Little Caesar
the eyes of Otero.
Otero flung his second cigarette on the floor and rolled another one.
Rico turned from side to side in his sleep and mumbled. His face was
white and drawn. Otero got to his feet and went over to look at him.
No, Rico was not well. Otero put his hand on Rico’s forehead. Fever! He
stood looking down at his chief, shaking his head.
“Like hell!” cried Rico; “you can’t hand Rico none of that bunk. No
Irish bastard’ll ever put no cuffs on Rico.”
Otero went back to his chair and sat dozing under his big hat, while
Rico tossed from side to side and talked.
Someone knocked at the door. Otero was slow in opening his eyes, but
Rico sat up, stared for a moment, then jumped out of bed and got his
automatic.
“Go see who it is,” he said to Otero; “don’t open the door. Ask them.”
Otero went over to the door and called:
“Who’s there?”
There was a short silence, then a voice with a marked Italian accent
said:
“A couple of right guys. We want to see Rico.”
Otero turned and looked at Rico, who came over to the door.
“Listen, you right guys,” said Rico, “I’ll give you a one-two-three to
get out of that hall and then I’m gonna start pumping lead. Got it?”
There was a pause.
“Rico,” said another voice, a deeper voice with no trace of an
accent, “you don’t know me, but I’m Pete Montana and I want to talk
turkey.”
Otero and Rico exchanged a stupefied look.
“Pete,” said Rico, “do you know the Big Boy?”
“Sure.”
“What’s his name in full?”
“James Michael O’Doul.”
“All right, Otero,” said Rico, “let ’em in.”
Otero unbarred the door. Rico, with his gun still leveled, stood a
little behind the door, watching.
Pete Montana, followed by Ritz Colonna, his lieutenant, came
in. Montana, in private life Pietro Fontano, was a big, solemn,
respectable-looking Italian. He was dressed very quietly, wore no
jewelry, and carried a cane. Colonna, once a ham prize-fighter, was a
small, bull-necked man with a battered, dark face. His clothes were
shabby and he wore an old cap on the side of his head.
Montana and Rico stood measuring each other. Rico looked small and
frail beside the robust Montana, but Rico wasn’t impressed, for Montana
looked fat and puffy, like Sam Vettori. Otero barred the door.
“Get a couple of chairs, Otero,” said Rico.
Otero dragged up the only two chairs in the room and Montana and
Colonna sat down. Otero squatted on his heels with his back to the wall
and Rico sat on the bed.
Montana took out a monogrammed cigar-case and passed it around, then he
selected one of the cigars himself and cut off the end with a little
gold cutter on his watch chain.
“Mopping up, ain’t you, Rico?” asked Montana, who kept his eyes lowered.
“Well,” said Rico, “Arnie was double-crossing me.”
“He wasn’t no good,” said Colonna; “I was just aching to bump that bird
off.”
Montana motioned for him to be quiet.
“They slung some lead, didn’t they, Rico?”
“Yeah, and I stopped some of it. Nothing to shout about.”
“If he’d’ve got you, his number was up,” said Montana, “you know, I
been watching you ever since you muscled in on Sam Vettori.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure thing. We been taking an interest in you, ain’t we, Ritz?”
Ritz grinned.
“That’s the word,” he said.
“Sure,” said Montana, “you’re on the up and up with us.”
“Well,” said Rico, “that’s O.K. with me.”
Montana looked up at Rico suddenly.
“Any guy that can muscle in on Sam Vettori and Little Arnie is on the
up and up with me. The Big Boy’s with me there.”
Rico smoked and said nothing. But he wondered what the game was. Was
Pete Montana getting soft like Sam Vettori? Could it be possible that
the great Pete Montana was turning sap? All this palaver and softie
talk. Rico’s head began to buzz.
“Look,” said Montana, “I used to work Arnie’s territory myself, but it
slowed down, you know what I mean. It wasn’t worth nothing when Kips
Berger had it, and after Arnie got it I didn’t pay no attention. I got
all I can handle, ain’t I, Ritz?”
“That’s the word,” said Ritz.
“Yeah,” said Montana, “by rights that territory’s mine, get the idea?
I could get all the protection I wanted, but I don’t muscle in on no
right guy, see? Kiketown’s yours, Rico.”
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “I ain’t looking for no trouble with you,
Pete.”
“That’s the talk,” said Montana; then he turned to Ritz: “see, Ritz,
you had the wrong steer.”
“Yeah, I had the wrong steer,” said Ritz.
Montana turned back to Rico.
“Yeah,” he said, “some wise guys was giving Ritz a lot of bull. Ritz
said you was trying to muscle in on my territory.”
Rico thought he was dreaming. So this was the great Pete Montana. A guy
that couldn’t turn over in bed without getting plastered all over the
front page. All that softie stuff was a front. Pete Montana was scared.
“No,” said Rico, “them guys don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Montana smiled blandly.
“Maybe we can team up on a job or two, Rico. I like your work. The
Big Boy’s no fool and he thinks you’re the goods. Yeah, maybe we can
team up, but I ain’t making no promises. Only this. I ain’t looking for
no split on Arnie’s lay-out. She’s yours.”
“Don’t forget the hide-out, chief,” said Ritz.
Montana smiled again.
“By God, I sure enough did forget it. Yeah, Rico, some of Ritz’s boys
has got a hide-out a half a block from Arnie’s joint. That’s O.K.,
ain’t it?”
Rico’s manner changed. He lost his affability and his face became
serious.
“Well,” he said, “as long as there ain’t no cutting in. I won’t stand
for no cutting in.”
Montana looked at Ritz. Ritz said:
“Hell, there won’t be no cutting in.”
“What do you say, Pete?” asked Rico.
Montana meditated, pulling at one of his thick lips. Otero sat watching
Rico. Caramba! Here was little Rico telling the big Pete Montana where
to get off. Otero never took his eyes off Rico’s face.
“Well,” said Montana, “they’re my men and I’m behind them. If
there’s any cutting in, why, I’ll settle with you, Rico. Christ, no use
for us to fight over a little thing like that. Anyway, if we get along,
I’ll put you in on the alcohol racket.”
“All right,” said Rico, “you and me can do business, Pete.”
Montana got up and offered Rico his hand. They pumped arms briefly.
Then Pete said:
“Well, I guess we’ll saunter. But let me give you a tip, Rico. You’re
getting too much notice, get the idea? You got the bulls watching you.
I know a new guy has always got to expect that, but take it easy for a
while. They’ll go to sleep; they always do.”
Rico admired Montana’s shiftiness, but he wasn’t fooled. Pete was
trying to tie him up, make him leery.
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “a new guy has got a lot to learn.”
Montana smiled blandly, certain he had scored.
“Well,” said Montana, “so long. Maybe I’ll drop down to your new joint
and give it the once over some night.”
“All right,” said Rico, “just let me know.”
Otero unbarred the door. Montana started out; Ritz offered his
hand to Rico, then followed his chief. Otero barred the door.
Rico stood in the middle of the room, staring into space. Otero said:
“He ain’t so much.”
Rico laughed out loud.
“Otero,” he cried, “you said a mouthful.”
PART VI
I
Rico felt small and unimportant in the Big Boy’s apartment. He was
intensely self-centered and as a rule surroundings made no impression
on him. But he had never seen anything like this before. He sat in the
big, panelled dining-room, eating cautiously, dropping his fork from
nervousness, and looking furtively about him. From time to time he
pulled at his high, stiff collar, and when he caught the Big Boy’s eye
he grinned.
Joe Sansone had dressed him so that he would look presentable. It
had taken a good deal of management and tact, but Joe Sansone was a
stickler for clothes and persevered with Rico, who swore at him at
first and wouldn’t listen.
“Look, boss,” he said, “you’re getting up in the world. Ain’t none
of us ever been asked to eat with the Big Boy at his dump. Hear what
I’m telling you. Nobody’s ever crashed the gates before but Pete
Montana. See what I mean? You don’t want the Big Boy to think you ain’t
got no class.”
Joe had his own dress suit cleaned and pressed, and punctually at five
he presented himself at Rico’s door with the outfit under his arm. Rico
had resisted from the beginning; first, he balked at the suspenders,
then the starched shirt. Joe, laboring with the studs, the buttoned
shoes, the invincible collar, cursed and sweated. Rico resisted. But
Joe won.
As Joe was ten pounds heavier than Rico, the dress suit was not
precisely a perfect fit, but as Joe said “men are wearing their clothes
a lot looser now.” To which Rico sardonically replied: “Yeah? Say, they
rig you up better than this in stir.”
Finally Joe got Rico into his harness. Rico stamped about declaring
that he’d be goddamned if he’d go out looking like that. Why, the Big
Boy would think he was off his nut.
“You look fine, boss,” said Joe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “all I need is a napkin over my arm.”
But Joe moved Rico’s bureau out from its corner and tipped the
mirror so Rico could get a full length view of himself. He was won
over immediately. Why, honest to God, he looked like one of them rich
clubmen he read about in the magazines. The enormous white shirtfront,
the black silk coat lapels, the neatly-tied white tie dazzled him.
“I guess I don’t look so bad,” he said to Joe; “we got plenty of time,
let’s go down to Sam’s place for a while.”
Rico played with his dessert and looked about the room. The Big Boy
ate with gusto, smacking his lips. The magnificence of the Big Boy’s
apartment crushed Rico. He stared at the big pictures of old time guys
in their gold frames; at the silver and glass ware on the serving
table; at the high, carved chairs. Lord, why, it was like a hop dream.
He shook his head slowly.
“Some dump you got here,” he said.
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, glancing negligently about him, “and I sure
paid for it. See that picture over there?” He pointed to an imitation
♦Valesquez. “That baby set me back one hundred and fifty berries.”
♦ “Valesquez” replaced with “Velázquez”
Rico stared.
“Jesus, one hundred and fifty berries for a picture!”
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “but that ain’t nothing. See that bunch of
junk over there?” He jerked his head in the direction of the serving
table. “That stuff set me back one grand.”
Rico stared.
“One grand for that stuff?”
“Sure,” said the Big Boy, “that’s the real thing. Only what the hell,
I say! A plate’s to eat off of, ain’t it? What’s the odds what it’s
made of? But I got a spell about two years ago. I had a pot full of
money and I thought, well, other guys that ain’t got as much dough as
I got put on a front, so why shouldn’t I? Sure, I could buy and sell
guys that’s got three homes and a couple of chugwagons. So I got a guy
down at a big store, you know, one of them decorators, to pick me out a
swell apartment and fix it up A-1. So he did. I got a library too and
a lot of other stuff that ain’t worth a damn. I was talking to a rich
guy the other day and he said I was a damn fool to buy real books
because he had a library twice as big as mine and dummy books. What the
hell! If a guy’s gonna have a library, why, I say do it right. So there
you are. I got so damn many books it gives me a headache just to look
at ’em through the glass. Shakespeare and all that stuff.”
“Yeah?” said Rico, stupefied.
A servant took away their dessert and brought coffee. Then he passed a
humidor full of cigars. Rico took one of the fat, black cigars, lit it,
and tipped his chair back. What a way to live!
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “I got a lot of dough tied up in this dump. I