
Suddenly, Otero became very angry and struggled so fiercely that he threw Rico off and climbed out of bed. The ice clattered to the floor. Rico took one step towards him and set himself for a punch, but Seal Skin grabbed his arm.
“For God’s sake let up on him,” she cried, “ain’t he in bad enough shape?”
Rico was furious. He slapped Seal Skin across the face with his open hand.
“A fine bunch of yellow bellies and squealers I’m mixed up with,” he cried. “Listen, idiot, ain’t he a meal ticket? You want the black wagon to come and haul him away?”
Otero reeled across the room. Rico leapt after him and knocked him to the floor. Otero raised his head.
“Rico,” he said, “what have I done to you?”
Rico picked up the ice and kneeling down beside Otero began to rub him with it, harder than before. Otero gasped.
“Listen,” said Rico, “you got to get sober. I’m your friend, Otero, do you get what I’m saying? You got to sober up and stay that way.”
Tears ran down Otero’s cheeks.
“All right, Rico,” he said.
In half an hour, Rico had him sober. Seal Skin was sitting with her feet on the window sill, smoking one of Otero’s big cigars. Otero sat pale and shaken, looking at Rico.
“Well, big boy,” said Seal Skin, “I got to hand it to you. You done it.”
Rico smiled. Then he took out his billfold and handed Seal Skin a ten.
“There’s a little cush for you. You ain’t sore at me cause I socked you, are you? I got red hot mad, that’s all.”
“You didn’t sock me hard,” said Seal Skin, “but it was ten dollars’ worth.”
Otero didn’t have much to say. He sat looking at the floor, ashamed of himself.
“How do you feel?” asked Rico.
“Me, not so good,” said Otero.
“Want a little drink?”
Otero looked at Rico, not trusting him, then he nodded. Rico handed him the bottle.
“I said little drink,” cautioned Rico.
Otero took a swallow and handed back the bottle.
“Now,” said Rico, “get your clothes on and we’ll take a look at Tony.”
VII
There were many rumours in Little Italy about the passing of Sam Vettori. The full truth, of course, was only guessed at, but the simple facts were known. Sam Vettori’s star was setting, Rico’s was rising. Rico had always been right; there was never any question of that. Rico had always inspired fear. But now, as the probable head of a big minor gang whose activities were varied and whose yearly income was enormous, his potentialities were prodigiously increased and he was treated accordingly.
When he entered Tony’s flat, several members of the Vettori gang, sitting near the door, got up and offered him their chairs. He merely shook his head and walked across to where Sam Vettori was sitting. Otero, who had entered a little behind Rico, stopped to talk with Blackie Avezzano.
Carillo brought a chair for Rico and Rico sat down beside Sam Vettori.
“We’re going to plant the kid right,” said Vettori, “that’ll look good.”
Rico stared across the room at a large horseshoe wreath which bore the single word: Tony. That was his contribution.
“Sure,” said Rico.
He was a little uneasy. Not that he felt any remorse. What he had done was merely an act of policy. A man in this game must be a man. If he gets yellow, why, there’s only one remedy for it.
“They sure fix ’em up good now,” said Vettori, nodding in the direction of the coffin; “he don’t look dead. He looks like he was asleep.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“It beats me how they do it,” said Vettori. Carillo came across the room and whispered to Rico and Vettori.
“Two bulls in the hallway.”
“They coming in?” asked Rico.
“No, just standing there.”
“All right.”
There was a movement at the door. Mrs. Passalacqua came in between two of her friends. She had been at St. Dominick’s for over an hour. Rico got up and offered her his chair. One of the women helped her off with her hat. She sat down. Her grey hair was parted in the middle and drawn tightly down; her face was a dead white.
Rico walked over to look at Tony. At the head of the coffin were two big candles, one of them leaning a little and dripping tallow. Tony lay with his hands folded. Rico looked down. Somehow he had expected Tony to be changed. He was not. Here lay the same Tony who used to play poker with such fury. The same Tony, yes, only dead.
Carillo put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Bulls want to see you, boss.”
Rico nodded.
“They want you to come out in the hall.”
“All right,” said Rico, turning away from the coffin, “tell Otero.”
Otero came over beside Rico and stood looking at Tony.
“Listen,” said Rico, “this may be a pinch. I don’t know. If it is, I’ll go with them. They ain’t got nothing on me. But if there’s any trouble, Scabby’ll keep you posted. Ma’s got my jack, see?”
“All right,” said Otero.
Rico started across the room and Otero followed him. Before Rico reached the door, Tony’s mother suddenly put her hands to her face and began to sob wildly.
“Oh, Tony, Tony!” she cried.
The women who had come in with her tried to quieten her, but she pushed them away, and, rising, walked over to the coffin and stood looking down at Tony. Then, still sobbing, she let the women lead her into the next room.
“That’s a woman for you,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Otero, shrugging. “Tony was her son.”
The hallway was lined with poor Italians who, not knowing the Passalacquas, had come out of curiosity. They stood in silent groups, trying to peep in through the open door. Women in disreputable housedresses carrying dirty children; pregnant women; old men with crinkly grey hair and seamed brown faces; young girls trying to look up-to-date and American. When Rico came out they all stared at him.
Flaherty took hold of his arm.
“Rico,” he said, “come down to the end of the hall. I want to see you a minute.”
“Is this a pinch?” asked Rico. Flaherty laughed.
“Got a bad conscience, have you? Well, you ought to have.” Rico noticed that the other detective, whom he had never seen before, kept staring at him. Rico planted his feet firmly and stared back.
“What’s the big idea, Flaherty?” he asked.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “just to put your mind at rest. I’ll tell you, this ain’t a pinch. It ought to be, but it ain’t. Now will you take a walk … ?”
“Sure,” said Rico.
Otero came out into the hallway and stood watching them. Rico went down to the end of the hall with the two plainclothes men. Some of the poor Italians followed them and stood staring. But Flaherty motioned them off as if he were shooing chickens.
“Beat it,” he said; “go tend to your own business.”
They moved away slowly, looking back.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s have it.”
Flaherty took out a big cigar and began chewing on it. The other man kept staring. Rico was puzzled and wondered what the game was; then he noticed that the light at their end of the hall was good, much better than any other place in the hall. The once-over? Well, what then?
“Listen, Rico,” said Flaherty, “I like you and I’m going to give you a tip. It’s going to be tough on you birds from now on. The Old Man’s got his back up. Now get this. If you got anything on your mind, you better spill it.” Flaherty paused to light his cigar. The other detective watched Rico intently. “Because it’s going to be easy for the bird that spilled it first. But God help the rest of them.”
Rico smiled slightly.
“Quit stalling,” he said.
Flaherty glanced at the man with him, but the man shook his head. Flaherty said:
“Well, I’m giving you a friendly tip.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “you bulls always was friendly as hell. I spent two years once just thinking how friendly you was. Listen, I ain’t got nothing to spill. What the hell’s wrong with you, Flaherty? Did I ever do any spilling?”
Flaherty laughed.
“Well,” he said, “there’s a first time for everything. All right, Rico, you can go.”
The two plainclothes men pushed their way through the crowd and went down the stairs. Rico went back into Tony’s flat. Sam Vettori and Otero were waiting for him. Vettori was mopping his face with his big, white silk handkerchief.
“Well?” he demanded. Rico shrugged.
“Just stalling.”
“What’s the name?”
“You got me. I guess Flaherty wanted this other bird to give me the once-over.”
“Things getting pretty hot, Rico.”
“Don’t beef, Sam. We’re gonna come through.”
Otero said:
“The old lady sure is taking it hard.”
They could hear Tony’s mother sobbing loudly in the next room.