Little Caesar
Ma Magdalena let him in at the alley door.
“Well, Rico,” she said; “got yourself in a nice fix, didn’t you?”
Rico grinned.
“Yeah,” he said, “who told you?”
“The bulls were here and searched the place.”
“Didn’t find the hide-out, did they?”
Ma Magdalena laughed.
“What a chance!”
Rico followed Ma down into the basement. She led him through a short
tunnel and back into the hide-out. A small, round opening just large
enough to admit one person had been pierced in a heavy stone wall. In
front of the wall rows of pine shelves had been built and these were
filled with canned goods. The section of the shelves which hid the
opening was hinged and could be swung open.
Rico followed Ma through the opening and came out into a little room
with a cot in one corner, a table, and one chair. Rico took off
his hat and sat down.
“They got The Greek,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Ma.
Rico took out a cigar and lit it.
“Listen,” he said, “I want to stay here a couple of days. Then I’m
gonna pull out. Get me some magazines and keep me posted.”
“All right,” said Ma, “but it’s gonna cost you, because I’m taking
chances, see, I’m taking big chances.”
“Well,” said Rico, “you got my roll, help yourself.”
Ma Magdalena smiled broadly.
“That’s the talk, Rico. Old Ma’ll sure take care of you.”
“O.K.,” said Rico; “now, get this: in two days I want a car.”
“Arrigo’s got a car. If we go hooking one, it might spoil your
get-away.”
“That’s good,” said Rico; “all right, I want a jumper suit, you know,
one of them suits like a garage mechanic wears, and a razor.”
“All right,” said Ma Magdalena.
When she had gone, Rico took off his coat and shoes, and lay down on
the cot. His nerves were jumpy and he couldn’t seem to get settled. He
flung his cigar away and turned his face to the wall.
“Just when I thought things was on the up and up,” he said.
Rico felt resentful, but his resentment was not directed at any
specific group or person; it was vague as yet. He turned from side to
side on his cot, then he gave it up.
Ma Magdalena came back with a big mug of coffee and a couple of papers.
Rico sat down at the table.
“They got Sam,” said Ma.
“Well,” said Rico, “that’s hips for Sam.”
Rico took the papers from her and glanced at the headlines.
GENTLEMAN JOE WILTS GANG CHIEF NAMED AS SLAYER
Ma Magdalena went out. Rico sat reading the paper and sipping his
coffee.
Gentleman Joe Massara looks more like a movie actor than a gunman.
When arrested he was wearing an expensive Tuxedo and the rings that
were taken from him are valued at $3000.
“To hell with that,” said Rico.
He read on:
Cesare Bandello, known as Rico, the Vettori gang chief, was named as
the actual slayer of Courtney....
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and I’m the only one they ain’t gonna get.”
PART VII
I
It was dark when Rico reached the outskirts of Hammond. He drove into a
field, took the license plates off and buried them, and got out of his
jumpers. Then he took some clean waste from the tool box and wiped the
grease from his face.
“What a cinch,” he said.
Things had gone a lot better than he had expected them to. There hadn’t
been a hitch of any kind. A motor cop out in Blue Island had waved to
him even. Rico laughed. You never know. When you’re looking for things
to go right they never do. When you’re looking for trouble, why, things
are O.K. Yeah, funny!
Rico walked to the car line. He was wearing a plain, dark suit and an
army shirt Arrigo had given him. He had shaved off his mustache and the
hard, short bristles on his upper lip worried him. Rico felt very proud
of his escape. It was a good idea to dress himself up like a garage
mechanic and drive across town in broad daylight. Yeah, it was a
good idea and if things broke right he’d write to one of the papers and
tell them all about it. Only the postmark would give him away. Not so
good. Well, anyway, he could tell Sansotta about it.
Rico got on a street-car.
“Well, how’s things?” he said to the conductor.
“All right,” said the conductor; “getting cooler, ain’t it? Reckon
we’ll have winter before we know it.”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
II
Rico went up the alley at the side of Sansotta’s place and knocked at
the back door. It was a long time before somebody came and took a look
at him through the shutter. A voice with a marked Italian accent said:
“Who are you?”
“Where’s Sansotta?” asked Rico.
“What do you care?”
“Listen, buddy,” said Rico, “don’t get all het up. I’m right. Go
tell Sansotta that Cesare wants him.”
In a few minutes the door opened and a hand motioned for Rico to come
in. The hall was dark and Rico stumbled going up the stairs. The
look-out took hold of his arm.
“The boss’s up in his room. I’ll take you up. Where you from, buddy?”
“Youngstown,” said Rico.
“Where’s that?”
“Over east.”
The look-out led Rico down a long, dark hallway and to a door at the
end of it. Light showed over a transom. The look-out knocked three
times and the door was opened. Rico went in.
“Well,” said Sansotta, locking the door, “here you are?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Sansotta was a small, bowlegged Italian with a dark, scarred face. He
had on a striped suit, brown and red, and a stiff collar the points
of which were so high that his chin rested on them. There was a big
diamond stud in his shirtfront.
“You must’ve got a break,” said Sansotta.
Rico explained how he had got away.
“Pretty nifty,” said Sansotta; “I got to hand it to you on that,
Cesare.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “it was a good idea.”
Sansotta went over to a table, opened a drawer and took out a handbill
which he gave to Rico. Rico smiled.
“Raised the ante, did they? Last I heard it was five grand.”
Rico read the handbill over and over and stared at the Bertillon
pictures.
“Them pictures don’t look like me,” he said.
Sansotta pursed his lips and scrutinized them.
“Not since you got the tickler off. No, and you look thinner in them
pictures. How long ago was they taken?”
“About seven years ago.”
The handbill read:
Wanted for murder: Cesare Bandello, known as Rico. Age: 29. Height: 5
ft. 5 in. Weight: 125. Complexion: pale. Hair: black and wavy. Eyes:
light, gray or blue. His face is thin and he walks with one foot
slightly turned in. Does not take up with strangers. Solitary type,
morose and dangerous. Reward: $5000, offered by management of
Casa Alvarado. $2000, offered by City of Chicago, for capture dead or
alive.
“Well,” said Sansotta, “where you headed for?”
“I’m gonna stick around here for a while,” said Rico.
“Yeah?” said Sansotta; “pretty close to trouble, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Rico, “they ain’t got any idea which way I went. I
got a big stake and I don’t have to worry none.”
“You sure went up fast over in the big burg,” said Sansotta, looking at
Rico with a sort of awe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and the hell of it was, I was just getting started.
Everything was on the up and up when one of the gang turned softie.
Ain’t that hell?”
Rico had been very much elated over his escape from Chicago, so elated
in fact that he had forgotten all about his troubles; but, now that the
excitement of the escape had passed, the thought of how much he had
lost struck him full force. He felt resentful.
“Yeah,” said Sansotta, “that’s the way it goes. It’s a tough game.
They picked up two of my men last night.”
“That so?” said Rico, paying no attention.
Sansotta got up.
“Well, Cesare,” he said, “I got business or I’d stick around and chin
with you. Want to stay here with me till things blow over?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
III
Night after night Rico lay awake looking at the arc light outside his
window. His mind was filled with resentment and he went over and over
the incidents which had led to his fall. Now that it was too late, he
saw the mistakes he had made. He should have plugged Gentleman Joe;
that’s all. When a guy begins to turn softie, why there ain’t no good
in him. Yeah, he had been too easy. Another thing. He should have
played Scabby up; that guy was in a position to do him all kinds of
favors. But Scabby was a hard guy to get along with; he always thought
somebody was trying to make a fool of him and he always had a chip
on his shoulder.
Sometimes Rico would fall asleep for a little while, but his sleep was
full of dreams and he would toss from side to side and wake up with a
start. Then he would get up and smoke one cigarette after another and
think about Montana and Little Arnie and the Big Boy. Often, in these
short naps, he would see The Greek lying on his back in the alley, or
the little Italian girl sweeping the hall, or Ma Magdalena helping him
put the grease on his face. Then he would awake in confusion and stare
at the unfamiliar arc light a long time before he could realize where
he was.
In the day time it wasn’t so bad. He could play cards with Sansotta and
some of his gang, or shoot crap on a pool table in the back room. Rico
always played to win and while the game was in progress he forgot his
troubles. But even this was but a partial alleviation. He was nobody.
Just an unknown wop who seemed to have unlimited resources. Sansotta
was the only one who knew who he was. He had taken his uncle’s name,
Luigi De Angelo, and around Sansotta’s he was called Youngstown
Louis, or usually plain Louis. No, he was nobody. When a card game got
hot and one of the players thought he was getting gypped, a look from
Rico did not quiet the tumult as it had done in Little Italy. A look
from Rico meant nothing. He was cursed with the rest of them. Often the
desire to show these two-bit wops who they were yelling at would make
him writhe in his chair, and his hand would move toward his armpit,
but he couldn’t risk it. He had his neck to think about, and there was
Sansotta, a good guy, doing what he could for him. Rico kept saying to
himself, you are nobody, nobody, but it was galling.
Sometimes he would go to his room early and just sit in the dark and
think. He would imagine himself in the Big Boy’s wonderful apartment;
he would see the big pictures of the old time guys in their gold
frames, the one grand crockery, and the library full of books; or he
would recall the night when Little Arnie’s Detroit toughs tried to bump
him off and how when he came back to The Palermo the people stood on
the chairs and shouted: “Rico! Rico!” God, it was hard to take!
The stories in the magazines about swell society people that he
used to read with such eagerness failed to interest him now. After a
paragraph or two he would fling the magazine aside and swear.
“Yeah,” he would say, “ain’t that great! The damn dressed-up softies.
Got everything in the world and never had to turn a hand for it.”
Rico was filled with resentment and when he spoke, rarely now, it was
to denounce or ridicule something. The wops around Sansotta’s, though
they were obtuse enough, were not long in noticing this, and Rico began
to be known as Crabby Louis.
They would say: “Well, Crabby Louis, it’s your shot;” or “All right,
Crabby, deal the cards.”
The only thing that really interested Rico was the trial of Sam
Vettori. Joe Massara, who had turned State’s evidence, had been
sentenced to life. “Lord,” said Rico, when he read Joe’s sentence,
“I never thought they’d give Gentleman Joe a jolt like that after he
turned State’s. Them boys means business.” Sam’s trial had been rushed
because of the hubbub raised by Mr. McClure and other influential
men, and the outcome was never in doubt. Sam Vettori was sentenced to
be hanged.