Little Caesar
get rent free, though. Eschelman, the contractor, owns this dump and he
knows how I stand in the city. Boy, he puts up what he pleases and gets
away with it. See the idea, Rico? If a guy stands in with me, he owns
the burg.”
“Sure,” said Rico, “you’re a big guy.”
“I get him contracts, too,” said the Big Boy; “course I get mine out of
it, but I made that guy. When he come here from down state he didn’t
have an extra pair of pants, now he’s climbing. Yeah, if I had a
wife and a couple of kids, why, I’d build me a big house out in some
swell suburb, but as it is, I’d just as leave be here on one floor. I
got everything I need and then some.”
“Sure,” said Rico.
“Let’s go in the library,” said the Big Boy, “it’s more comfortable in
there.”
The Big Boy told the servant to take their coffee into the library.
Then he got up and Rico followed him. The Big Boy put his hand on
Rico’s shoulder.
“Kind of lit up yourself tonight, ain’t you, Rico?”
“Yeah, I thought I better put on the monkey suit.”
“That’s right, Rico. May as well learn now.”
“Sure,” said Rico.
The Big Boy motioned Rico to a chair, then sat down. Rico looked about
him at the great expanse of glass guarding tier after tier of books.
Lord, if a guy’d read that many books he’d sure know a lot!
“Rico,” said the Big Boy, “let’s talk serious.”
“All right,” said Rico.
The Big Boy leaned forward in his chair and stared at Rico.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m gonna talk and you ain’t gonna hear a word I
say, see, this is inside dope and if it gets out it’ll be just too bad
for somebody.”
“You know me,” said Rico.
“All right,” said the Big Boy; “get this: if I didn’t think a hell of
a lot of you I wouldn’t be asking you to eat with me. You’re on the
square, Rico, and you’re a comer, see. You got the nerve and you’re
a good, sober, steady guy. That’s what we need. Trouble with most of
these guys they ain’t got nothing from the collar up. O.K. Now, listen.
Pete Montana’s through.”
Rico nearly leapt out of his chair.
“Yeah?”
“Now don’t get excited,” said the Big Boy, “because, when it gets
out, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Ritz Colonna and a couple of other
lowdown bums is gonna make a rush, see, and that means that
somebody’s gonna get hurt.”
“Sure,” said Rico, settling back.
“But not you,” said the Big Boy; “you’re gonna lay back and let them
dumb eggs bump each other off, then we’ll get our licks in, see? Pete’s
through. The Old Man’s gonna have a talk with him tomorrow or the next
day and Pete’s gonna mosey. He’s all swelled up, thinks he’s king and
all that stuff, but wait till the Old Man gets through with him. Why,
he can hang that guy. Besides that, he can turn the Federal guys loose
on him for peddling narcotics. And boy, how he peddles them! He built
that big house of his on ’em. Well, see how things are? I can’t spill
no more.”
“Well,” said Rico, “I’m on.”
“All right,” said the Big Boy, “but listen: I’m doing a hell of a lot
for you and when I get you planted I want plenty of service.”
“You’ll sure get it,” said Rico.
Rico, with the Big Boy’s cigar still between his teeth, lay back in the
taxi and stared out at the tangle of traffic on Michigan Boulevard.
Things were sure to God looking up! Five years ago he wasn’t
nobody to speak of; just a lonely yegg, sticking up chain-stores
and filling-stations. Chiggi had sure given him the right dope. He
remembered one night in Toledo when he was pretty low. There was a
blonde he used to meet at one of the call-houses and she sure did
satisfy him, but, boy, she had to have the coin on the nose or there
wasn’t nothing doing. Well, he didn’t have a red. He was just sitting
there in Chiggi’s thinking about the blonde, when Chiggi came over
and said: “Listen, kid, you got big town stuff in you. What you want
around here? Get somebody to stake you or hit the rods. Hell, don’t be
a piker.” Well, Chiggi staked him, but he blew the stake on the blonde,
oh, boy what a couple of days, and then he hit the rods with Otero.
Little Italy sure looked good to them. They didn’t have a good pair
of pants between them, and a bowl of mulligan tasted better than the
stuff he’d ate at the Big Boy’s. Well, here he was riding taxis and
hobnobbing with guys like James O’Doul, who paid one grand for a bunch
of crockery. Yeah, here he was!
Rico saw nothing but success in the future. With the Big Boy
behind him he couldn’t be stopped, and when he once got some place he
knew how to stay there. Play square with the guys that are square with
you; the hell with everybody else.
Rico smoked his cigar slowly (he had six more of them in his pocket),
and looked absently at the jam of traffic: taxis, Hispano-Suizas,
Fords, huge double-decked busses, leaning as they turned corners.
Rico dropped the cigar butt out the window. Lying back in his seat he
observed:
“And I thought Pete Montana was such a hell of a guy!”
II
Olga was only partly dressed when Joe burst in on her. She looked at
him, startled.
“My Lord,” she said, “what makes you so pale, Joe?”
“Got any liquor?” demanded Joe.
Olga opened a drawer and handed him a flask. He tipped it up and took a
long pull, then he stood with the flask in his hand staring at the wall.
“Joe,” Olga insisted, “what’s wrong with you?”
Joe came to himself, screwed the top on the flask, and handed it back
to Olga.
“Boy, I got a shock,” said Joe.
Olga came over and put her arm around him.
“Tell Olga all about it.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I was finishing up my Pierrot dance, see, and you
know when it’s dark and they got the spot on you you can’t see nothing.
Well, I was circling the outside of the floor like I do before I take
that last leap when some dame at a corner table gives a yell, a hell of
a yell. Sibby hears the yell and switches on all the lights and here
I am, right in front of a dame that looks like she’s off her nut. She
was standing up and she had her hands on the table and she was staring
right at me. If I didn’t feel funny, boy! Well, there was a guy with
her and he kept asking her what was the matter, but she wouldn’t say
nothing. I thought she was gonna jump right on me, she looked so funny,
yeah, that dame sure looked funny.”
Joe paused and meditated. Olga laughed.
“Listen,” she said, “you better lay off the liquor.”
“No, straight,” said Joe, “you know I kind of got the idea she
recognized me or something, but, hell, I never seen her before. She’s
an old dame, about forty, and she’s got peroxide hair. There was a guy
with her, a nice-looking guy, and he kept saying, ‘What’s the matter,
Nell, what’s the matter, Nell,’ but he couldn’t get nothing out of her.”
Olga laughed again.
“Well, this ain’t nothing to write home about,” she said. “I thought I
was gonna get a thrill. We better change bootleggers, Joe.”
“Aw, lay off,” said Joe. “I’m telling you, you’d’ve got all the kick
you’re looking for if you’d heard that dame yell.”
“Well, what happened?” demanded Olga, who was getting impatient.
Joe got out the flask and took another pull at it before he answered
her. The color had come back into his face now and he felt much better.
“Soon as the boss found out there was something wrong he came in
and asked this dame if he could do anything for her. And she says,
‘Yes, get me a taxi.’ The guy with her says, ‘What the devil, Nell.’
And she says, ‘I want to go home.’ So they went out. Boy, the way that
dame looked at me, like I was, God, I don’t know what!”
“Say, listen,” said Olga, “you been hitting the pipe?”
“Aw, lay off,” said Joe; “that dame’s got something on her mind, see.
She’s got something on her mind.”
Someone knocked. Olga called “come in” and a waiter opened the door and
bowed.
“Mr. Willoughby wants to know if we can bring the table in now, Miss
Stassoff.”
“Sure,” said Olga, “bring it in.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the waiter, then he cupped his hands and called down
the corridor: “Allez!”
Joe lay down on the lounge and lit a cigarette. Olga went over to her
dressing-table, made up her face, and put on her Japanese kimono.
Two waiters came in carrying a table; a third followed with a cloth and
silver. When the table was set one of the waiters said:
“Mr. Willoughby wants to know if he can come back now.”
“Sure,” said Olga, “tell him to come right back.”
“Shall we start to serve?”
“Yeah,” said Olga, “right away.”
When the waiters had gone, Joe said:
“I’m getting fed up with this Willoughby guy. He’s a dumb egg.”
“Sure he’s dumb,” said Olga, “but I don’t hold that against him. What I
like about that bird is that he don’t get his hand stuck in his pocket
when the boy comes around with the bill.”
“He sure don’t, that’s a fact,” said Joe, laughing.
“Well, then don’t be so particular,” said Olga; “guys like him are few
and far between.”
Willoughby tapped lightly on the door and then came in. He was freshly
shaven and he looked chubby and boyish.
Joe got up and shook hands with him. Olga said:
“Was you out front?”
“Yes,” said Willoughby; “by the way, Joe, what was all the
commotion?”
“See,” said Joe, turning to Olga. “She thought I was making it up, Mr.
Willoughby.”
“No, he wasn’t making it up,” said Willoughby, serious. “I never heard
such a scream in my life.”
“Don’t remind me,” said Joe; “boy, my hair stood straight up.”
A waiter came in carrying a wine bucket, followed by another waiter
carrying the soup.
“Well,” said Willoughby, “shall we monjay, as they say in France?”
“Oui, monsieur,” said Olga.
“Sure,” said Joe, “I’m ready for the feed-bag in any language.”
They sat down. One of the waiters poured the wine. Willoughby held his
glass up to the light.
“I hope you like this stuff,” he said, “it’s out of my own cellar.”
“I’d like to sleep in that cellar,” said Olga.
“Well,” said Willoughby, “you have a standing invitation.”
They ate in silence for a moment, then Joe said:
“Say, Mr. Willoughby, what you suppose was the matter with that dame?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Oh, forget it, Joe,” said Olga, “she was probably full of hop.”
III
Willoughby passed the cigarettes and they all left the table. Joe went
back to the lounge, Olga sat in one of the armchairs, and Willoughby
pulled up an ottoman and sat facing her.
Willoughby hesitated before he said:
“Olga, when we going to take that little trip?”
“I don’t know,” said Olga.
“What little trip?” asked Joe, looking at Olga.
“Why, I got a cabin up in Wisconsin,” said Willoughby, “and I thought
before it got cold it would be nice for Olga to go up and take a rest.”
“Yeah?” said Joe.
As soon as Willoughby lowered his eyes, Olga winked at Joe.
“Maybe I could pull it,” said Olga.
“Sure,” said Joe, “Olga works too hard, that’s a fact. A little rest
wouldn’t hurt her none.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” said Willoughby. “She could sure get
a rest up there. I got a couple of nice motor boats and the fishing’s
great.”
“Fishing!” said Olga, looking at Joe.
“Well,” Willoughby considered, “maybe you wouldn’t care for that, but
there are any number of things you could do. Anyway, the air’s great,
nothing like this Chicago muck.”
“Sounds good,” said Olga.
The waiters came in to take away the table, but they were immediately
followed by DeVoss, who motioned them out. There was something so
strange about DeVoss’s actions that Joe sat up and stared at him.
DeVoss said:
“Joe, there’s a couple of guys looking for you.”
“Yeah?” said Joe. “What kind of guys?”
“Bulls,” said DeVoss, “what you been up to?”
Olga got to her feet and stood staring at DeVoss. Willoughby
exclaimed:
“What’s all this! What’s all this!”
Joe took an automatic from his hip pocket and put it in Olga’s