Little Caesar
was standing side of Courtney when he dropped. Joe began to sweat.
The line in single file was herded in. Bugs Liska, who was in front of
Joe, whispered:
“Say, what’s this all about?”
The sergeant heard him and leaping across the room grabbed him by the
shoulder.
“Any more of that,” said the sergeant, “and some of you bad eggs is
gonna get cracked.”
“Drop dead,” said Liska.
Joe found himself face to face with the blonde. She stared at him.
Flaherty walked along the line and examined the prisoners. When he got
to Joe, Joe looked away.
“How’s that bath?” asked Flaherty.
“O.K.,” said Joe.
Liska said:
“Say, Irish, what’s this all about?”
“Shut your dirty mouth,” said Flaherty.
A man Joe had never seen before, a big husky man with curly gray hair,
went over to the blonde and said:
“Is he in that bunch, Mrs. Weil?”
The blonde nodded.
“Well, Mrs. Weil, this is a very serious matter so don’t make any
mistakes. Now if you’re sure he’s in that bunch, point him out.”
The blonde compressed her lips and walked over to Joe.
“There he is. There’s the dirty skunk.”
“Jesus,” said Liska, glancing at Joe, “it’s your funeral, hunh?”
The blonde stood glaring at Joe.
“I hope they hang you,” she cried, “shooting a guy like Jim Courtney.”
“I never shot him,” said Joe.
“Shut up,” said Flaherty. “All right, sergeant, march ’em out.”
In the big room Liska said:
“Joe, it sure looks tough for you.”
“They can’t prove nothing,” said Joe.
The sergeant rushed at them.
“Where do you birds think you’re at!” he cried.
Stepping back, he struck Joe a hard blow with his fist. Mechanically
Joe set himself and raised his hands, then, coming to himself, he
dropped his hands and stood looking at the floor. Liska said:
“Say, sergeant, I guess I can go home, can’t I? My old mother’ll be
worried to death.”
The sergeant stared at Liska, then he laughed.
“I’m gonna hang on to you just for fun,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Liska. “Well not long, cause Steve’s gonna spring me.”
The sergeant motioned for the turnkey.
“Lock the dago up,” he said; “you plant yourself over there in a chair,
Bugs.”
* * * * *
Joe lay down and tried to sleep. Over his head the barred window began
to get gray. Morning sure was slow in coming.
Of a sudden he thought of Red Gus. He got to his feet and began to
walk back and forth. Yeah, they sure put the rope on old Gus and there
wasn’t a tougher guy in the world. Yeah, he was so tough he didn’t
die right away and kept kicking. Cops fainted and all that stuff. Joe
climbed up on his bunk and stood tiptoe to look out the window.
Morning was coming. He saw a milk wagon passing the jail. How come he
had to think of Red Gus?
He thought he heard a noise and turned around. There were two cops
standing in front of his cell, looking at him. Joe felt uneasy.
“Want me?” he called.
They didn’t say anything; they just stood there looking, then went away.
Joe got down from the window and sat on his bunk. No use trying to
sleep. Down the corridor someone began to scream. The turnkey passed
his cell on the run. Joe felt his hair stirring and sweat stood out on
his forehead.
“Christ,” he said, “it’s only that dope.”
In a minute the turnkey came back and stopped at Joe’s door.
“Couple of guys coming back to take a look at you,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Joe; “say, what was all the noise?”
“The dope blew his top again,” said the turnkey; “the Doc’s gonna give
him a shot pretty soon.”
The big man with the curly gray hair, Flaherty, and two policemen
came down the corridor.
“All right,” said Flaherty, “let him out.”
The turnkey unlocked the door and pushed Joe into the corridor. They
all stood staring at Joe; nobody said anything.
Finally the gray-haired man said:
“Well, it’s too bad. Nice-looking boy.”
“Yeah,” said Flaherty, “but he’s hell with a gun.”
Joe didn’t say anything. But Flaherty said:
“Joe, I never thought you was the kind of a bird that’d shoot a guy in
the back.”
Joe didn’t say anything.
“Hanging’s too good for you, Joe.”
“Poor old Jim never even had a gun on him. You lousy dago!” cried one
of the policemen, and took a step toward Joe.
Flaherty motioned him back.
“Just let the law take its course, Luke,” he said, “they’ll hang this
baby sure.”
“Will they?” said Joe.
The gray-haired man shook his finger at Joe.
“Yes, my boy, I’m afraid they will.”
“They can’t prove nothing on me,” said Joe; “I wasn’t even in that
end of town the night Courtney was bumped off. That dame’s full of hop.”
One of the policemen stepped past Flaherty and knocked Joe down.
Flaherty grabbed the policeman and pushed him back. Joe got to his feet
and stood holding his jaw.
“I’m gonna put it to you birds for this,” said Joe.
Both of the policemen made a rush at Joe, but Flaherty held them back.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “got an eyeful, Mr. McClure?”
Joe stared at the gray-haired man. So this was the Crime Commission guy
that was kicking up all the row. Joe took a good look at him so he’d
know him the next time he saw him. Maybe, if things broke right, he
could deliver a nice package at that bird’s house some morning.
“Yes,” said Mr. McClure, “lock him up, turnkey.”
The turnkey took Joe by the arm and flung him into his cell. Joe fell
on his hands and knees.
“Say,” said Joe, “what’s the idea?”
The turnkey came over and put his face against the bars.
“Orders, buddy,” he said, then he went away.
Yeah, it was orders all right. They wasn’t going to let up on him till
he spilled something. Joe felt panicky. He flung himself face down on
his bunk and began to sob.
“Won’t I never get out of here?” he said.
* * * * *
They had been questioning Joe for over two hours. He sat under a
blazing light and they sat round him in the darkness. Joe was so
thirsty that he could hardly swallow. They took turns at him: first,
Mr. McClure, then Flaherty, then Rieger. Flaherty sat near him and when
he was slow with his answers rapped him over the knuckles with a ruler.
But Joe stuck it out.
The turnkey took him back to his cell and gave him some water. Joe took
a big drink then lay down on his bunk and tried to sleep, but it was no
use. He felt hot all over and his tongue was swollen.
He put his hands under his head and lay looking at the square
spots of sunshine in the dark corridor.
“God,” he said, “I can’t stand much of this.”
In five minutes the turnkey came back.
“They want you again, kid,” he said.
“God, I can’t move,” said Joe.
The turnkey unlocked the door and came into the cell.
“Get on your feet,” he said, “and snap it up. The prosecutor’s in there
now and you’re gonna ketch hell.”
Joe got slowly to his feet and the turnkey led him down the corridor.
V
Sam Vettori sat half-dozing in an armchair watching a crap game. It
was about eleven o’clock in the morning and most of the blinds were
still down. All the wheels were covered and the chairs were piled up
on the tables. The game was desultory as nobody had much money. As it
wasn’t a house game, but merely some of the Vettori gang amusing
themselves, Sam occasionally staked one or another of the players.
Since the rise of Rico, Sam had confined his efforts to the managing
of Little Arnie’s old joint. He was making money hand over fist and he
was content to sit all day in his armchair and superintend the work of
his employees. He drank wine by the gallon and ate plate after plate of
spaghetti. In a month he put on fifteen pounds. As he was fat to begin
with, this added poundage made him immense. His aquiline features were
puffed out nearly beyond recognition and there were rolls of fat at the
base of his skull. Sam had loosed the reins and gone slack. Formerly,
effort had kept him in better condition, but now, perfectly at ease,
free of responsibility, the deadly lethargy which had threatened him
all his life took possession of him.
Sam crossed his legs with difficulty and took out a stogie. The crap
game had ended in an argument. Kid Bean loudly contended that he had
been gypped.
“Shut up, you guys,” said Sam, “I’m doing you a favor to let you
shoot in here. Any more of this kind of stuff and you don’t do it no
more. If you guys’d save your money you wouldn’t have to be fighting
over two bits.”
“Aw, rest your jaw,” said Kid Bean.
Joe Peeper took the dice and flung them out the window.
“Them babies’ll never bother me no more,” said Joe.
“Can you beat that!” said Kid Bean.
“Well,” said Sam, “since Blackie’s got all the jack, the rest of you
guys can pitch pennies. Listen, Kid, don’t forget you owe me two bucks.”
“You can take it out of my hide,” said the Kid.
“Your hide ain’t worth it,” said Sam.
Chesty, the doorman, came out of Sam’s office rubbing his eyes.
“Sam,” he said, “Scabby wants to see you.”
“Tell him to come out here,” said Sam.
“No,” said Chesty, “he wants to see you private.”
“Hey, Sam,” said Kid Bean, “give us a deck of cards, will you?”
“No,” said Sam, “you don’t even know what they’re for.” He pulled
himself slowly to his feet and turning to Chesty went on: “Get these
guys a pack of cards and lock ’em up some place. They’d bump each other
off for two bits and I don’t want this nice carpet spoiled.”
Yawning and stretching, Sam went into his office and shut the door.
Scabby was standing in the middle of the room, biting his nails.
“Want a bottle of wine or something, Scabby?” asked Sam.
“Christ, no!” cried Scabby.
Sam stared at him, then dropped into a chair.
“Well,” he said, “you look like you got something on your mind, so
spill it.”
Scabby was so nervous that he couldn’t control the muscles of his face.
“You’re goddam right I got something on my mind,” said Scabby, “Joe
spilled the works.”
Sam opened his eyes wide.
“Joe who?”
“Joe Massara,” said Scabby, “they nabbed him on the Courtney business
and he squawked.”
Sam’s jaw fell and he ran his hands over his face in a bewildered way.
“Yeah?” he said.
“It’s the God’s truth,” said Scabby; “boy, the bulls sure played this
one slick. Listen, I didn’t even know nothing about it. They kept the
newspaper guys out and when a couple guys who were in the know came
looking for Joe they told them that they must have him at the Chicago
Avenue station. And out at Chicago Avenue they sent ’em some place
else. Yeah, it’s all over now.”
This was too much for Sam. He just sat there staring at Scabby.
“God, Sam,” said Scabby, astonished, “don’t you get me? It’s all over.
Listen, if it wasn’t for you I’d be on my way right now. I don’t know
whether I’ll be named or not, but I ain’t taking no chances. Love of
God, Sam, don’t just sit there. You got to do something.”
“Joe spilled everything?” asked Sam, taking it in slowly.
“Yeah, he stuck it out for four hours, but he didn’t have a chance.”
There was a flash of the old Sam Vettori. He got up and took Scabby by
the arm.
“Is Rico wised up?”
“No,” said Scabby.
“All right,” said Sam, “you keep your mouth shut.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” said Scabby.
Sam looked about him, bewildered.
“But, good God,” he cried, “what am I gonna do?”
“Well,” said Scabby, “I got a can down here and I’m hitting East. Want
to go with me? I’ll take a chance.”
Sam looked his bewilderment. Things were moving too fast for him. Why,
he hadn’t been out of Chicago for twenty years. He hadn’t been out of
Little Italy for over five. Just pick up and beat it.
“What the hell!” said Sam, “I got a good business.... God, what am I
gonna do?”
Scabby stared at him.
“Why, Sam,” he said, “you must be losing your mind.”
Sam wiped the sweat from his face and sank back into his chair.