Little Caesar
Pepi found two chairs. Joe Sansone and Rico sat down; Pepi stood behind
Rico’s chair.
Little Arnie turned to the two men sitting beside him. They were
strangers to Rico and they looked tough.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” said Arnie, “but it’s a private
row, so you guys better beat it.”
Rico said very quietly:
“Nobody’s gonna leave this room.”
One of the toughs shouted:
“Think not, wop! Well, who the hell’s gonna stop us.”
Before Rico could reply, Joe Sansone said:
“Me, I’m gonna stop you, see! And I ain’t gentle. I’m just itching
to put some lead in a couple of hard guys.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, smiling, “you guys are invited to this private
party.”
The two men looked at Arnie, who sat tapping his desk with a pencil.
“Say,” said one, “you sure got a fine bunch of friends, Arnie.”
“Yeah,” said Arnie.
Pepi laughed and said:
“Yeah, he sure has. Arnie, you ought to had better sense than to get a
couple of outside yaps to bump Rico off.”
Nobody said anything. Arnie took out a cigar and lit it. The two
strangers sat staring at Rico. Pepi sat staring at them. Finally he
asked:
“Where you guys from?”
The men looked uneasily at Arnie. Little by little they were losing
their nerve.
“Speak up,” said Pepi, “where you guys from?”
“We’re from Detroit,” said one of the men.
“Where the hell’s that?” Joe Sansone inquired. “I never heard of it.”
“Say,” said Pepi, “don’t you know that tough guys like you
oughtn’t to be running around loose. No sir. You’re liable to get
arrested for firing a rod in the city limits.”
“Listen,” said one of the men from Detroit, “what you guys got against
us? We ain’t done nothing. We just got in.”
They were thoroughly intimidated.
Arnie, who had recovered his poise, said:
“Well, Rico, what’s the talk? Let’s have it.”
Pepi and Joe Sansone both started to talk at once, but Rico motioned
for them to be quiet.
“Arnie,” said Rico, “you’re through. If you ain’t out of town by
tomorrow morning, you won’t never leave town except in a box.”
Arnie said nothing but sat staring at the smoke rising from his cigar.
“In the first place,” Rico went on, “you been double-crossing me for
two months. In the second place you hire these bums here to pop me. Now
I guess that’s about all.”
Arnie laughed.
“Rico,” he said, “somebody has sure been stringing you. Why, you
ought to know I wouldn’t double-cross you. Hell, that wouldn’t help me
none.”
“Can that,” said Rico. “Your number’s up, Jew. Take it like a man.”
Arnie’s face got red.
“Listen, Rico, if you think you can muscle into this joint you’re off
your nut.”
“All right, Joe,” said Rico, jerking his head in Joe Peeper’s
direction, “spill it.”
Joe Peeper looked sideways at Arnie.
“The books’re crooked, Rico,” said Joe Peeper; “he’s been gypping you
out of half your split every week.”
The Detroit toughs began to shift about uneasily.
“Well, you two-timing bastard,” said Arnie.
Rico laughed.
“Arnie,” he said, “that’s that. Here’s the dope. You get your hat and
beat it. Leave the burg. If I ever hear about you being in town again,
why, I’m gonna turn the Killer loose on you.”
“Yeah,” said Pepi, “and I never did like kikes.”
“I ain’t any too fond of them, myself,” said Joe Sansone.
Arnie meditated. Rico said:
“I been square with you, Arnie, but you couldn’t stand prosperity,
that’s all. So take it standing up.”
“What the hell else can he do?” Pepi demanded.
“I’ll tell you what I can do,” said Arnie, “I can have a talk with Mr.
Flaherty.”
Arnie studied Rico carefully to see what effect this would have. But
Rico merely smiled at him.
“Getting pretty low, Arnie,” he said, “when you take the bulls in with
you.” Then he paused and leaned forward in his chair. “If you go to see
Mr. Flaherty you better have an alibi because he might ask you about
Limpy John.”
Arnie dropped his cigar and sat staring into space, his hands lying
palms up on the table.
“All over but the shouting,” said Joe Sansone, “somebody better throw
in a towel. But I don’t suppose the dirty bums in Detroit ever heard of
towels.”
“Aw, lay off of us,” said one of the Detroit toughs.
Joe Sansone stared at him.
“Say, Gyp-the-Blood, I bet they think you’re a pretty hard bird where
you live, don’t they?”
Arnie turned to Joe Peeper.
“Well, Joe,” he said, “you sure put the skids under me.”
“Sure I did,” said Joe Peeper; “you thought you could bat me around and
make me like it.”
Pepi laughed.
“Arnie,” he said, “you better go back to Detroit with your boy friends.”
When Rico and his men left Arnie’s joint Joe Peeper followed them. As
soon as they reached the pavement, Joe walked up to Rico and said:
“You sore at me, Rico?”
All Rico’s men stopped and stood staring at Joe, wondering what his
game was.
“You guys get in the car,” said Rico.
They all got in except Pepi, who stood with his back against the car,
his right hand in his pocket. Pepi didn’t trust anybody who had ever
been mixed up with Little Arnie.
“What’s on your mind, Joe?” Rico demanded.
“I thought you acted like you was sore at me,” said Joe Peeper; “honest
to God, Rico, I didn’t know nothing about them Detroit bums. I didn’t
know what Arnie was up to. Lord, you know I wouldn’t double-cross you
after all you done for me.”
“Well, who said you did?”
“Nobody,” said Joe, “only it looked funny, and I thought maybe you guys
had got a wrong notion. I’d be a sap to pull anything like that.”
Rico laughed.
“Forget it,” he said.
Rico started to get into the automobile, but Joe took hold of his arm.
“How about me, Rico?” he said. “If I stick around here they’ll bump me
off sure.”
“Yeah?” said Rico; “say, them guys wouldn’t bump nobody off now. But
get in. I can use you, Joe.”
Joe got in the back seat with Otero and Ottavio Vettori. He talked to
them all the way back to The Palermo, trying to get in good with them,
but they said nothing.
IV
The next day in the society column of one of the Chicago papers there
appeared a small item, which read:
“Mr. Arnold Worch, of the North Side, has just left for Detroit where
he intends to spend the summer. He was accompanied by two of his
Detroit friends, who have been in Chicago for a short stay.”
This was the work of Ottavio Vettori. The underworld was convulsed
and thousands of extra copies of the paper were sold. The clipping
was to be found pasted up in all the barrooms, gambling joints, and
dance-halls. Rico and Ottavio Vettori had become famous over night.
Little Arnie wasn’t the only one who left town. Several of Little
Arnie’s henchmen, who had been closely connected with the attempted
killing, followed him into exile. Joseph Pavlovsky, the doorman, who
had driven the car, went to Hammond, where, on the money Arnie had
given him, he opened a speak-easy. Pippy Coke, who with the two
Detroit gunmen had done the shooting, went with Pavlovsky, and they
were followed by two croupiers, who had shadowed Rico.
Arnie’s gang was smashed and the Little Italians took over a territory
they hadn’t controlled since the days of Monk De Angelo.
Arnie had come to Chicago from New York about five years ago. His
reputation had got so bad in New York that no one would do business
with him. He came west with a small stake and was lucky enough to
arrive at just the right time. Kips Berger, also formerly of New York
and once one of Arnie’s pals, had gone broke and was willing to sell
out his big gambling joint for practically nothing. Arnie bought it
and prospered. This gambling joint was in a neutral zone, touching
Little Italy on the south and the vast territory that Pete Montana
controlled on the north. Arnie was acute enough to see his advantage.
He worked hard at his job and in a little while had consolidated his
territory. But he was not a good gang chief: first, because he was
a coward, second, because his closest associate couldn’t trust him,
third, because he was inclined to lose his head in an emergency.
His lieutenant, Jew Mike, was a tougher and more violent replica of
his chief. Between them they bossed the territory, but under them the
gang never prospered and their hold was at best precarious. They held
on only because there was little or no opposition. Their gangsters were
a poor lot and were content to take small splits. On the south, Sam
Vettori was slipping and his lethargy prevented him interfering; on the
north the great Pete Montana was magnificently indifferent.
Arnie had been slipping for the last year or so, and Rico’s sudden
rise had accelerated his decline. Arnie, fearing the worst, committed
blunder after blunder; first, he made advances to Rico, then, getting
Rico’s protection for a thirty percent split, things looked too easy
and he began to double-cross him. Lastly, although he should have known
better, he made the tactical error of trying to get Rico killed. If he
had succeeded his position would not have been improved; he would have
been worse off, because the Vettori gang would have made short work of
him.
No one regretted the passing of Little Arnie. He had never been
straight with anybody. No one could depend on him and he had none of
the qualities that go to make up a good gang chief. The wonder is that
he lasted as long as he did.
Arnie’s fall was the signal for a series of minor tumbles. Jew Mike,
whose joint Bat Carillo and his gang had demolished, fled to the South
Side, where he opened a couple of vice-joints. Kid Burg moved to
Cicero, and Squint Maschke, after a short exile, offered his services
to Rico, who gave him twenty-four hours to make a second disappearance.
With the fall of Arnie’s three lieutenants, the last vestiges of his
rule vanished.
V
Otero helped Rico out of his coat, then, while Rico doused his face at
the wash stand, he sat down, tipped back his chair and rolled himself a
cigarette.
“You better lay down, Rico, and get some rest,” said Otero; “you ain’t
looking so good.”
“I’m O.K.,” said Rico.
But this was bravado. He had slept only four hours in the last two
days; his face was pale and drawn and he suffered from an intermittent
fever. His wound, though a slight one, was not healing properly, and
The Sheeny had warned him that he had better take it easy. Inactivity
at any time was abhorrent to Rico; now it was impossible. His big
chance had come. Nothing could stop him now but a hunk of lead in the
right spot.
Rico, a little unsteady on his legs, stood staring at Otero.
“You’re sure making yourself at home,” he said.
“Well,” said Otero, “I think I stay.”
Rico laughed.
“Listen, I don’t need no nurse. Beat it.”
“No,” said Otero, tossing away his cigarette and starting to roll
another one, “I think I stay.”
Rico walked over to the bed and stood staring at it. If he had been
alone he would have flopped down and been asleep in an instant.
“Think I’ll catch a little sleep,” he said; “you beat it, Otero.”
Otero didn’t say anything. He finished rolling his cigarette, lit
it, and tipped his hat down over his eyes.
“Goddam it,” cried Rico, “beat it! I’m sick of you trailing me like a
Chicago Avenue bull. I ain’t gonna drop in my tracks.”
“All right,” said Otero, “you lay down. I finish my cigarette.”
Rico threw himself on the bed, fully dressed except for his coat. He
put his hands under his head and tried to keep awake by staring at the
ceiling. But in a moment he was asleep.
Otero sat looking at his chief. All along he’d known. Rico was a great
man like Pancho Villa. Even in Toledo when he and Rico were sticking up
filling-stations, he knew. A little, skinny young fellow with a little
mustache, sure, that’s what everybody saw. But everybody didn’t have