VI
Under Rico’s guidance Chiggi’s gang prospered. Chicago Red, impressed by Rico’s reputation, carried out his orders and never argued; Chiggi also. And Chiggi’s men were influenced by the attitude of their former bosses. Rico made decisions quickly, seldom asked for advice, and was nearly always right. Chiggi and Red were used to doing things on a small scale and hated to split with the authorities, but Rico had been in the game long enough to know that to make money you’ve got to spend money. Through Antonio Rizzio, one of Old Chiggi’s friends, now a minor politician, Rico got in touch with some of the high-ups and bought protection. Chiggi’s alcohol runners were no longer picked up, and in a little while Chiggi’s business had doubled. But, due to this increase in business, a new difficulty had risen: hijackers. They waylaid Chiggi’s men and robbed them of their cargoes. There was a well-organized gang of them around Monroe, Michigan, and they began to cut into Chiggi’s profits. Rico tried rerouting his runners and this was successful for a month or two, but the Monroe gang soon got on to it, and the trouble started over again. Rico took a chance. He ordered three sho-sho guns from a firm in Chicago. These small automatic rifles, as formidable as machine guns, were concealed in special cases under the seats of the trucks. Rico instructed his runners in the use of them, and after a few encounters the Monroe gang decided that it would be more lucrative and also safer to confine their hijacking to smaller bootleggers who were not equipped with artillery.
Rico was pleased with his success, but hardly satisfied. This was small stuff and, as he could take no active part in it, he had a good deal of time on his hands. Of course he was a pretty big guy for Toledo, and around Chiggi’s he was king, but, after all, Chiggi’s boys were a mighty poor lot, worse even than Little Arnie’s, and their adulation wasn’t worth much.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Rico knew that he had blundered badly in revealing his identity to Chiggi and Chicago Red. Neither of them was very dependable. Chiggi talked incessantly, contradicting himself, forgetting what he had said two minutes after he had said it; and all this talk was directed at one object: self-glorification. An association with Cesare Bandello, of Chicago, was something to brag about and Rico knew it. Chicago Red as a rule was not very talkative, but when he got drunk he would boast about his former connection with Steve Gollancz. Rico feared them both. Sometimes when the three of them were alone together he would caution them. There was only one thing that reassured Rico. Chiggi’s prosperity depended on him, and Rico knew that both Chicago Red and Chiggi were aware of it.
At about seven o’clock one night Rico went out for supper. He ate at the little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split a bowl of soup when things were bad. He always sat facing the front door at the table in the back of the place. In this position he could see everyone who came in and also he could keep an eye on the people at the tables. On his right and a couple of feet ahead of him was a little window which looked out on an alley. While Rico was finishing his coffee, be happened to glance at the window. When he did, a face which had been pressed against the windowpane was hastily withdrawn. Rico got up, put on his hat and paid his check.
“I’m going out the back way,” he said to the counterman.
“OK, boss.”
“If anybody comes in here and asks for Louis De Angelo take a good look at him.”
“All right, boss,” said the counterman.
Rico went out through the kitchen door, which opened onto a little cement court where the refuse from the restaurant was dumped. The big garbage cans along the wall were in the shadow and, as Rico stepped out, a man jumped up from behind one of the cans and put a gun against him. Rico threw himself to the ground, the gun exploded harmlessly, and the man made a break for the alley, stumbling over the cans. Rico fired from a prone position and missed. Then he jumped to his feet and ran out into the alley. The man had disappeared.
“God,” said Rico, “if that boy didn’t almost pull one on me.”
One of the cooks opened the back door and put his head out.
“What the hell!” he said.
“Damned if I know,” said Rico; “a couple of guys was popping at each other out here in the alley.”
“Some of them bootleggers,” said the cook.
Rico took a cab back to Chiggi’s. He was very much perturbed. Whoever that boy was he certainly meant business.
“Well,” said Rico, “somebody has sure spilled something.”
As soon as he came in, Chiggi rushed up to him and grabbed him by the arm.
“Louis,” he said, “Red’s drunk and we can’t do nothing with him.”
Rico stared at Chiggi.
“Where’s he been?”
“Why,” said Chiggi, “he’s been on a bat with some Chicago guys.”
“Hell,” cried Rico, “where is he?”
Chiggi led Rico back into one of the private rooms. Red was sitting at a table with a half empty quart of whiskey on the table beside him. When he saw Rico he cried:
“If it ain’t old Rico himself! By God, I been drinking all day. I can hardly see but nobody can put me under the table, ain’t that so, boss? Yes, sir, I’d like to see the bastard that could drink Rico’s buddy under the table.”
Rico turned to Chiggi.
“A guy tried to pop me over at Frank’s. This bird has spilled something. I got to be moving.”
Chiggi’s eyes got big.
“You gonna pull out, Louis?”
“I got to,” said Rico; “somebody’s looking for that seven grand.”
“Jesus, Louis,” said Chiggi, “what we gonna do without you?”
“Best you can,” said Rico. “Go get me a cab, Chiggi, I’m moving right now.”
Chiggi went out of the room. Rico took Red by the shoulders and shook him. Red blinked his eyes.
“Red,” said Rico, “was you on a bat with some Chicago guys?”
“Was I?” cried Red; “spent a hundred bucks on them birds.”
“Any of them know me?”
Red rolled his head from side to side, and sang, then he smashed his fists down on the table.
“Rico,” he said, “old Red’s going back to the big burg, yes sir, old Red’s tired of this tank town. Old Red’s got a good stake now and he’s moving. They run me out once but I ain’t scairt of them no more. I’m going back and show ’em who Red Hackett is. Yeah bo!”
Rico shook him.
“Listen, Red,” he said, “did any of them birds know me?”
Red lolled his head, trying to focus his eyes on Rico.
“One of them guys was a personal friend of yours,” said Red; “fact, he asked me if you wasn’t laying up here, see, he knew all right; wasn’t no harm in telling him nothing.”
“Who was he?” shouted Rico.
Red thought for a moment, then he said:
“I can’t seem to remember. He’s a wop, all right, a bald-headed wop.”
“Scabby!” Rico exclaimed.
Good God, wasn’t that a break! Scabby hated him and Scabby would sell his own mother out for a split on seven grand. Rico felt resentful. Just his damn luck to get mixed up with a bunch of yellow-bellies and softies.
Chiggi came in.
“Cab out in front, Louis,” he said.
Rico pointed at Red.
“That guy spilled the works. For two bits I’d bump him off.”
Rico was furious. He made a move towards his armpit, but one of the bartenders opened the door and yelled:
“The bulls!”
“What!” cried Rico.
The bartender was trembling all over and his face was white.
“Police car out in front, boss.”
Rico made a dive for the door but Chiggi grabbed him by the arm.
“Out the back, Louis.”
Chiggi leapt across the room and pulled a switch and all the lights in the place went out. Then he took Rico by the arm and led him through the hall and out into a little court at the rear.
“So long, Louis,” he said.
Chiggi slammed the door. Rico was in utter darkness.
“A hell of a chance I got,” he said.
He stepped cautiously out into the alley back of the court and took a look around. The alley was blind to his right; to his left it came out onto a main thoroughfare and there was a bright arc light at the end. Rico took out his gun and moved slowly towards the arc light.
“You can’t never tell,” he said; then, in an excess of rage: “They’ll never put no cuffs on this baby.”
When he was within fifty feet of the main thoroughfare a man appeared at the end of the alleyway, a big man in a derby hat. He saw Rico and immediately blew a blast on his whistle. Rico raised his gun and pulled the trigger; it missed fire.
Rico was frantic. He wanted to live. For the first time in his life he addressed a vague power which he felt to be stronger than himself.
“Give me a break! Give me a break!” he implored.
The man in the derby hat raised his arm and Rico rushed him, pumping lead. Rico saw a long spurt of flame and then something hit him a sledgehammer blow in the chest. He took two steps, dropped his gun, and fell flat on his face. He heard a rush of feet up the alley.
“Mother of God,” he said, “is this the end of Rico?”