Little Caesar
“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 a 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 got red, but he turned on his heel and was about
to go when Rico said:
“And another thing, Flaherty, you was always O.K. 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.”
PART V
I
There were quite a few wise boys in Little Italy who thought that
Rico’s sensational rise was a fluke. The matter was talked about a good
deal and he was unfavorably compared with Nig Po and Monk de Angelo,
former leaders, and there were even those who considered him inferior
to Killer Pepi, Ottavio Vettori, and Joe Sansone. This confusion arose
because Rico was not understood. He had none of the outward signs of
greatness. Neither the great strength and hairiness of Pepi, nor the
dash and effrontery of Ottavio Vettori, nor the maniacal temper of
Joe Sansone. He was small, pale and quiet. In spite of his new finery
he wasn’t much to look at. He did not swagger, he seldom raised his
voice, he never bragged. In other words, the general run of Little
Italians could find nothing in him to exaggerate; they could not make
a legendary figure of him because the qualities he possessed were
qualities they could not comprehend. The only thing that redeemed
him in their eyes was his reputation as a killer.
Rico was brave enough, but he did not flaunt his bravery like Kid Bean.
Rico was cunning enough, but cunning was not an obsession with him as
it was with Sam Vettori. Rico was capable of sudden audacity, but even
his audacity had a sort of precision and was entirely without the dash
of Ottavio’s.
Rico, while he was small and pale, was capable of great endurance,
but this endurance of his was nothing compared to Killer Pepi’s
inhuman vitality. Rico’s great strength lay in his single-mindedness,
his energy and his self-discipline. The Little Italians could not
appreciate qualities so abstract.
The men that were considered his rivals were really not to be compared
with him. Killer Pepi was strong and courageous, but he was very
erratic and a drug-addict. Ottavio Vettori was daring enough and cool
in a tight place, he could shoot straight and he feared nothing, but
he was light-minded, dissipated his energies on all sorts of follies,
and ran after every woman that looked at him. Joe Sansone, though
brave enough and dependable when it came to a sudden action, was a
periodic drunkard, and, generally speaking, nervous and unreliable.
Sam Vettori, a good man once, had let his congenital lethargy and his
congenital love of trickery overcome him; he had become petty and had
entirely lost the initiative which, years ago, had put him at the head
of the gang. Now he was not even taken seriously by the men he had once
led, and but for Rico’s authority, he would have sunken into obscurity.
The case of Sam Vettori was a strange one, without its parallel in gang
annals. In Little Italy there is no such thing as abdication unless it
is accompanied by flight. The old gang leader who is superseded has
two alternatives: flight or death. Sam had escaped both. His growing
inability to make decisions had lost him his power, but it had also
saved his life. Rico did not consider him dangerous. But that was not
all. Rico considered him useful. That saved him from flight. With the
proper guidance, Sam Vettori was an asset to any gang. He was wise and
he knew the ropes.
Sam was docile; not that his hatred for Rico had abated; but
things were breaking good, money was rolling in, and Sam loved money
above all things. The Vettori gang had never known such prosperity
before. Sam was quick to see where his advantage lay. Rico could be
killed. Scabby, who hated Rico for some fancied slight and who, for
this reason, was faithful to Sam, would have done it. But what would
have been the good of that? Sam knew that he was through as a gang
leader. With Rico dead, there would be a mad scramble for leadership.
Besides, Rico had the devil’s own luck, and Scabby might fail. If he
failed, Scabby’s life and his own wouldn’t be worth a plugged dime.
No, Sam Vettori accepted a somewhat odd situation philosophically and
prospered.
II
Blondy Belle lolled back in her chair and put her fat hands on the
table. Rico sat opposite her with his hat tilted over his eyes.
“Well,” said Blondy Belle, “I guess that’s it, ain’t it, Rico?”
Rico nodded.
“I told you not to give that bird a chance. He thinks you’re soft.”
Rico smiled and twisted his diamond ring round and round.
“He raised the split to fifty percent, and the books were straight.”
“Well,” said Blondy, “he couldn’t stand prosperity. Listen, you’re
gonna let him have it, ain’t you?”
Blondy hated Little Arnie so that she couldn’t sleep at night. She
couldn’t understand Rico’s lenience.
“No,” said Rico.
“Hell,” said Blondy, “you’re getting soft.”
“Aw, can that,” said Rico; “you want me to get my neck stretched over a
dirty double-crosser that ain’t worth a good bullet? Listen, I’m gonna
run that bird out of town.”
Blondy was disgusted. She started to get to her feet, but Rico reached
across the table and pushed her back into her chair.
“Sit down,” he said, “and cut the funny stuff. If you women ain’t
awful! Use your head, that’s what you got it for.”
Blondy sulked. Across the room the orchestra started up and couples
crowded out into the roped-off dance floor.
“Don’t they ever get sick of dancing?” said Blondy, in a bad temper.
Rico got to his feet.
“Listen,” he said, “get yourself a cab and beat it. Go home and take
some aspirin and hit the hay. If you’d lay off that bad liquor you
wouldn’t always be beefing.”
Blondy looked at Rico for a moment, then she said:
“Aw, sit down, Rico. I’ll snap out of it.”
“No,” said Rico, “I got business to look after and I’m getting sick of
this beefing. See, I’m getting sick. Any more of this kind of stuff and
I’m gonna get me another woman. Hell, I might as well talk to Flaherty
as you.”
Blondy got to her feet without speaking. Rico never kidded; he meant
what he said. Blondy was not used to men like Rico. She often
wondered why it was she couldn’t seem to get any hold on him.
Silently they walked around the little, roped-off dance floor. Rico
told one of the waiters to get him a cab, then, to pass the time, he
started putting nickels in a slot machine. After the third nickel, the
bell rang and Rico won fifty cents; on the sixth nickel he won again.
“Ain’t that good!” said Rico.
He called the man behind the counter.
“Say,” he said, “have you seen anybody fooling with this machine?”
The man nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I seen Ottavio doing something to it.”
Rico laughed.
“Can you beat that petty crook! He’ll be robbing blind men next. Say,
tell Sam to get all the machines overhauled. What the hell! He might as
well hand out nickels over the counter.”
Blondy laughed, glad of this opportunity to put on a change of front.
“Boy, you don’t miss anything,” she said.
“Well,” said Rico, serious, “what’s the use of letting somebody gyp
you?”
The waiter they had sent for the cab came to tell them that it was
outside.
Blondy put her hand on Rico’s arm.
“Listen, wise boy,” she said, “you got the right dope about that Little
Arnie business. Run him out, that’s O.K., but do it up brown.”
“You watch,” said Rico.
He put her in the cab.
“Gonna give me a ring tonight, Rico?” she asked.
“Can’t say.”
“Well, don’t let me ketch you with any more dark hairs on your coat.”
“Can that!” said Rico.
Blondy slammed the cab door. Rico stood and watched the cab till it
disappeared. Blondy was just like any other woman. Now she had got
to the grand rush stage. Always beefing about something. Rico stood
looking down the street. It was hot and the city sweltered, but now and
then you could feel a breath of lake wind. He looked up at the
sky. Stars everywhere.
“It’s a swell night,” said Rico.
Contrary to custom, he decided to walk down to the news-stand and get
a paper. Since his rise, he seldom went out unaccompanied; never at
night. Otero, Killer Pepi and Bat Carillo had constituted themselves
his body-guard and one of them was always within calling distance.
They were jealous of this privilege and sometimes quarreled among
themselves. But the night tempted Rico; the atmosphere of The Palermo