Little Caesar
“Look,” said Rico, “it’s snowing.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, looking up mechanically, “snowing hard.”
II
Vettori was sitting in his little office on the main floor. On the
other side of the wall the jazzband was playing, but he paid no
attention. The noise of the jazzband was the same to him as the
ticking of a clock to an ordinary person. He felt very pleasant and
comfortable over his bottle of wine and his plate of spaghetti. Things
were right!
He congratulated himself on his subordinates. Each man a specialist.
Yes, yes! That was the way to do. None of this hit or miss stuff for
Sam Vettori. Rico the best gunman in Little Italy; a swelled head, all
right, but he can be handled, and there you are! Otero so crazy about
Rico he “don’t know nothing.” Follow Rico any place; do anything Rico
tells him. And handy with a rod. Well, well. Not bad for a Mexican. As
a rule foreigners were not right with Sam Vettori, but in general he
had an open mind, and Otero was the goods. And look at Joe Massara,
there was a man for you! A swell Italian who could pass anywhere. One
winter in Florida, so they say, Joe passed himself off as a count and
hooked a rich widow for plenty. Yes, yes! That was Joe for you. As an
inside man you couldn’t beat him. And Tony! He could drive a car sixty
miles an hour straight up the Tribune Tower. Only one thing, sometimes
Tony was undependable. Used to be a choir boy at St. Dominick’s and
that stuff. But he had outgrown that, maybe; anyway he was dead scared
of Rico and that would shut his mouth.
Vettori leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and
unbuttoned his vest. Spaghetti and wine, what is better!
The band stopped playing. Bat Carillo, the bouncer, put his head in the
door.
“Couple of hard guys looking for trouble, boss,” he said.
Vettori looked up.
“Yeah? Know them?”
“Never seen them before.”
Vettori heaved himself to his feet and walked with Carillo to the
swinging doors which separated the back-rooms and kitchen from the club
proper. He pushed the door open about a foot and peered in. Carillo
pointed.
Vettori laughed and closed the door.
“Some of them dumb Irish,” he said; “let ’em alone unless they get bad
and start something, then bounce ’em.”
“O.K., boss,” said Carillo.
Waiters passed Vettori in the corridor, sweat dropping from their
faces, steam rising from the dishes on the slanted trays. Vettori
rubbed his hands.
“Business is good. Well, well! We won’t none of us die in the poor
house.”
When he got back to his office he found Scabby, the informer, waiting
for him. Scabby was dark and undersized with a heavy, sullen, blotched
face. Passing as a police informer, he was in reality a member of the
Vettori gang. He played a dangerous game as he informed on other gangs.
His life wasn’t worth a cent and he was jumpy and quick with a gun.
“Well, well, Giovanni,” said Vettori, “what’s the news?”
“Everything’s jake,” said Scabby, taking off his hat and revealing a
shining bald head.
Vettori called a waiter.
“Some spaghetti for this man here,” he said, “and a bottle of wine.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Scabby without smiling; he never smiled; his
face was melancholy and lined, and sagged like a hound’s. “The boys on?”
“All set,” said Vettori. “It looks easy.”
Scabby nodded.
“It ought to be. But no gunplay, get that, Sam. The Big Boy’d raise
hell if he knew what was up.”
Vettori’s face hardened.
“I heard that once, Scabby. That’s enough. This is too good to pass up.”
“All right,” said Scabby, “I’ve had my say. But things ain’t what they
used to be, Sam. It’s getting dangerous. They’ve even got the Big Boy
scared. It’s the damn newspapers. They play that crime stuff off the
boards. Big headlines, see? That’s the trouble.”
They sat silent. Vettori, absorbed, puffed on his stogie. Finally he
said:
“Listen, Scabby, you ain’t heard nothing, see? I got to keep these boys
on their toes. Especially Joe. Don’t spill nothing about the Big Boy.”
Scabby shook his head vigorously. Vettori took out his billfold and
handed Scabby a fifty.
“That’s part of your split, Scabby. Keep your eyes open, that’s
all.”
Scabby pocketed the money. The waiter came in bringing the spaghetti
and the wine. Carillo put his head in the door.
“Reilly, the dick’s, up front.”
Vettori nodded.
“He’s O.K. If he sticks around, send him back in about half an hour.”
“Sure,” said Scabby, “I’ll be out of here in less than that.”
III
Otero lay looking out the window at the electric sign across the street.
CLUB
P
A
L
E
R
M
O
DANCING
Snow was falling past the windows. Otero lay smoking a big
twenty-five cent cigar and singing softly to himself. He always sang
when he was with Seal Skin.
“Some snow,” said Otero.
“Yeah, some snow,” said Seal Skin, who was sitting with her feet on the
window sill, smoking one of Otero’s cigars.
“Heavy like cotton,” said Otero.
“Yeah,” said Seal Skin.
“Where I used to be it never snowed.”
“Didn’t it?”
“No, it never snowed.”
Seal Skin blew out a cloud of smoke.
“How come you ever left Mexico, Ramón?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Otero scratched his head. “I just left.”
“Was they after you?”
“No, I just left.”
Otero got up and put his arms around Seal Skin.
“Some girl,” he said.
Seal Skin gave him a push.
“Wait’ll I finish this.”
“Sure, sure,” said Otero, smiling and patting her on the shoulder.
“Look,” said Seal Skin, “you’re a good guy, Ramón. But dumb. How come
you hang after Rico?”
“Rico is a great man.”
Seal Skin laughed out loud.
“Yeah? Great, but careless. He’ll never die of old age.”
Otero didn’t understand.
“What you say?”
“They’ll fill him full of lead. He’s too cocky.”
Otero shook his head.
“No, they’ll never get Rico.”
“They get ’em all.”
“No,” said Otero, “they’ll never get Rico. Once I say to him, ‘Look,
you must be careful.’ But he say, ‘Not me, they’ll never get Rico.’”
Seal Skin opened the window and flung her cigar down into the street. A
gust of cold air rushed into the overheated room.
“Listen,” she said, “that’s bunk. Rico’s no different from anybody
else. You stick with Rico long enough and you’ll have a swell funeral.
Why don’t you get into the beer racket? That’s safe.”
“I go with Rico,” said Otero. “What do I care? I have no people. Once I
had a brother but they shot him.”
“The cops?”
“No, the rurales. He was with Villa.”
“Who the hell’s Villa?”
“Villa was a great man, like Rico.”
Seal Skin got up and took a drink from a bottle on the bureau. Then she
said:
“Let’s hit the hay, Ramón.”
“Sure, sure,” said Otero.
IV
It was nearly two o’clock when Tony left his woman. A lake wind was
blowing hard and the snow fell heavily past the street lights. Tony
muffled himself in his overcoat and pulled his cap low. He felt tired
and disgusted.
At the corner near his home, he turned into Sicily Pete’s restaurant.
Three Italians were playing cards at a table in the back. Up front a
mechanical piano ground out The Rosary.
“Hello, Tony, how’s the boy?” said Pete.
“Not so good,” said Tony.
“You ain’t looking any too good, Tony,” said Pete.
Tony ran his hands over his face and stared at his image in the mirror
behind the counter. Pale; circles under his eyes.
“Well, I guess I’ll live,” said Tony.
Pete smacked the counter with both hands.
“Love of God! Sure you’ll live. You be O.K. tomorrow morning. I know,
Tony, my boy. Don’t forget I was a young fellow once. I know. I know.”
“Sure you know,” said Tony, sarcastic.
“Sure I do. You think I don’t know about that little red head. Hot
stuff, Tony, my boy. Only don’t be a fool. Save some for tomorrow
night.”
Pete laughed shaking all over and smacked the counter with his hands.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Pete?” cried one of the card players.
“Never you mind. All right, Tony, what’ll you have?”
Tony couldn’t decide. Pete went to wait on one of the card players. The
mechanical piano finished The Rosary on a discord. Tony went over
and put a nickel in the slot.
“I got a combination to go and two Javas,” cried Pete.
The mechanical piano began to play O Sole Mio.
“I’ll take a combination,” said Tony, “and a cup of Java.”
“O.K.,” said Pete; “I got two combinations, one to go and three on the
Java.”
“How’s business, Pete?” asked Tony.
“Oh, what you call so-so. Not good, not bad. I never get rich here.”
“Why don’t you put in a line of bottled goods?” said Tony, smiling.
Pete raised both hands over his head and brought them down hard on the
counter.
“None of that for Sicily Pete. Oh no. Pete’s too smart for that. If the
bulls don’t get you, why, some of them gangsters do. I know. One say,
you buy from me; the other say, no, you buy from me. All the same. No
matter who you buy from, bango!”
Pete brought Tony his combination and his coffee and stood at the
counter with him while he ate it.
“Tony,” said Pete, putting his head on one side, “you know you look
like your old man. Other day when you was in here I say to the missus,
look, ain’t he just like his old man? Well, well. That is good. A boy
should look like his old man. That is a good sign.”
“Knew the old man pretty well, didn’t you, Pete?” said Tony, finishing
his coffee.
“Yes, pretty well. When he was a young fellow he was like you. Full of
pep and always after the girls. But I don’t know, your mama she got
hold of him, then he wasn’t like he used to be. He wasn’t like the same
fellow. Pretty soon he died.”
Tony laughed.
“Hard on the old lady, ain’t you?”
“Love of God, no,” said Pete, an expression of acute misery on his
face, “you don’t get me, Tony. I mean he got to be a good fellow, like
me. Work, work, that’s all he knew. Well, work is a good thing. It
keeps you out of trouble, but I don’t know....”
Pete wiped the sweat from his forehead and meditated. Tony flipped
him a fifty-cent piece. The mechanical piano stopped on a prolonged,
slurred discord.
“Well, I guess I’ll hit for home,” said Tony, “so long, Pete.”
“Good night, Tony,” said Pete, with one of his blandest smiles, “come
in again.”
The wind struck Tony in the face as he left the restaurant. The streets
were white and silent. Tony walked home slowly, tired and disgusted.
As he entered the flat he saw a dim light in the front room. He tried
to sneak into his bedroom, but his mother heard him. She rose from her
chair, a monstrous silhouette against the dim front room light.
“A fine time for you to come in, Antonio,” she said. “Have you been out
again with them good-for-nothing loafers?”
“Yes,” said Tony, in a bad temper.
“So...!” said his mother, “you don’t even lie any more. Well, well! You
are doing fine. Pretty soon you won’t come home at all, you bum.”
“You said a mouthful,” said Tony.
“Sure, you won’t listen to your mother. Some day you’ll remember
what I told you. You loaf with crooks and bums long enough, you’ll see
what will happen.”
“All right,” said Tony, going into his room and banging the door behind
him.
His mother stood in the middle of the room for a minute, then she put
out the light and sat in the dark, crying.
V
The little blonde check-girl helped Joe take off his big ulster, her
hand lingering on his arm. He handed her a quarter.