Little Caesar
turn, his eyes, under his tilted hat, intimidating them as successfully
as the big Luger in his hand. Otero stood behind him and a little to
the left, impassive, the riot gun hip-high.
The manager opened the door of his office and with a dazed look
hesitated for a moment, then, with a great sigh, put his back against
the wall and raised his hands. He was a Czech with a swarthy complexion
which gradually turned greenish.
Rico glared at the manager.
“Stay put, you!” he said.
“All right, all right,” said the Czech.
Joe Massara said:
“Jesus, my arm’s paralyzed.”
“Yeah,” shouted Rico, “well, don’t let it drop.”
“All set,” cried Tony.
Otero was busy at the door with a man in a top hat who had just come
in. The man couldn’t believe his eyes and kept muttering:
“Good Lord! Good Lord!”
Otero backed him against the wall.
In the club proper, beyond the big arched doorways, the band was
playing loudly, horns were tooting, people were shouting.
“All right,” said Rico, “get out your gat, Tony. I’ll tap the box
inside.”
“God,” said Tony, “it’ll take too long.”
Rico looked at him. Tony, holding the sacks in one arm, pulled out his
gun. Rico walked over to the manager.
“Listen,” he said, “I want action. Go in and open that box and slip me
the jack. One funny move and I’ll blow your guts out.”
“Oh, my God!” cried the Czech.
They disappeared. There was a dead silence in the lobby. One of the
check girls began to cry.
“Nice little hold-up,” said Joe.
Nobody said anything.
“Yeah,” said Joe, nonchalant, “fine little hold-up.”
He smiled at the waiter, who looked hastily away and turned
agonized eyes on Tony as if to say: “Look, I can’t help what that
bird’s saying.”
Two more men came in the street door and were backed up against the
wall by Otero. The seconds seemed like hours to Tony, who was slowly
losing his nerve.
The manager reappeared, followed by Rico, who had his gun pressed
against the manager’s back. Rico’s pockets bulged.
“Good Lord,” hissed Tony, “let’s go.”
Three men and two women came out into the lobby from the club proper.
They stopped, petrified.
The strain was beginning to tell on Rico, whose face was ghastly.
“Stick up your hands, you,” he cried, “and don’t move.”
Two of the men and both of the women put up their hands, but the third
man, burly and red-faced, hesitated.
“Good God,” said Joe, “it’s Courtney, the bull.”
Joe’s mask of nonchalance slipped from him instantly; he dropped
his hands and reached for his gun.
“Beat it,” cried Rico to Tony and Otero.
They made a break for the door. One of the women with Courtney fainted
and fell hard, hitting her head.
“Don’t touch her,” cried Rico, “my finger’s itching.”
Joe followed the others, backing out with his gun in his hand.
Courtney’s face was purple. He glanced at his wife, lying pale and
unconscious on the floor, then, shouting “you dirty bums” reached for
his gun. Rico fired. Courtney took two steps toward Rico, staring. Then
he fell heavily, his arms spread.
At the door Rico collided with a drunken man, who was just entering.
The man tried to hug him, but he knocked him down with a blow of his
fist.
Rico jumped on the running-board and bellowed:
“Open her up, Tony. This ain’t no picnic.”
Tony was unnerved and tears were dripping down onto his hands. Joe and
Otero sat silent in the back seat. Otero rolled a cigarette between
his palms. Nobody said anything.
Tony took a corner, careening. The wind had died down a little and it
had begun to snow again, a thin, cold, powdery snow. The whistles were
still blowing, but fainter now, one leaving off, then another.
“Well,” said Rico, “I plugged him.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, “I seen him fall. Like a ton of bricks.”
“Well,” said Otero, “what can you do? The fool, pulling a gat!”
Tony said nothing, but sat with his eyes fixed.
“It’s our hips for this,” said Joe.
Otero shrugged and lit a cigarette.
“Losing your guts, Joe?” asked Rico.
“Me!” said Joe.
Tony turned into the alley way back of The Palermo. Rico put the sacks
under his coat and jumped out. Otero and Joe followed him.
“Tony,” said Rico, “ditch that can, then come back for your split. Hear
what I say. Ditch it good and proper. We’ll wait.”
“Look,” said Joe, “I got to have my split now. I’m on at
one-twenty. Boy, I can’t miss that turn.”
“O.K.,” said Rico.
Tony drove off down the alley. Rico knocked at the door and Carillo let
them in.
II
When they came in Vettori was standing in the middle of the room
mopping his forehead with his big white silk handkerchief. Beads of
sweat stood out all over his swarthy, fat face.
Rico threw the sacks on the table and began to empty his pockets.
“Well,” said Vettori.
“There’s the dough,” said Rico, “looks like a good haul.”
Joe sat down at the table under the green-shaded lamp without taking
off his hat or coat. Otero took the riot gun from under his coat and
locked it up in a cupboard. Vettori knew there was something the
matter. His eyes narrowed.
“Well,” he said again.
“Everything was O.K.,” said Rico, “only I had to plug a guy.”
Vettori fell down into a chair and stared out the window.
“Yeah,” said Joe, trying to smile, “and the guy was Courtney.”
Vettori put his head on the back of his chair and stared at the
ceiling. Then he sat up suddenly and banged on the table with both
fists.
“Goddam!” he cried, “what did I tell you, Rico! What did I tell you!
Love of God, didn’t I tell you no gunwork?”
Rico was white with rage.
“Listen, Sam, you think I’m gonna let a guy pull a gat on me. What the
hell! Any more of them cracks and this is my last job.”
Vettori made an elaborate, tragic gesture.
“Yeah, you bet this is your last job.”
Joe took off his derby and put it beside him on the table. His face was
dead white.
“You said it,” said Joe, “they’ll get us sure for this.”
Vettori shook his big head slowly from side to side.
“They’ll get us dead sure for this.”
Rico began to comb his hair.
“Maybe you better go over and give yourself up,” he said; then
dropping his sarcastic tone, “listen, how the hell they gonna get us?
Why, you’re the finest bunch of yellow bastards I ever seen.”
“Not me,” said Otero.
Joe tried to smile.
“Wait till you see the papers.”
Rico came over and leaned on the table.
“Listen, don’t they always play that stuff up in the papers. Courtney’s
the only guy in the place that ever seen one of us before. Come on,
snap out of it. And split the dough.”
But Vettori sat inert, mopping his face. Suddenly he asked:
“Where’s Tony?”
“He’s ditching the can,” said Rico.
“Suppose they pick him up?”
Rico began to open the sacks.
“That’ll be just too bad,” said Joe.
Rico laughed.
“A fine bunch of yeggs!”
Vettori got to his feet in a fury.
“You, Rico! Shut your mouth. You think I want to hang because you
get yellow and shoot somebody.”
Rico, very calm, put his hand in his pocket and said:
“Sam, you get funny with me and you won’t get no split at all. Only a
horseshoe wreath.”
“Oh, hell, Sam,” said Joe, “we’re all in it, ain’t we? Come on, split
the dough.”
Vettori sat down. Otero stood a little behind him, watching.
“Since you want it, Sam,” said Rico, his face pale and drawn, “you’re
gonna get it. Listen, you split even, that’s all. Hear me! You get an
even split.”
Vettori said nothing. Joe sat rigid, ready to dive under the table.
For months Scabby had been predicting this break; now it had come. Joe
feared Vettori and Rico equally, but something told him that Rico would
win.
Vettori let his hands fall on the table.
“All right, Rico,” he said, “I split even. Sit down and we’ll divvy.”
But Rico didn’t move.
“You got a gun on you, Sam?” he asked.
Vettori looked up at him.
“Sure I got a gun on me.”
“Well, don’t try to use it.”
“No,” said Otero, “don’t try to use it.”
Vettori’s face went slack. He sat tapping on the table with his fat
fingers.
“Rico,” he said, finally, “I split even on the square.”
Rico’s victory was complete. Joe looked at him with admiration. Sam was
a tough bird, but Rico was tougher.
Vettori got up, walked across the room and stood looking out the window.
III
Joe handed Rico a sheet of paper full of figures. Rico read: 9331.75.
“All right,” said Rico, “split it five ways and we’ll make up Scabby’s
split between us.”
Otero sat with his chair tipped back against the wall, smoking a
cigarette with his eyes closed. Vettori was playing solitaire and
swearing softly to himself.
Joe looked at his watch.
“Quarter till. I got to beat it. Say, Sam, call Carillo and let him get
me a cab, will you?”
Sam heaved himself to his feet and called Carillo. In a moment the
bouncer put his flattened face in the door.
“Three dicks downstairs, boss?”
“Who are they?” asked Vettori.
“Flaherty and two guys I don’t know, boss. They want to see you.”
Vettori stood looking at the floor. Carillo jumped in and shut the door.
“Christ,” he said, “they’re coming up.”
Rico leapt to his feet, ran across the room and opened a panel in the
wall.
“Come on, Joe,” he said, “you can slip out the back way. Stay where
you are, Otero, and go right on smoking. Send Joe’s cab around in the
alley, Bat.”
Vettori looked at Rico.
“You suppose they know something, Rico?”
“Not unless they picked Tony up. You don’t know nothing, Sam, see?
I’ll be right here listening, and if there’s any trouble, why, it’ll be
tough on the dicks.”
Vettori scooped up the money, wrapped his coat around it, and handed
it to Rico. Joe went through the panel, followed by Rico. There was a
knock at the door.
Vettori nodded and Carillo opened the door. Two plain-clothes men
stepped in and stood looking around the room. One was tall and burly in
a huge ulster; the other was short and very young. They both had their
right hands in their overcoat pockets.
“All right, Carillo,” said Vettori, “go ahead. That’s all.”
“Wait a minute,” said the burly one, “tell Flaherty we’ll be down in a
couple of minutes, for him to wait.”
“Sure, sure,” said Carillo.
He went out closing the door softly.
“Well,” said Vettori, “you want to see me?”
“Yeah,” said the burly one, who did all the talking, “we want to see
you, Vettori.”
“Well, here I am!”
Otero opened his eyes long enough to look at them, then closed them
again and went on smoking.
“Vettori,” said the detective, “we want some information.”
“Well?”
Vettori sat down at the table and began to shuffle the cards.
“There’s a big Cadillac draped around a pole a couple of blocks down
the street and we just wondered if you knew anything about it.”
Vettori began to lay out a game of solitaire.
“How should I know anything about it? Ain’t it got no license plates on
it?”
“Sure, but they’re phoney.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was stolen about eight o’clock tonight on the North Side and
we got a pretty good description of the guy that stole it.”
“Well,” said Vettori, “I got a good business. What the hell’d I be
doing stealing automobiles.”
He laughed and shook his head.
“Oh, you got me wrong,” said the detective with elaborate innocence.
“You see, it’s piled up right straight down the street from here
and I thought maybe it was some of the guys from your joint, see? I
mean some of the young guys that come here to dance.”
“Well,” said Vettori, “how would I know?”
The detective took out a cigar and began to chew on it.
“Wasn’t there nobody in it?” asked Otero.
“Yeah,” said the detective, “one guy. But he beat it.”
“I don’t know nothing about it,” said Vettori.
“Well, no harm in asking,” said the detective. “Come on, Mike, let’s