Part
IV
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.
II
The gang gave a banquet for Rico in one of Sam Vettori’s big back rooms. The table was fifteen feet long and was covered by a fine white cloth. Red, green and white streamers hung from the chandeliers and Italian and American flags were crossed at intervals along the walls. At eleven o’clock the notables began to arrive. Killer Pepi in a blue suit and a brown derby, with his woman, Blue Jay, on his arm. Joe Sansone, gunman and ex-lightweight, in a tuxedo, followed by his shadow Kid Bean, a Sicilian, dark as a negro. Then Ottavio Vettori, Sam’s cousin, not yet twenty-one, already famous as a gunman and spoken of as a potential gang chief. Then Otero, Blackie Avezzano and Bat Carillo, all with their women. They stood about stiffly, a little uncomfortable in their fine clothes, and tried to make conversation. The men, like all specialists, talked shop. Ottavio Vettori declared that the police were a bunch of bums. Killer Pepi agreed that they were. Joe Sansone said that the Federal men were just as bad, only smarter and crookeder. Killer Pepi agreed that they were. Ottavio Vettori didn’t agree. He said that the Federal men were dumber and harder to fix. This brought on an argument.
When Sam Vettori came in the men were all shouting.
“What the hell!” said Sam, “ain’t this a fine way to act at a banquet? You act like a bunch of gas house micks. Cut the chatter.”
Ottavio made a noise like a goat.
“Baa! Baa!”
Everybody laughed. Otero took out a quart bottle of whiskey, drank from it and passed it to Seal Skin; she drank and passed it to Ottavio. The bottle circled the room and returned empty.
“You sure came prepared, you birds,” said Sam. “Did any of you guys bring a lunch?”
“Baa! Baa!” bellowed Ottavio.
“My God, ain’t that cute!” said Killer Pepi’s girl.
“Hell, that ain’t nothing,” said Pepi, “listen.” Pepi put three fingers in his mouth and blew a blast that made their eardrums ring.
“Lord,” said Ottavio, “the cops! Baa! Baa!”
Three waiters came in, each carrying two quarts of whiskey. They put the bottles on the table and went out.
“That’s an appetizer,” said Sam.
“Apéritif,” Joe Sansone corrected.
Ottavio slapped him on the back.
“What’s that, little Joe? What the hell lingo is that?”
Joe pushed him away.
“You dumb birds don’t know nothing. Swell people don’t say ‘appetizer’; they say ’apéritif.’ ”
“The hell they do! Well, I expect you know all about it. You used to be a bellboy at the Blackstone.”
Everybody laughed. Killer Pepi blew a blast on his fingers. His girl looked at him admiringly.
“How the hell you ever learn to do that?”
“Aw, that ain’t nothing.”
“Say, Sam,” said Carillo, “when do we eat?”
“When the boss gets here,” said Pepi.
“Well, he better step on it because I’m so hungry I could eat dynamite,” said Ottavio.
“Keep your shirt on,” said Pepi.
“Haven’t got an old soup sandwich in your pocket, have you?” asked Ottavio.
Everybody laughed. Ottavio was the recognized wit of the Vettori gang. All that he had to do to get a laugh was to open his mouth.
Sam Vettori took one of the quarts from the table and sent it round the room. It came back empty.
“What the hell you suppose is keeping Rico?” asked Carillo. “Keep your shirt on,” said Pepi.
“I go see,” said Otero.
As he went out, the Big Boy came in. He had on a big racoon coat and his derby was on the side of his head. Sam Vettori rushed over and shook hands with him.
“What the hell you doing here?” he demanded.
“Me. I came to see the fun. Things are looking up, Sam. Things sure to God are looking up. I think we got ’em whipped.”
Sam Vettori smiled broadly and poured the Big Boy a drink. Well, well! If the Courtney business blew over he was sitting pretty. All things considered, he hadn’t done so bad. Time after time he had seen old gang leaders go down before younger men. But here he was hanging on, getting a 50–50 split, and taking no chances. Rico was the goods. Goddamn him and all his kind, but he was the goods.
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “you got the Old Man on the run and Flaherty’s about ready to do the Dutch Act. It’s gonna blow over, Sam. You heard me speak. It’s gonna blow over. I want to see Rico.”
“He ain’t showed yet,” said Sam.
“Damn smart boy,” said the Big Boy.
Sam smiled.
“Yeah,” he said, pouring the Big Boy another drink, “damn smart kid. He’s young yet, but I can show him the ropes.”
The Big Boy didn’t say anything. He just looked at Vettori. Otero came running in, followed by two waiters, one of whom was carrying a big ulster and a derby; the other was carrying a woman’s fur coat.
“Here he comes,” cried Otero.
Kid Bean, who had collected a crowd in the middle of the room, and was walking on his hands to amuse them (he had once been an acrobat), jumped hastily to his feet and backed up against the wall. The crowd followed him. Killer Pepi said:
“All right now. Everybody yell like hell when he comes in.” Rico came in slowly, talking to Blondy Belle, the swellest woman in Little Italy. She was a handsome Italian, bold and aquiline. Her complexion and eyes were dark, but her hair, naturally black, was blondined, and this gave her an incongruous and a somewhat formidable appearance.
Rico was greeted by an uproar, pierced by Killer Pepi’s shrill whistle. The Big Boy went to meet Rico and shook hands with him. Sam Vettori smiled and nodded, very affably, then went out to get things started. The Big Boy said to Blondy Belle:
“Got yourself a regular man, did you?”
Blondy took hold of Rico’s arm.
“Surest thing you know.”
The Big Boy laughed.
“What’d you do with Little Arnie?”
Rico took out a cigar and bit off the end.
“She ditched him,” he said.
The Big Boy meditated. Blondy Belle had been Little Arnie’s woman for a long time. Little Arnie ran the biggest gambling joint on the North Side, but he had been slipping for a year or more. He wasn’t right; nobody could trust him.
“How did Little Arnie take it?” asked the Big Boy.
“He took it standing up,” said Blondy Belle.
“Well, what could he do?” said Rico.
Killer Pepi, Ottavio Vettori and Joe Sansone, as the most important men in the gang next to Sam Vettori, came over to shake hands with Rico.
“A million dollars ain’t in it with you,” said Pepi, looking his boss over.
Rico was wearing a loud striped suit and a purple tie. He still had on his gloves, yellow kid, of which he was very proud, and his diamond horseshoe pin had been replaced by a big ruby surrounded by little diamonds. Ottavio envied him his gloves. But Joe Sansone was not impressed; he knew better.
“Yes sir, boss, you sure are lit up,” said Ottavio.
“Here’s the half-pint,” said Killer Pepi, pushing Joe Sansone forward.
Joe shook hands with Rico.
“Yes sir,” said Ottavio, “the half-pint’s a good boy, but he and Gentleman Joe’re too swell for us.”
Rico looked around the room.
“Joe Massara here?”
“Ain’t seen him,” said Pepi.
“He won’t be here,” said Joe Sansone; “he’s busy.”
Rico didn’t say anything. Blondy took hold of his arm.
“I want a drink.”
Rico looked at Pepi.
“Get her a drink,” he said.
The Big Boy took Rico aside and said:
“I want to see you a minute, Rico.”
Rico said:
“Listen, if you see Joe Massara tomorrow you tell him to look me up. I got something to say to that bird.”
“I’ll be seeing him maybe,” said the Big Boy. “I got a date with his boss tomorrow morning. There’s a square guy, Rico. DeVoss is a square guy all right. Never have to nudge him for dough.” Rico seemed in a bad humour.
“They tell me you lined up something good,” said the Big Boy. Rico nodded.
“Yeah, it’s gonna be a money maker. Little Arnie wised me up. I’m gonna give him a split. That’s the game now. Sam never had sense enough to get in on it.”
“Little Arnie, eh? That guy’d double-cross his grandmother.”
“He’ll only double-cross me once,” said Rico.
“I believe you,” said the Big Boy; then, putting his hand on Rico’s shoulder, he went on: “Funny for you to split with Arnie. How about Blondy?”
“Arnie don’t give a damn. He’s all shot to pieces. He can’t do a woman no good.”
“No wonder,” said the Big Boy, “with a woman like that.” Rico grinned.
“Ain’t she a bearcat!” he said; then his face clouded. “Wonder what the hell Joe Massara’s game is?”
The Big Boy looked at Rico for a moment.
“That little hunky dancer over at DeVoss’s has got him down. They tell me he’s going straight.”
Rico laughed unpleasantly.
“Yeah? Well, I’ll have to go over and give that bird an earful.”
“Better stay out of that end of town, Rico.”
“To hell with that.”
Sam Vettori came in, followed by three waiters bringing the soup.
“All right,” said Sam, “we’re all set.”
Rico took his place at the head of the table. The Big Boy sat on his right and Blondy Belle on his left. The gunmen and their women arranged themselves according to rank. Blackie Avezzano sat at the foot of the table.
III
When the meal was over, the Big Boy asked Rico to make a speech. There was a prolonged clamour. Rico got up.
“All right,” he said, “if you birds want me to make a speech, here you are: I want to thank you guys for this banquet. It sure is swell. The liquor is good, so they tell me, I don’t drink it myself, and the food don’t leave nothing to be desired. I guess we all had a swell time and it sure is good to see all you guys gathered together. Well, I guess that’s about all. Only I wish you guys wouldn’t get drunk and raise hell, as that’s the way a lot of birds get bumped off.”
Rico sat down. The applause lasted for over a minute. Then Ottavio got up with a bottle in his hand.
“Here’s to Rico and Blondy and the Big Boy.”
Everybody shouted and made a grab for bottles and glasses. Blackie Avezzano fell under the table and stayed there, lying on his face. After the toast was drunk, Killer Pepi and Kid Bean began to quarrel. The Kid picked up a plate and struck at Pepi, who threw a bottle at the Kid, missing him by a fraction of an inch.
Rico banged on the table.
“Cut it out, you guys. Ain’t that a hell of a way to act?”
Pepi and the Kid shook hands and another toast was drunk.
A waiter came in the door and went over to Rico.
“Couple of newspaper guys, boss. They want to take a flashlight.”
“What’s the idea?” the Big Boy inquired.
“Send ’em up,” said Rico.
“We’re gonna get our mugs shot,” cried Blondy Belle.
“Maybe we are,” said Rico.
“What’s the idea?” the Big Boy reiterated.
“We ain’t got nothing to hide,” said Rico.
The waiter returned, followed by two newspaper men, one of whom was carrying a big camera. Rico motioned them over.
“Who sent you?” he asked.
Sam Vettori came in and went over to Rico.
“They’re OK, Rico,” he said, “they been here before.”
“Sure, we’re OK,” said the photographer, a little intimidated by Rico’s manner.
“Well, spill it,” said Rico, “what’s the idea of the flashlight?”
“Well, we got a section in the Sunday paper about how different classes of people live in Chicago. See? Last week we featured Lake Forest. Had some pictures of the swells, see, and the dumps where they lived. This Sunday we want Little Italy. We just heard about the banquet they were giving you, Mr. Rico, so we kinda thought …”
“OK,” said Rico, “but make it snappy.”
“I’m out of this picture,” said the Big Boy, rising and walking over to the doorway. Sam Vettori took his place.
After manoeuvring about for a few minutes the photographer got the correct slant. He put the powder on the little tray.
“Now!” he cried.
Rico sat with his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, looking very stern. There was a blinding flash. Ottavio Vettori leapt into the air, and crying “My God, I’m shot” fell face down across the table. Everybody laughed.
When the newspaper men had gone, the Big Boy came over and put his hand on Rico’s arm.
“They may pick you up on that.”
“Who the hell’s gonna see it.”
“You don’t know who’s gonna see it. That was a bad play, Rico.”
Rico laughed.
“If they pick me up, I’ll alibi them to death.”
When the banquet was over, Rico had Otero call him a cab. Blondy Belle was a little drunk and Rico had to support her as they went down the stairs. As she weighed about twenty pounds more than he did, this was not an easy job. As they were going out the side-entrance, Flaherty left his table in the club and came over to them.
He put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Getting up in the world ain’t you, Rico?”
Rico looked at him.
“Don’t you know your old pal Jim Flaherty?”
“Sure I know you. What’s the big idea?”
“Go chase yourself around the block, flatfoot,” said Blondy Belle; “if I ain’t getting sick of seeing bulls.”
“Hello, Blondy,” said Flaherty, “you and Rico hitting it off, eh? That’s the old ticket. Rico’s a good boy, but he’s young. If they don’t put him behind bars, he’ll be a man yet.”
“What’s the idea, Flaherty?” asked Rico.
“Why, I don’t want you to forget that I’m your friend,” said Flaherty. “I got my eyes on you, Rico. I like to see a young guy getting up in the world.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
The cab was waiting at the curb and one of the waiters went out and opened the door for them. Rico boosted Blondy Belle into the cab. Flaherty stood in the doorway and watched them drive off.
“The nerve of that Irish bastard,” said Blondy.
But Rico had forgotten Flaherty. He sat thinking about Joe Massara. Gentleman Joe was getting too good for them, eh? He was going to turn softie.
“Well, I guess not,” said Rico.
IV
The sound of the pianola woke Rico. He sat up and looked at his wrist watch. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. He had slept twelve hours.
Rico lived at a tension. His nervous system was geared up to such a pitch that he was never sleepy, never felt the desire to relax, was always keenly alive. He did not average over five hours sleep a night and as soon as he opened his eyes he was awake. When he sat in a chair he never thrust out his feet and lolled, but sat rigid and alert. He walked, ate, took his pleasures in the same manner. What distinguished him from his associates was his inability to live in the present. He was like a man on a long train journey to a promised land. To him the present was but a dingy way-station; he had his eyes on the end of the journey.
Rico leapt out of bed and hastily put on his clothes.
“Twelve hours, boy,” he said to his reflection in the mirror, as he stood combing his hair, “that’ll never do.”
He had been seeing too much of Blondy Belle; that was the trouble. Rico had very little to do with women. He regarded them with a sort of contempt; they seemed so silly, reckless and purposeless, also mendacious and extremely undependable. Not that Rico trusted men, far from it. He was temperamentally suspicious. But in the course of his life he had discovered a few men he could trust, but no women. What he feared most in women, though, was not their treachery, that could be guarded against, but their ability to relax a man, to make him soft and slack, like Joe Massara. Rico had never been deeply involved with a woman. Incapable of tender sentiments, he had escaped the commoner kind of pitfalls. He was given to short bursts of lust, and this lust once satisfied, he looked at women impersonally for a while, as one looks at inanimate objects. But at times this lust, usually the result of an inner need and not the outcome of exterior stimulus, would be aroused by the sight of some particular woman. This had been the case with Blondy Belle; she was big, healthy and lascivious. This exactly suited Rico’s tastes; she excited him, and for that very reason he was on guard against her.
“Yeah,” he said, “I got to lay off Blondy for a while.”
She wanted him to come and live with her, but he refused. The offer tickled his vanity, though, for Pepi or Joe Sansone would have jumped at the chance. But not Rico.
He went out into the living room. Blondy, in a cerise kimono, was pedalling the pianola and singing loudly. The room was in disorder. Stockings hung from the backs of chairs, the dress Blondy had worn the night before was suspended from the chandelier on a coat-hanger, and there was a pile of clothes in the middle of the room.
Blondy turned around and smiled at him, pedalling the piano at the same time.
“What the hell kind of a piece is that?” asked Rico.
“That’s an Eyetalian piece,” said Blondy. “Ain’t it swell?”
“No,” said Rico, “I like jazz better.”
Blondy stopped the pianola and back-pedalled the roll.
“I got it yesterday because I thought you’d like it,” she said.
“Hell, quit kidding,” said Rico.
“I sure did. It’s from an opera.”
“Yeah? Say, what’s wrong with you?”
Blondy looked at him. She had pretensions. Ten years ago she had been a lady’s maid and she felt that she was somewhat cultured.
“You’d think I was a regular wop to hear you talk,” said Rico; “say, I was born in Youngstown and I can’t even speak the lingo.”
“Well, I guess I wasn’t born in the old country either,” said Blondy.
She put a new roll on the pianola and Rico sat smoking, while she played it. Rico had no ear for music; he couldn’t even whistle, or distinguish one tune from another. But he liked rhythm. There was something straightforward and primitive about jazz rhythms that impressed him.
“That’s a good one,” he said, when the roll was played through.
“Want to hear some more?”
“No,” said Rico, “I got to go.”
He rose and went over to the closet for his overcoat, but Blondy said:
“Listen, Rico, I want to see you a minute before you go.”
“What about?”
“About Little Arnie.”
Rico stared at her.
“What’s the idea? To hell with Little Arnie. As long as he’s straight with me I ain’t got no interest in him at all.”
“He ain’t straight with nobody.”
Rico just looked at her.
Little Arnie had played his hand badly. At first he hadn’t minded losing Blondy Belle in the least; she cost him a good deal of money and she bored and irritated him. But he had been kidded unmercifully. As he had no sense of humour whatever and was very touchy in a personal matter, this eventually angered him. In revenge, he talked. He told all who would listen that Blondy Belle was a liar, a crook, and had certain unnatural appetites. Killer Pepi was one of the auditors and he immediately repeated Little Arnie’s assertions to his woman, Blue Jay, who ran at once to Blondy Belle. Yes, Little Arnie, who was fifty percent fool, had played his hand badly.
Blondy lit a cigarette and lay down on the davenport.
“Come over here and sit down,” she said; “I’ll give you an earful.”
“I ain’t got no time,” said Rico.
Blondy blew out a cloud of smoke.
“What you got on your mind?” said Rico; “spill it.”
“All right,” said Blondy. “Arnie’s giving you a split on the house, ain’t he? What’s the split?”
“Thirty percent.”
“How do you know you’re getting thirty?”
“I look at the books.”
Blondy laughed.
“Them books is crooked.”
“Straight dope?” asked Rico, his face hardening.
“Sure,” said Blondy, “I wasn’t gonna say nothing. It wasn’t none of my business, but Arnie’s been peddling a lot of loose talk about me and I don’t take that.”
“All right,” said Rico, “now you know so damn much, how we gonna prove it?”
“It’s a cinch,” said Blondy; “hand Arnie’s boy, Joe Peeper, some dough and he’ll spill the news. Joe hates Arnie.”
“Good!” said Rico, banging the table with his fist; “I’ll run Arnie out of town and declare you in, Blondy. You got brains.”
Blondy looked at him.
“You stick to me, boy, and we’ll own the town.”
“Don’t get swelled up,” said Rico, “just because you happened to be in the know.”
That’s what she liked about Rico. He was hard to impress.
“Hell of a lot of thanks I get for it,” said Blondy.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Rico, his head buzzing with projects, “you’ll get something better than thanks.”
Rico went to the closet and got his coat and hat.
“Wait a minute, big boy,” said Blondy, “you ain’t heard it all. Listen, that joint of Arnie’s is worth plenty of dough. He ain’t gonna give it up without a battle.”
“Hell,” said Rico, “he’s yellow.”
“Sure he is. But he’s tricky. Rico, if you can’t work the Joe Peeper stunt, here’s a lever. Remember Limpy John?”
“Sure,” said Rico, “they bumped him off.”
“Who did?”
“The cops.”
Blondy laughed.
“They thought they did. Arnie bumped him off.”
Rico grinned.
“I got you.”
Rico put on his overcoat.
“Be around tonight?” asked Blondy.
“No. I got business.”
“Monkey business.”
“No, I got to go cross town. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”
Blondy lay back on the davenport.
“You’ll sure be missing something,” she said.
“I’ll ketch up,” said Rico.
When Rico had gone, Blondy played a couple of rolls on the pianola, then she drank half a pint of liquor and went back to bed.
V
Rico found the door of his apartment unlocked. Before entering he unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his automatic. Only one person had a key to his apartment except himself: Otero. If Otero wasn’t in there then whoever was in there was in trouble. Rico opened the door slowly. Otero was sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall, smoking a cigarette and dozing.
“Otero!”
Otero opened his eyes.
“Hello, boss.”
Rico locked the door behind him.
“Listen, don’t you know better than to leave that door open?”
“I forgot, Rico.”
Rico took off his overcoat and hat.
“You better keep your head working, boy,” said Rico, “or you’ll get your neck stretched. What you doing here, anyway?”
Otero got up from his chair and stood dangling his hat.
“I want money.”
Rico looked at him.
“I’m broke boss. I ain’t got a cent.”
Rico laughed. Otero seemed so helpless.
“You mean to tell me you ain’t got a cent out of that Casa Alvarado split?”
Otero shrugged.
“Well, Seal she spends money, spends money. I take it out of my pocket till I ain’t got any more.” Otero shrugged and rolled a fresh cigarette.
Rico took out his billfold and handed Otero a fifty.
“I’ll take that out of your next split.”
Otero smiled.
“That’s all the same to me, boss.”
He was speaking the truth. He hadn’t the slightest conception of the value of money. He spent till what he had was gone, then he asked Rico for more. Rico shook his head.
“Listen, Otero, ain’t you never gonna get no sense! You got over a grand and a half out of that Casa Alvarado stand. And here you are broke. Why some guys work a whole year for less than that.”
Otero shrugged.
“I have worked for two pesos a week.”
Rico took some small change out of his pocket and handed it to Otero.
“Go down to the corner and get a couple of Tribunes. Get three.”
“Three of the same kind?”
“Sure.”
Otero went out. Rico opened the window a few inches and sat down beside it. There was a touch of spring in the air and it made him feel restless. He wanted to be doing things. In a week or less, he’d have Little Arnie’s big gambling joint. That meant dough and plenty of it. He’d turn it over to Sam Vettori and let him run it. Sam was looking for something to do. Then maybe he could muscle in on the North Side graft. That wasn’t easy. Pete Montana was a wise bird and he had the North Side tied up. Well, maybe the Big Boy could help him there. Rico jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down.
Otero came in with the papers. Rico took them from him and tore one of them apart till he came to the magazine section. There it was. Big type proclaimed:
Italian underworld chief given big feed
Otero, looking over Rico’s shoulder, saw the flashlight picture. In his excitement he pushed Rico aside and placing his finger on a section of the picture, cried:
“There I am!”
Rico took the other two papers apart and got out the magazine sections. Then he put the three sections side by side and compared them.
“All too dark,” he said.
Nevertheless, having chosen the clearest one of the three, he took his scissors and cut it out.
“I want one too,” said Otero.
“All right,” said Rico, “help yourself.”
VI
DeVoss was standing in the lobby when Rico came in. DeVoss looked him over thoroughly, positive that he was out of his element in an atmosphere as exclusive as that of The Bronze Peacock. Not that Rico looked the least bit shabby. If anything, he was dressed more carefully than usual, from his modish derby to his fawn-coloured spats. The big ulster he was wearing hid the loud striped suit and a plain dark muffler hid the loud striped tie. No, sartorially Rico could pass at The Bronze Peacock. But there was something vulgar and predatory about him that did not escape DeVoss.
“That’s a bad one there,” he told himself.
Rico glanced about the lobby, taking everything in from habit. It was not a good plant but it could be worked. Not that he had any intention of working it, but you never know. He came up to DeVoss and said:
“Excuse me, but where’ll I find the manager of this place.”
DeVoss looked at him coldly.
“I’m the manager.”
Rico grinned.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we got a mutual friend. The Big Boy tells me you and him does business together.”
DeVoss’s manner changed abruptly.
“Oh, yes. You’re one of his friends, are you? What can I do for you?”
“I want to see Joe Massara.”
“That’s easy,” said DeVoss, “he’s back in his dressing-room. I’ll take you back.”
Rico followed DeVoss, and they went up a few steps at the end of the lobby and came out into the club proper. It was empty except for a couple of electricians who were working on the stage spotlights.
“So you’re one of the Big Boy’s friends,” said DeVoss, curious.
“I’m Rico.”
DeVoss looked at him, startled.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re Rico.”
All the way up the rear corridor DeVoss kept looking sideways at Rico. One of Little Arnie’s men had told him about the new Vettori gang chief. Dangerous as dynamite!
DeVoss knocked at Joe’s door. Someone called “come in.” DeVoss opened the door and Rico followed him into the room. Joe was sitting in his shirt sleeves, his vest off, displaying a pair of fancy suspenders. (Rico made a mental note of the suspenders. His taste ran more to fancy sleeve garters. But if men like Joe were wearing fancy suspenders, why, he’d have to get himself a pair.) Olga Stassoff, in a black, red and gold Japanese kimono was lying on a lounge, holding a Pekinese on her chest and rubbing its face against her own. A big man in evening clothes was standing with his back to the door. When Joe saw Rico he got to his feet in a hurry and stood smiling a little uneasily. The big man turned around.
“Mr. Rico wants to see you, Joe,” said DeVoss; then he put his hand on Rico’s arm and said: “When you get done with Joe, why, come up to the office and we’ll have a little drink.”
“Sorry,” said Rico, “I don’t use it. But thanks just the same.” DeVoss’s eyebrows rose.
“You mean you don’t drink!”
“Rico drinks milk,” said Joe, trying to be funny.
But Rico didn’t even smile.
“Yeah,” he said, “sometimes I drink milk.”
“Well, drop in anyway on your way out,” said DeVoss.
DeVoss closed the door. Rico noticed that the girl in the Japanese kimono was staring at him. She didn’t look like much to him; too skinny; all the same he insolently ran his eyes over her. The big man said:
“I guess there’s no use for us to offer you a drink.”
Joe took Rico by the arm.
“Olga, I want you to meet Rico. Rico, this is Olga Stassoff.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Rico.
Olga sat up and tried to smile, but it was no use. Rico was repulsive to her, principally because she was certain that he had killed Joe’s friend, Tony, but also because he stared at her insolently with his small, pale eyes.
“This boy here,” said Joe, taking the big man familiarly by the arm, “is Mr. Willoughby, the millionaire.”
“Why bring that up?” said Willoughby.
Rico had an instinctive respect for wealth. Money was power. He smiled affably, and offered his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
Willoughby shook hands strenuously, then he inquired:
“Have you got some private business with Joe?”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “but there ain’t no hurry about it.”
“That’s all right,” said Willoughby. “Olga and I’ll go over next door. Eh, Olga? When you get through, why, give us a rap and we’ll come back. Don’t suppose I could persuade you to join us in a little supper before the show?”
Rico was flattered.
“Well,” he said, “I might.”
“Good,” said Willoughby; then taking Olga by the hand he pulled her to her feet. But Olga hesitated and stood looking from Joe to Rico.
“Run along, baby,” said Joe.
“Well, don’t take all night about it,” said Olga.
“I won’t keep him long,” Rico put in.
When Olga and Willoughby had gone, Rico said:
“Flying pretty high, ain’t you, Joe?”
“Willoughby’s just one of Olga’s fish. He’s gonna back her in a big show.”
“Yeah? Well, if that bird’s got a million bucks you both better clamp on to him. Nice little Jane you got, Joe.”
“Olga’s OK,” said Joe.
Rico unbuttoned his ulster to display his finery. He had on one of his striped suits. It was dead black with a narrow pink stripe. The colour scheme was further complicated by a pale blue shirt and an orange and white striped tie adorned with the ruby pin.
Joe stared at him.
“All lit up, ain’t you, Rico?” he said.
Rico nodded, pleased.
“Yeah, I kind of got it into my head I ought to dress up now.”
“They tell me you crowded Sam out,” said Joe. Rico looked at him.
“Didn’t nobody tell you the boys was giving a banquet for me?”
“Yeah, they told me,” said Joe, hurriedly, “but it was on at the wrong time for me.”
Rico took out a cigar and bit off the end of it.
“I ain’t seen you since the big stand.”
“No,” said Joe looking at the floor. “I been laying low. They had me scared.”
Rico banged his fist on the arm of his chair.
“Goddamn it, Joe, what you got up your sleeve?”
Joe looked startled. He sat silent and from time to time raised his eyes to glance at Rico, who was staring at him.
“Spill it, Joe,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Joe, “I been making pretty good money with my dancing. Olga and me has got a turn together that’s going over big. They want to put us in a show. Listen, Rico, I got enough of the racket. This last stand damn near fixed me. Jesus, but we was lucky.”
“We ain’t out yet,” said Rico, “and we don’t want no softies spoiling things.”
Rico and Joe stared at each other for a moment. Joe began to grow pale.
“You ain’t dumb, Joe,” said Rico, “what the devil! You mean to tell me you’re gonna quit the racket. Why, boy, you ain’t seen nothing yet. In a couple of weeks I’m gonna take over Little Arnie’s joint. The Big Boy even wants to be declared in. Listen, Joe, you’re a smart boy and I can use you. To hell with that dancing stuff. As a front it’s OK, but no man’s gonna make his living that way.”
Joe slumped down in his chair.
“I got your number, Joe,” Rico went on, “it’s that damn skirt. She’s making a softie of you, Joe.”
“Lord, Rico,” said Joe, “can’t a guy quit? I ain’t gonna spill nothing. You think I want to get my neck stretched?”
“Yeah? Look at Tony. He turned soft and they patted him with a spade. Once a guy turns soft he ain’t no good in this world. Didn’t Humpy get soft on Red Gus and turn State’s? Yeah! Who got the neck stretching? Red Gus. Humpy got fifteen years and he’ll be out in half of that.”
Joe slumped further down in his chair.
“Rico, you know I ain’t yellow.”
“All right,” said Rico, “if that’s the dope, I can use you. Ottavio and me has been figuring on a little stand that won’t be half bad. I need a good inside man, Joe. A cut will be worth two grand at least.”
Someone knocked at the door. It was DeVoss. He came over to Rico and said:
“Mr. Rico, there’s a couple of dicks out in the lobby. When I asked them what they wanted, they said they was just looking around.”
Rico said:
“Two bits it’s Flaherty. All right, Mr. DeVoss, thanks.”
DeVoss went out. Joe got to his feet and turned agonized eyes on Rico.
“What did you have to come clear across town for, Rico? Can’t you let me alone?”
Rico paid no attention to him.
“There’s one Irishman,” he said, “that ain’t long for this world.”
“Rico,” said Joe, “for God’s sake stay over in your own end of town. I don’t want the bulls coming here.”
“Listen,” said Rico, his eyes glowing, “if I hear any more of this softie stuff I’ll only be back once more.”
Willoughby and Olga came in.
“Didn’t you rap for us?” asked Willoughby.
“No, that was DeVoss,” said Rico, “but we’re done. Say Mr. Willoughby, I sure am sorry but I got to pass up that invitation of yours. I got some important business with a couple of guys.”
“Sorry,” said Willoughby.
“Yes, we’re sorry,” said Olga, trying to be affable on Joe’s account.
Rico shook hands with Joe.
“I’ll be seeing you.”
“All right, Rico,” said Joe.
When Rico emerged he saw DeVoss coming down the corridor. He looked somewhat agitated.
“They’re sure enough looking for you, Mr. Rico. For Lord’s sake don’t cause no trouble in my place.”
Rico grinned.
“There won’t be no trouble unless them damn dummies out there start it.”
Rico followed DeVoss back through the club. On the stage the orchestra was tuning up and few early couples were sitting at the tables. When they got to the lobby Rico saw Flaherty and another detective. Flaherty came over to him.
“Well, Rico,” he said, “kind of out of your territory, ain’t you?”
“What the hell of it?”
Rico buttoned his ulster and carefully arranged his muffler.
“Oh, nothing. Don’t you remember I told you I was keeping an eye on you? Sure thing. I’m interested in young guys that want to get up in the world.”
“Aw, can that,” said Rico.
He noticed that people were coming into the place; in the club the orchestra had begun to play. He remembered what the Big Boy had said about DeVoss.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, “no use causing DeVoss no trouble. You bulls got about as much regard for a guy as a couple of hyenas.”
“You’re long on regard yourself, ain’t you, Rico?” said Flaherty, laughing.
Rico nodded to DeVoss and went out. Flaherty and the other detective followed him. Rico was standing at the curb under the canvas marquee. They came up to him. He stared at Flaherty.
“Listen, Flaherty,” he said, “did you ever stop to think how you’d look with a lily in your hand?”
“I never did,” said Flaherty, with a sneer. “I been at this game for twenty-five years and I’ve got better guys than you hung, and I never got a scratch.”
Rico took out a cigar and lit it. A taxi drew up at the curb.
“Well, here’s my wagon,” said Rico, “want to take a ride?”
“No,” said Flaherty, “when we take a ride together I’ll have the cuffs on you.”
“No Irish bastard’ll ever put no cuffs on Rico!”
Flaherty’s face was red, but he turned on his heel and was about to go when Rico said:
“And another thing, Flaherty, you was always OK with me, see, but now you ain’t. You ain’t got nothing on me and you ain’t got no business trailing me every place I go. Take a tip. Sam and me’re getting tired of seeing you guys climb the stairs. The first floor’s open to anybody, they even allow cops in there, but the upstairs is private.”
“Yeah?” said Flaherty, who had succeeded in controlling his temper.
“Yeah. Some day one of you wise dicks is gonna make a one way trip up them stairs.”
“Getting up in the world, ain’t you, Rico?” said Flaherty, “maybe you better run for mayor.”
Rico slammed the door of the cab. Flaherty turned to the man with him and said:
“I’ll get that swell-headed dago if it’s the last thing I ever do.”