Little Caesar
his father. He wouldn’t even wait on a customer but sat all day in the
back of his joint reading the Police Gazette or playing solitaire.
Things were breaking good for Young Chiggi and he was thinking about
selling out and going to Chicago or Detroit.
He had been in the beer and alcohol racket for over three years, first
with his father, then by himself, and now with Bill Hackett, known as
Chicago Red. He bought diamonds and automobiles and he kept his woman
in a big apartment.
When Rico was shown into his office by one of his bartenders, he didn’t
even look up but went on with his game of solitaire. The bartender went
out and Rico sat down across from Young Chiggi.
“Chiggi,” said Rico, “I want to talk to you a minute.”
Chiggi didn’t look up.
“All right,” he said.
“Listen,” said Rico, “put them cards down. I want to talk business.”
Chiggi looked up and stared at Rico.
“Say,” he said, “where the hell do you get that stuff! I don’t know
you.”
“Your old man was a pal of mine,” said Rico.
“Well, Buddy,” said Chiggi, “that don’t help you none with me, ’cause
me and the old man had a split-up. He thought he was so damn wise, see,
but they got him behind the bars and I’m running loose.”
“Yeah?” said Rico, “well, that’s a tough break for the old man. You
see, your old man staked me once and I thought I’d look him up and get
even. I’m pretty well heeled right now and I’m looking for a place to
lay in.”
Chiggi looked at Rico with interest.
“Looking for a place to lay in, hunh? Bulls after you?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Chiggi put his cards away. Then he took out a couple of cigars and
offered Rico one. They sat smoking.
“Well,” said Chiggi, “maybe I can take care of you.”
“That’s the talk,” said Rico; “got some rooms up above?”
“No,” said Chiggi, “but a friend of mine’s got a boarding house next
door that’s O.K. Now about that jack the old man staked you to, you can
give it to me, ’cause he owes me plenty.”
Rico said nothing, but took out his fold and counted out a hundred and
fifty dollars. He knew he had to buy his way in.
Rico selected his room carefully. It was on the side of the house and
could not be reached from the outside as there were no porches near
it. It had two doors, one opening into the front hall, one into the
back hall. The doors themselves were heavy and could be barred from the
inside. It was a good hide-out.
Rico’s plans were vague. He had plenty of money and if he went easy
with it he would be able to live a year or more in comparative comfort.
But Rico could not bear the thought of a year of inactivity. What would
he do with himself? He had no vices. He couldn’t amuse himself by
getting drunk, or taking dope, or playing faro. He didn’t mind losing
a couple hundred dollars gambling occasionally, but you can’t put in a
whole year gambling. He thought if things went right that maybe he’d
move on to New York, but that would be risky and one slip and he was
gone. No, he didn’t see much ahead of him.
Rico spent most of the day in his room, lying on the bed reading, or
else going over and over in his mind the episodes leading to his rise
and fall. The resentment he had been experiencing ever since he got to
Hammond had grown till it had become almost an obsession. He was never
in a good humor. When he was not reading or thinking about Chicago he
would pace up and down his room and wait for night. He got so, finally,
that he could sleep twelve hours every day and this helped some.
At night he would go down to Chiggi’s and play pool or shoot crap.
Sometimes there would be a big poker game and he would sit in. He was
known as Youngstown Louis and nobody in the place had the slightest
idea who he really was.
Everything was against Rico. The very virtues that had been
responsible for his rise were liabilities in his present situation. He
had no outlet for his energy; the self-discipline which had marked him
out from his fellows was of no use to him here; and the tenacity of
purpose that had kept him at high tension while he was the Vettori gang
chief had no object to expend itself on.
“I am nobody, nobody,” Rico would say.
Sometimes at night he would go to one of the call-houses on a nearby
street and spend a couple of hours with one of the women. But he got
very little pleasure from these infrequent debauches. He used to wonder
what had happened to the blonde he had spent old Chiggi’s stake on, and
was positive that if he could find her it would do him a lot of good,
but she had disappeared and nobody had any idea where she had gone.
Rico tried to buy his way in. Chiggi was agreeable but Chicago Red was
not. Chicago Red had taken a dislike to Rico from the first and never
missed an opportunity of bullying him. Chicago Red had left Chicago
under a cloud. There was a rumor that he had got in bad with a
South Side gang over there and had left to keep from getting bumped
off. Red was over six feet tall and weighed about two hundred pounds;
he had muscles like a wrestler, a bull neck, and enormous hairy hands.
Rico kept away from him as much as possible to avoid trouble. But Red
seemed to take a delight in worrying Rico, probably because, despite
the fact that Rico never argued with him, always let him have his way,
he felt that Rico was not impressed.
One night there was a big poker game going on in Chiggi’s back room.
Rico was winning. About midnight Red came in and wanted to sit in, but
there was no place for him.
“Louis,” he said, “get the hell off that chair and let a man get in the
game.”
“Not a chance,” said Rico.
“Listen, Dago....” said Red.
“Don’t call me, Dago,” said Rico, looking hard at Red.
“Get off that chair or I’ll throw you off,” said Red starting toward
Rico.
But Chiggi grabbed Red from behind and pulled him into the next
room.
When the game broke up, Chiggi came in and said to Rico:
“When you get settled up, come in the office.”
After the other players had gone Rico went into Chiggi’s office. Red
was sitting with his feet on the desk and Chiggi was walking up and
down.
“Well, Dago,” said Red, “did you clean ’em?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
“Sit down, Louis,” said Chiggi; “we want to talk to you.”
Rico sat down.
“Louis,” said Chiggi, “I don’t know whether you’re wised up or not,
but we been hitting the rocks. The bulls got two of our men and a big
load of alcohol, and a couple of days ago another one of our carts got
hijacked at Monroe. See, so we’re pretty low.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“Well,” said Chiggi, “we want a stake, don’t we, Red?”
“Yeah,” said Red, “and we ain’t any too particular where we get
it.”
“Well,” said Rico, getting up, “you got a lot of guys around here. Ask
them.”
“Listen, Red,” said Chiggi, “you keep your goddam lip out of this.”
Red got to his feet suddenly and stood glaring at Chiggi.
“Why, you lousy small-time wop, I guess you don’t know who you’re
talking to, do you?” He raised his arm and pointed at Rico. “You see
that guy there, he thinks he’s the best there is, got it? He thinks
he’s the biggest dago outside of Italy, and here you go honeying after
him like we couldn’t get a stake no place else. But I ain’t begging no
goddam dago to stake me.”
Chiggi looked helplessly at Rico.
“Yeah,” said Red, “and while we’re talking, I’m getting sick of the way
that bird there sits around and don’t say nothing and acts like he was
God-only-knows-who. Yeah, I’m getting good and sick of it, Chiggi.”
“Well,” said Chiggi, “when you get real sick of it, why beat it.”
Red laughed.
“Gonna stick to your dago buddy, are you? Well, he’s got the jack. But
what’re you gonna do when you need a guy that’s got the guts?”
This was too much for Rico. He said:
“What do you know about guts? I guess you ain’t so tough or they
wouldn’t’ve run you out of Chi.”
“Will you listen to that!” said Red; “all right, buddy, you said your
piece and you sure spoke out of turn. Why, dago, where I come from you
wouldn’t live five minutes. Now I’m gonna show you how they treat smart
dagos in Chi.”
Red made a motion toward his coat pocket, but Rico beat him to it. He
pulled his gun from the holster under his armpit and covered Red.
“Red,” he said, “in Chicago I wouldn’t let you rob filling-stations for
me.”
Red stood with his hands up, looking from Rico to Chiggi.
“Don’t bump him off, Louis,” said Chiggi.
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet on him,” said Rico; then glaring at Red he
went on: “You been getting away with this rough stuff too long,
Red. I’m Cesare Bandello!”
Red’s mouth fell open and he stood staring at Rico. Chiggi took Rico by
the arm.
“Are you Rico?” he cried.
Rico nodded and put up his gun. Red dropped his hands, sank into a
chair and wiped the sweat from his face.
“You sit down, Chiggi,” said Rico, “and I’ll do the talking.”
Chiggi sat down.
“Lord,” said Red, “so you’re Rico? Steve Gollancz told me you was a big
fellow.”
“Steve never seen me,” said Rico.
Chiggi leaned forward eagerly.
“You gonna put in with us, Louis?”
Rico said:
“I’ll put in a third, but I got to boss the works or I won’t put in
nothing.”
Chiggi looked at Red.
“That’s O.K. with me,” said Red.
Chiggi got to his feet and danced a few steps.
“Hurray for us,” he cried.
VI
Under Rico’s guidance Chiggi’s gang prospered. Chicago Red,
impressed by Rico’s reputation, carried out his orders and never
argued; Chiggi also. And Chiggi’s men were influenced by the attitude
of their former bosses. Rico made decisions quickly, seldom asked
for advice, and was nearly always right. Chiggi and Red were used to
doing things on a small scale and hated to split with the authorities,
but Rico had been in the game long enough to know that to make money
you’ve got to spend money. Through Antonio Rizzio, one of Old Chiggi’s
friends, now a minor politician, Rico got in touch with some of the
high-ups and bought protection. Chiggi’s alcohol runners were no
longer picked up and in a little while Chiggi’s business had doubled.
But, due to this increase in business, a new difficulty had risen:
hijackers. They waylaid Chiggi’s men and robbed them of their cargoes.
There was a well-organized gang of them around Monroe, Michigan, and
they began to cut into Chiggi’s profits. Rico tried rerouting his
runners and this was successful for a month or two, but the Monroe
gang soon got on to it, and the trouble started over again. Rico took
a chance. He ordered three sho-sho guns from a firm in Chicago. These
small automatic rifles, as formidable as machine guns, were concealed
in special cases under the seats of the trucks. Rico instructed his
runners in the use of them and after a few encounters the Monroe gang
decided that it would be more lucrative and also safer to confine their
hijacking to smaller bootleggers who were not equipped with artillery.
Rico was pleased with his success, but hardly satisfied. This was small
stuff and, as he could take no active part in it, he had a good deal
of time on his hands. Of course he was a pretty big guy for Toledo
and around Chiggi’s he was king, but, after all, Chiggi’s boys were a
mighty poor lot, worse even than Little Arnie’s, and their adulation
wasn’t worth much.
But that wasn’t the worst of it Rico knew that he had blundered badly
in revealing his identity to Chiggi and Chicago Red. Neither of them
was very dependable. Chiggi talked incessantly, contradicting
himself, forgetting what he had said two minutes after he had said it;
and all this talk was directed at one object: self-glorification. An
association with Cesare Bandello, of Chicago, was something to brag
about and Rico knew it. Chicago Red as a rule was not very talkative,
but when he got drunk he would boast about his former connection with