Little Caesar
“Don’t go on a bat with that two-bits,” he said.
“No sir,” said the check-girl.
She watched him walk across the long dance-floor, pick his way among
the crowded tables, bowing from time to time to one he had jostled, and
disappear through the employees’ door at the back. Then she put checks
on his coat and hat and hung them up.
“God, what a hot-looking man,” she said; “I don’t see how that little
hunky got him.”
Olga Stassoff was just putting the finishing touches to her
make-up. Joe came in softly and stood watching her. She began to sing.
“If you’re singing for me,” said Joe, “you can stop any time.”
Olga turned around.
“Well, what are you doing here? Broke?”
“Shut up,” said Joe.
Then he turned and walked out of the room. Olga jumped to her feet and
ran after him. She caught him near the employees’ door. He pushed her
away.
“Ain’t that a fine way to say hello to a guy!” he said. “Why, you must
think you got me roped and hog-tied.”
“I was just kidding, Joe,” said Olga, “honest I didn’t mean it. I was
just kidding.”
“Well, get this,” said Joe, “I’m goddam sick of that line. What do you
take me for? That goes big with some of your swell boy friends who’ve
got ugly wives and ain’t any too particular, but me! I don’t take that
kind of talk from nobody.”
Olga put her arms around him, but he pushed her away.
“Listen, Joe,” she said, “I got good news for you, so get out
of your fighting clothes and come to earth. Can’t you take a little
kidding?”
Joe took out his gold cigarette case and selected a cigarette. He
always smoked the best, when Olga had plenty of money, and he usually
carried three or four different brands. With a flourish he put away his
case, then, very preoccupied, he placed the selected cigarette on the
back of his left hand and, with a slight tap of his right hand, flipped
it into his mouth. Olga laughed.
“Now,” said Joe, “spill the good news.”
DeVoss, the manager, came through the swinging doors.
“Have you told him yet, Olga?” he asked.
Joe gave the manager a most ingratiating smile.
“What’s the big talk, Mr. DeVoss? Am I missing something?”
“You sure are,” said DeVoss. “The Stranskys broke their contract and
I’m putting you on in their place.”
Joe leapt into the air and executed a twinkle. Olga burst out laughing.
“Well,” said Joe, “how much?”
“One hundred to start, Joe, then we’ll see.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I can’t buy no limousines with that, but I’ll take
it.”
Joe and DeVoss shook hands.
“Now,” said the manager, “there’s a girl out here who’s just dying to
dance with you, Joe.”
Joe shook his head.
“No, I don’t like that stuff. They always think they got to hand you
something. What the hell! I don’t want no dame handing me nothing.”
Olga put her hand over her mouth.
“Don’t worry about that, Joe,” said DeVoss, “she already asked me about
that and I told her you’d be insulted so she gave me a ten.” DeVoss
took a crumpled bill out of his pocket and handed it to Joe. “There,
now get this. She’s an up and up girl and she means lots of business to
this place. Her old man’s got a couple of million bucks and she’s the
real thing. All right, Joe?”
“Sure, sure,” said Joe, “always willing to oblige.”
DeVoss went through the swinging doors and stood waiting for Joe on the
other side. Olga took Joe by the arm.
“Listen,” she said, “none of your funny business now. Just do your
stuff and leave it at that. I’m on to these society women. I know what
they want.”
Joe leapt into the air and executed another twinkle.
“Alley up!” he cried, “don’t you trust me, baby?”
Olga put her hands on her hips and began to laugh. How could you be
sore at a guy like that?
VI
Rico was standing in front of his mirror, combing his hair with a
little ivory pocket comb. Rico was vain of his hair. It was black and
lustrous, combed straight back from his low forehead and arranged in
three symmetrical waves.
Rico was a simple man. He loved but three things: himself, his hair and
his gun. He took excellent care of all three.
PART II
I
Hear me,” said Rico, his face twitching, “he’s turned yellow. He’s
turned yellow. What the hell you expect from a choir boy!”
Otero said nothing but sat with his chair tipped back against the wall
smoking a cigarette, his eyes closed. Sam Vettori stood in the middle
of the room and stared at his watch.
“Keep your shirt on, Rico,” said Vettori, “you’re on edge.”
“Sure, Rico,” said Otero.
Carillo came in without knocking. Vettori put away his watch.
“Well!”
“O.K., boss,” said Carillo, “Tony’s in the alley.”
Vettori took out his watch again.
“Rico, it’s eleven-thirty-five. What do you say?”
“Let’s get going.”
Otero got slowly to his feet, stamped out his cigarette, and, taking
the riot gun from the table in front of him, slipped it under his
overcoat. Rico examined his big automatic.
Carillo went out, softly closing the door. Otero walked over and patted
Rico on the shoulder.
“O.K. now, eh, Rico?”
Rico smiled. Vettori’s face was covered with sweat and he pulled out a
big white silk handkerchief to mop it.
“Rico,” he said, “from now on you boss the job. Only, get this: for the
love of God, no gunwork. That’s all. I ain’t ripe for the rope.”
Rico said nothing. Otero shrugged.
Vettori, still mopping his face, opened a window and a gust of cold air
rushed in.
Rico took out his little ivory pocket comb and mechanically combed his
hair. Then he put on his hat and tilted it over his eyes.
“Well,” he said to Otero, “let’s go.”
Otero followed Rico out. Vettori called:
“Make it clean, Rico. Make it clean.”
They went down the back stairs. Carillo was waiting at the foot of the
stairs and held the alley door open for them. The alley way was dark
and Otero stumbled.
“Caramba!”
“Watch that gun,” said Rico.
Tony was sitting at the wheel of a big, open Cadillac. He tossed his
cigarette away and said:
“Well, here we are.”
Rico said nothing, but got into the front seat with Tony. Otero got
into the back seat. Carillo stood looking at them for a moment, then
closed the door. Tony stepped on the starter.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s go, but take it easy. We got lots of
time.”
They took it easy. Tony drove along as leisurely as though they were
going to a New Year’s party. Rico leaned back and smoked, watching all
the passing cars. Otero, who had removed the riot gun and had it on the
seat beside him, was sitting bolt upright, his hands on his knees. He
could never get used to riding in an automobile. Rico turned and saw
the gun.
“Put that rod on the floor,” he said.
Otero obeyed.
It had got colder. The snow was no longer falling and a chilly wind was
blowing up in gusts from the lake. The streets were nearly deserted.
Over west a whistle began to blow, discordant and shrill.
“Well,” said Tony, nodding in the direction of the whistle, “it won’t
be long now.”
But Rico leaned over and hissed in his ear.
“Police car!”
A big Packard with a hooded machine-gun in the back seat passed them.
There were two plain-clothes men in the front and two in the back.
“What’ll I do?” asked Tony.
One of the men leaned out and stared back at them.
“Jesus,” said Tony, “he’s looking at us.”
“Keep your shirt on,” said Rico, putting his hand on Tony’s arm.
Otero took a cigarette from his pack and rolled it between his palms.
The police car slowed up. Rico’s fingers closed on Tony’s arm.
“Here’s an alley,” said Rico, “duck!”
Tony took the turn on two wheels, just missing a parked car. Otero was
thrown from one end of his seat to the other, losing his cigarette.
The Cadillac’s exhaust roared in the narrow alley way. There was
nothing but darkness ahead of them.
“It’s a blind,” said Tony.
“No,” said Rico, “I know this place like a book. Turn to your right at
the end.”
Rico leaned out and stared back. Then he laughed.
“Ain’t that like the damn dummies! Nothing in sight.”
They came back to Michigan Boulevard by a wide detour. Here the wind
blew fiercely, raising little whirlwinds of snow. Now there were
whistles blowing in all parts of town. Rico looked at his wrist-watch.
“Five of twelve. All right, Tony. Step on it.”
“What time, Rico?” asked Otero.
Rico told him.
“Fine, fine,” said Otero, “eh, Rico?”
Half a block down the street they saw the huge electric sign of the
Casa Alvarado. The street was deserted except for the parked cars. They
drove along slowly now.
Rico leaned out.
“That’s a break,” he said, pointing to a parking place where they
couldn’t be hemmed in. “Listen, Tony, this ain’t going to be no
cinch, so you better give us a lift.”
Tony pretended to be preoccupied with parking.
“Get me?”
Tony was pale and his lips were twitching.
“That ain’t my stand, Rico,” he said.
Rico looked at him. Tony sat silent for a moment, then, pulling at the
vizer of his cap, said:
“But you’re the boss, Rico.”
“O.K.,” said Rico, smiling. “Now, Otero, get this. I go first. You
follow me with the big rod. I stick up the cashier. Tony swings the
sacks. Got it?” Rico took three small neatly-folded canvas sacks out of
his pocket and handed them to Tony. “Otero, you watch the door. If you
see anybody coming in, let ’em come in, then back ’em up against the
wall. If things go right, I’ll tap the box. Got it?”
Rico looked at his watch. It was three minutes past twelve.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Otero got out lazily, hiding the riot gun under his coat. Rico got out,
followed by Tony.
“Got your rod, Tony?” asked Rico.
Tony nodded.
“All right, keep it in your pocket. Maybe you won’t need it right away.
If anybody gets funny, why, pull it.”
“O.K.,” said Tony, “but for God’s sake, Rico, no gun work.”
Otero said:
“You leave Rico alone. He does what is right.”
Whistles were blowing all over town. They walked up the carpet which
was laid across the pavement under the canvas marquee. Inside there was
a blaze of lights and they could hear the music. The lobby was deserted
except for two check girls, one waiter, a cigar clerk, and the cashier,
a pale woman with a green eyeshade, who was perched on a stool. Joe
Massara, in a big ulster and a derby hat, was standing at the cigar
counter, kidding the clerk. He saw them out of the corner of his eye
and nodded twice.
They came in quickly, Rico in front with his big automatic at ready,
Otero slightly behind him and to the left, carrying the sawed-off
shotgun hip-high, Tony in the rear, his hand in his overcoat pocket.
Before Rico could say anything, Joe Massara faced them, put his back up
against the counter and raised his hands.
“My God,” he cried, “it’s a hold-up.”
One of the check girls screamed piercingly. The waiter’s knees buckled
and he almost fell. The others stood petrified.
“You’re goddam right it’s a hold-up!” shouted Rico, trying to
intimidate them, “and it ain’t gonna be no picnic. Get that, all of you
birds. I got lead in this here rod and my finger’s itching. One crack
out of any of you and they’ll pat you with a spade. All right, Tony.”
Tony, white as chalk, took the sacks out of his pocket and walked over
to the cashier’s desk. The cashier was standing behind the register,
hands raised. When Tony came up she said:
“Take anything you want, only for God’s sake don’t touch me.”
“O.K.,” said Tony, “clean out the box but don’t get funny.”
Tony held the sacks while the cashier scooped the money into them.
Tony saw pack after pack of wrapped greenbacks drop into the sacks. He
began to feel a little better.
Rico left the cashier to Tony, but looked at each of the others in