I
For three or four years Bat Carillo, once a third-rate light-heavyweight, had been the leader of one of Vettori’s gangs of hooligans. The members of this gang specialized in strong arm stuff and intimidation; they threw bombs; they smashed up barrooms and vice-joints operated by rival gangs. They were, in other words, Vettori’s shock troops. Carillo was an excellent lieutenant, as he always carried out orders to the letter; and was congenitally incapable of imagining himself as chief in his own right. A good, honest subordinate without ambition. Vettori trusted him.
In Carillo’s attitude since the killing of Courtney, therefore, Vettori saw the most unmistakable symptom of his own passing. Carillo had attached himself to Rico and called him “boss.” Carillo was not careless with the word “boss”; it was not a conventional expression; when he said “boss” he meant it. Aroused, Vettori saw similar manifestations all around him; in Blackie Avezzano, in Killer Pepi, in a dozen others.
Vettori had always disliked Rico. Now he hated him. If Carillo or Killer Pepi had remained faithful, he would have had one of them kill him and damn the consequences. But there was no question of that now. He knew that he was whipped and he saw the necessity of a compromise. Hanging was just over the horizon, and Rico’s gun promised an even more certain death. Vettori had never split with anyone. He had always taken with both hands and given as little as possible. But it was split now or die, and Vettori could not contemplate the prospect of dying with any degree of complacency. He sent for Rico.
A new Rico appeared, followed by Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi. Rico was wearing a big ulster like Joe’s and a derby also like Joe’s. He had on fawn-coloured spats drawn over pointed patent-leather shoes; and a diamond horseshoe pin sparkled in a red, green and white striped necktie.
Vettori looked him over and winked at Killer Pepi, but Killer Pepi’s face was stony. Carillo got a chair for Rico.
“What’s on your mind, Sam?” said Rico, sitting down, throwing back his ulster and pulling up his trousers to preserve the crease.
Vettori hesitated.
“I want to see you alone,” he said.
“No,” said Rico, “I think I know your game, Sam, and I want the boys to get an earful. Go ahead and spill it.”
Vettori began to sweat. Killer Pepi said:
“Yeah, we know.”
“You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?” said Vettori.
“We know, all right,” said Pepi.
Nobody said anything. Rico took off his hat and began to comb his hair. Vettori got out his cards and began to lay out a game of solitaire.
Pepi said:
“We know you went yellow, Sam, when Tony blew his top and started after Come-To-Jesus McConagha. We know all right.”
Vettori looked up at him.
“What the hell I got you guys for anyway! Who hands out the cush?”
Rico paused in the combing of his hair.
“Don’t get rough, Sam.”
Killer Pepi went over and stood with his back against the door. Otero sat down opposite Vettori.
“Well,” said Rico, “if you want to see me, spill it quick because I ain’t got all night.”
Vettori sighed profoundly, then he put down his cards and looked at the men around him. He saw four hostile faces.
“All right,” said Vettori, “but why the strong arm stuff, Rico? Sit down, you guys, and I’ll have some drinks sent up.”
The three men looked at Rico.
“All right,” he said, “go bring up some drink, Bat.”
Carillo went out. Nobody said anything. Outside, a winter dusk settled and the big electric sign on a level with the windows was switched on.
Carillo brought in the drinks and they all sat around the table under the green-shaded lamp. Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi drank whisky; Vettori wine; Rico pop.
Vettori put down his glass.
“Well, Rico,” he said, “I got a proposition to make you.”
“All right,” said Rico, “spring it.”
“Listen,” said Vettori, “I’m getting old. I’ll never see forty-five again, and when a guy’s that old he ain’t worth much.”
“You ain’t getting old, Sam, you’re losing your guts,” said Rico. Killer Pepi laughed out aloud and banged his fist on the table. But Vettori swallowed this insult.
“All right, Rico,” he said, “that’s your story. Well, here’s how it is. I need a partner. You’re young, Rico, and you got the guts. All the guys like you and they’ll do what you say. I got the layout and you’re looking for a chance to be a big guy. Well, here’s your chance.” Vettori thought for a moment, then he said: “I’ll split the works with you.”
Carillo and Pepi exchanged a look. Otero began to hum to himself. But Rico said:
“I’ll think it over.”
Vettori began to sweat again. Was Rico going to get rid of him?
“Well,” he said, putting on a front, “you can take it or leave it. I like you, Rico, and I’m doing you a favour. Who’s got the money? Who’s got the pull? What the hell would you guys do if you didn’t have the Big Boy to pull you through?”
“I’m OK with the Big Boy,” said Rico; “he was up to see me this morning.”
“Yeah,” said Pepi, “I brung him.”
Vettori laid out a new game of solitaire.
“Here’s the thing,” said Rico: “you’re trying to hang on, Sam. You must think we’re dumb as hell. You want me to do the work so you can take it easy. And you call that an even split. Hear what I say! That ain’t my idea of a split.”
“Well, I ain’t handing out charity,” said Vettori, losing his temper.
Rico got to his feet and buttoned up his ulster.
“All right, Sam.”
Vettori slammed down his cards.
“What do you guys think?” he demanded of Carillo, Pepi and Otero.
“Ain’t that a fair split?”
They just looked at him.
“No,” said Rico, “I guess we can’t do no business.”
Rico put on his hat and walked toward the door. The other three got up and followed him. Vettori stood up.
“Well,” he said, “you gonna try to run me out, Rico?”
Vettori was panicky. Rico stood at the door and looked at him.
“I was just figuring I’d open a joint across the street,” he said.
Vettori knew what he meant. He had been through half a dozen gang wars, but that was long ago when there were at least five separate gangs in the neighbourhood. Things had been comparatively quiet for over three years. Vettori regretted the past bitterly. He regretted having taken up with Rico, an unknown Youngstown wop.
“Well,” he said, “Rico, you’re young and you ain’t got any too much sense. What the hell! With things the way they are, we wouldn’t none of us last a month. Listen, Rico, what’s your idea of a split?”
Rico took off his hat and scratched his head, but carefully so that his hair wouldn’t be disarranged.
“I’ll hand you this, Sam,” said Rico, “you got the layout. The split’s good that way. But you got sense enough to know that no two guys can run things. The layout split is OK with me, but I got to have the say, get that!”
Vettori looked at the others.
“What do you guys say?”
“We’re in with Rico,” said Killer Pepi.
Otero and Carillo nodded. Vettori brought his hand down on the table with a smack.
“OK,” he said.