Little Caesar
dealing with the hold-up and the killing of Police Captain Courtney. He
arranged the clippings in a neat pile, then read them over and over.
One said:
... the thug who shot Police Captain Courtney was a small, pale
foreigner, probably an Italian. He was dressed in a natty overcoat
and a light felt hat.
Another:
... Courtney’s murderer was described by one eyewitness as a small,
unhealthy-looking foreigner.”
Rico tore up this clipping.
“Where do they get that unhealthy stuff!” he said. “I never been sick a
day in my life.”
PART III
I
Sam Vettori’s heavy, dark face looked puffy and his eyes were swollen.
He hadn’t been sleeping well lately and he had been drinking whiskey.
As wine was his usual drink, the whiskey indicated a state of mind the
reverse of calm. He sat chewing a cold stogie and from time to time
pouring himself a shot from the bottle at his elbow. Rico was playing
solitaire, his hat tilted over his eyes. The Big Boy sat opposite
Vettori, his derby on the side of his head, and his huge fists, fists
which at one time had swung a pick in a section gang, lying before him
on the table.
The Big Boy shook his head from side to side slowly.
“Not a chance, Sam,” he said, “I can’t do nothing for you. Why, you
must be out of your mind. Listen, they’re after me hot and heavy. I
got all I can do to take care of number one, see? Things was running
too good for you, Sam. That’s your trouble. You thought I was
God himself. But listen, I ain’t no miracle man. A stick-up more or
less, what’s that? But when it comes to plugging a bull like Courtney,
that’s out! No, Sam. You’re on your own now. It ain’t gonna be none too
healthy for none of us for a while. Just don’t lose your nerve, that’s
the main thing. Just hang on and watch the guys that are in the know.”
“You leave that to me,” said Rico without looking up.
“O.K.,” said the Big Boy, “I think you’re the goods, Rico. But don’t
get nervous with that gat of yours, or they’ll put a necktie on you.
Get this. No more stick-ups. No more jobs. Just lay low, all of you. If
you run out of jack, I’ll stake you. Now I got to beat it. Don’t call
me up no more, Sam. Because I can’t do nothing for you and it might
give the bulls an idea.”
The Big Boy got to his feet and stood leaning his huge hairy paws on
the table.
“Why, you guys are lucky and don’t know it. Wood’s manager got so
goddam rattled he identified one of the plain-clothes men as the guy
that did the inside stand. Jesus, but it was rich! Spike Rieger was
boiling. Pretty soon he pinned the manager down and the damn dummy said
that the guys that did the job were Poles. So they went out and grabbed
Steve Gollancz. Steve and his bunch had just tapped a bank and Steve
thought they had the goods on him. It was funny as hell!”
The Big Boy put his head back and brayed. Sam Vettori drummed on the
table irritably.
“All right, laugh,” said Sam.
“Sure, I’ll laugh,” said the Big Boy; “if you’d seen Steve’s face when
he found out what it was all about you’d split your pants laughing.”
“Steve’s the goods,” said Rico.
“You said a mouthful,” said the Big Boy, “he’s got them eating out of
his hand. Well, I’m gonna beat it. You guys lay low and it may blow
over. If things get hot, I’ll tip off Scabby and then you all better
hit the rods. So long.”
The Big Boy went out slamming the door. They heard him go downstairs;
he walked as heavily as a squad of police and banged each step with his
heels.
Rico went on with his game of solitaire.
“Well,” said Vettori, “something just tells me we’re gonna get
ours.”
“Oh, hell!” said Rico, pushing the cards away from him, “I’d like to
get the guy that invented that game.”
Vettori swore softly to himself at Rico’s indifference, then, pouring
himself another drink, he said:
“You think Joe’s safe, Rico.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “as long as they don’t nab him and put it to him. He
can’t stand the gaff.”
“How about The Greek?”
Rico laughed.
“Safe as hell. Only thing with Otero, he gets lit and wants to raise
hell. I had to knock him down a couple of times last night. He gets a
little money and he goes nuts. That goddam greaser never saw over five
dollars all at once till I picked him up in Toledo. But he’s safe.”
“How about Tony?”
Rico didn’t say anything for a minute but picked up his cards and began
to shuffle them.
“I don’t know about Tony.”
Sam Vettori got up and walked back and forth, mopping his forehead
at intervals with his big white silk handkerchief.
“Love of God, Rico, we can’t take no chances with him.”
Rico dealt out a couple of poker hands and began to play an imaginary
game.
“You leave that to me, Sam,” he said.
Vettori put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“That’s the talk, Rico. We get a break we may come clean.”
Vettori dropped back into his chair and poured himself another drink,
but Rico reached across the table and pushed the glass off on the floor.
“Slow down on that stuff, Sam. You got to keep your head clear.”
Vettori looked at Rico in a fury, then he lowered his eyes.
“You got the right dope, Rico. That stuff don’t do nobody no good.”
Vettori took the whiskey bottle and locked it up in a cupboard.
II
About nine o’clock Carillo put his head in the door. Downstairs the
jazzband had just started to play.
“Well?” demanded Vettori, getting to his feet.
“Blackie wants to see you,” said Carillo.
“All right.”
Carillo went out.
“What you suppose he wants?” said Vettori.
Rico, who was sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall
reading a magazine, shook his head without looking up or answering.
He was deep in the reading of a story about a rich society girl who
fell in love with a bootlegger. Rico read everything he could find
that had anything to do with society. He was fascinated by a stratum
of existence which seemed so remote and unreal to him. The men of
this level were “saps” and “softies” to him, but he envied them their
women. He had seen them getting out of limousines at the doors of Gold
Coast hotels. He had seen them, magnificently dressed, insolent,
inaccessible, walking up the carpets under the canvas marquees. The
doormen would bow. The women would disappear. Rico hated them. They
were so arrogant and self-sufficient, and they did not know that there
was such a person in the world as Rico.
Blackie Avezzano, who managed Sam’s garage, came in and shut the door
behind him. He was small and bowlegged, and he was so dark that he had
been taken for a mulatto many times.
Vettori impatiently exclaimed:
“Well, what’s on your mind, Blackie?”
Rico went on reading his magazine. Blackie sat down at the table and
seemed to be making an effort to collect his thoughts.
“All right, spit it out,” said Vettori.
Blackie couldn’t speak very good English, but as Rico didn’t know a
word of Italian and Vettori preferred to speak English, he did the best
he could.
“Tony he took sick. Listen, I tell you, Tony he no know what. He took
sick. I see him, listen, I tell you, what-you-say, he no got his guts.
The Madre she send me call the doctore. Listen, he say, Tony,
what-you-say, you been a drink. Now listen, you cut out a drink. That’s
all. Tony he no drink. What a hell! One bottle of beer he can no drink.
He no got his guts, that’s all.”
Vettori looked at Rico, who went on reading.
“Rico,” he said.
“I heard him,” said Rico, “I ain’t deaf.”
Blackie got up and stood twisting his cap in his hand. Vettori took out
his billfold and handed Blackie a ten.
“Blackie,” he said, “keep your eyes open, understand?”
“All right,” said Blackie, “I watch, see, I know. Tony no good. All
right, I watch.”
When he had gone Rico said:
“Well, that’s that.”
“We can’t take no chances,” said Vettori.
“I’ll give him till tomorrow,” said Rico; “he can’t go far wrong with
Blackie watching him. After that if he don’t settle down, there won’t
be no more Tony.”
III
Tony had always been of a rather easy-going nature and took things as
they came. His emotions, it is true, were very unstable; with him anger
was almost immediately followed by a grin, and depression lasted only
long enough for him to recognize that he had felt such an emotion. No,
he had never before experienced the loneliness which is the result
of continued despair. Now he felt it and it was too much for him. He
looked back on the past as a sort of fabulous period when he had had
peace of mind.
He could enjoy nothing. The fear of arrest and hanging dogged him even
at the movies, formerly his chief pleasure, and in the company of
Midge, his woman, he was so preoccupied that she thought he had a new
woman and treated him accordingly. Even the presence of his mother, who
had begun to realize that something was wrong, did not tranquilize him.
He drank, played pool, rode about in an automobile, but fear pursued
him and he could find no rest.
Then he began to have attacks of acute indigestion, and it got so
bad that the very sight of food was repugnant to him. He lost weight
rapidly.
There was nothing he could do. He could not find one avenue of escape.
But little by little the thought of Father McConagha took possession of
him. Tony was too unintelligent to know that what he needed most of all
was someone he could unburden himself to. But he blundered toward that
solution.
Blackie’s solicitude helped some. Blackie came to see him every night;
and once, when Tony’s indigestion had been worse than usual, he had
even gone for the doctor.
Tony’s mother put her hand on his shoulder.
“Antonio,” she said, “I think I’ll go over across the street and see
Mrs. Mangia. She is having a new baby. Only think! That will be twelve.”
Tony tried to smile.
“Twelve!” said Tony’s mother, shaking her head slowly from side to
side, “and one is too much.”
“A bad egg like me is.”
“You ain’t a bad egg, Antonio,” said his mother, “you are only
lazy.”
Tony said nothing.
“Listen, Antonio, I left some spaghetti on the stove. If you feel
better eat some. You don’t want to get all run down.”
“All right,” said Tony.
Tony’s mother went out. As soon as the door was shut, Tony wished
that she hadn’t gone. He was afraid. At the sound of footsteps in the
corridor, he felt his hair rise and beads of sweat stood out on his
forehead. He got to his feet and began to walk up and down. A fury
seized him; he cursed Rico and Vettori aloud. Then suddenly the anger
left him and the fear returned.
Blackie put his head in the door.
“How you feel, Tony?” he asked.
“Hello, Blackie,” said Tony, “come on in and have a smoke.”
Blackie took a cigarette from the preferred pack and sat down. While he
smoked he kept glancing at Tony.
“Whatsa mat, Tony?” said Blackie. “You ain’t look so good.”
Tony stared at Blackie for a moment, then he began to shake all
over.
“Jesus, Blackie,” he cried, “I can’t stand it. They’ll get us sure.
Have you seen tonight’s paper?”
Blackie shrugged.
“I can no read.”
“It’s all up with us,” said Tony. “My God, I don’t see how Rico stands
it.”
“Rico no scared.”
“Well, he ought to be. He’s the one that done it.”
Blackie shrugged.
“No can help. What-you-say, Cortenni pull a gat. No can help.”
Tony got very pale of a sudden. He heard an automobile stop in the
street below. He ran to the window and looked down, then he turned and
came back.
“I thought it was the cops,” he said.
“Look,” said Blackie, “you no better be sick. Listen, you no got your
guts, Tony. Rico say, be a man. That is good. Be a man, Rico say. You
no better be sick.”
“The hell with Rico,” said Tony.
Blackie shrugged.