Little Caesar
Tony stood in the middle of the room for a minute or two looking at the
floor, then, suddenly making up his mind, he went over to the hatrack
and got his hat.
“Where you go?” asked Blackie.
Tony hesitated.
“I go too,” said Blackie.
“No, you go home,” said Tony, then looking steadily at Blackie he said:
“Me, I’m going down to St. Dominick’s and see Father McConagha.”
“What,” cried Blackie, leaping up in alarm. “Tony, my God, you no tell
him nothing.”
“I got to,” cried Tony vehemently.
Blackie took hold of Tony’s arm.
“Tony, my boy, don’t go. Listen, Tony, you no sick. Be a man. Hear what
I tell you. You no live, see, you no live. Be a man.”
Tony pushed him away.
“You go home, Blackie.”
Tony went out. Blackie heard him walking slowly down the corridor. When
he could no longer hear his footsteps, he leapt to his feet, opened
a back window, went down the fire-escape, and took a short cut through
the alleys. He knocked at the back door of the Palermo and Carillo let
him in.
IV
Vettori stared at Rico, who said nothing.
“Crazy! Crazy!” said Blackie. “I tell him, be a man, be a man. But he
say, I got to, I got to.”
Rico hastily put on his overcoat.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Sam Vettori.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “that’s it. Now get yourself a can, Sam, and let’s
go. We ain’t got any time to waste.”
Vettori rubbed both hands over his face.
“Not me,” he said.
Rico looked at him.
“Take Blackie,” said Vettori.
Blackie implored them with his eyes.
“Blackie’s no good,” said Rico.
“No,” said Blackie, “I no good.”
Carillo put his head in the door.
“Reilley’s downstairs, boss.”
“Take Carillo,” said Vettori.
Carillo stared at them suspiciously. Rico leapt across the room and
grabbed him by the arm.
“Listen, Bat, can you drive a can?”
“Sure.”
“Will you let her out when I office you?”
“Sure.”
“All right, let’s go.”
“Take that black roadster, Carillo,” said Vettori, “but for God’s sake
don’t smash it up.”
Carillo ran out leaving the door open. Rico walked over and closed the
door, then he said:
“Sam, you ain’t got any more guts than Tony. Now listen, get down there
and talk turkey to Reilley. Get that! By God, I guess I got to boss
this job myself.”
Vettori looked at Rico with hatred. But he said:
“All right, Rico, you’re the boss now.”
Rico went out. Blackie said:
“Goodbye Tony!”
Carillo was waiting with the black roadster in the alleyway. Rico
jumped in and the roadster leapt away. Carillo took a turn on two
wheels.
“It’s a cinch he went the shortest cut,” said Rico.
“Sure,” said Carillo, “I know what I’m doing.”
“All right,” said Rico, “do it.”
The wind had risen and it began to snow, big, heavy flakes which sailed
past the street lights. In a few minutes the ground was covered.
Carillo took the shortest cut and Rico, holding his big automatic on
the seat beside him, sat straining his eyes. But there was no sign of
Tony.
“If we miss him I’ll kick hell out of Blackie,” said Rico.
“Keep your shirt on, boss,” said Carillo.
The tall spires of St. Dominick’s rose before them at the end of the
block. The street was deserted. Carillo drove slowly now, hugging the
curb. In a moment he pointed:
“There’s a guy.”
Rico leaned forward.
“Take it easy, Bat,” he said, “I think it’s Tony.”
Carillo throttled down to five miles an hour. The man, a dim black
figure in the falling snow, stopped in front of the cathedral and
looked up. When the automobile came abreast of him he turned.
“Tony,” called Rico.
“Yeah?” came Tony’s voice. “Who is it?”
Rico fired. A long spurt of flame shot out in the darkness. Rico
emptied his gun. Tony fell without a sound.
“All right now, Bat,” said Rico, “let her out.”
V
Joe and Olga were sitting in a quiet corner of a Gold Coast hotel
dining-room. They were waiting for their dessert. Joe, comfortably
full and inclined to be amiable, sat looking at Olga. She was the
goods. Of course he stepped out with other broads occasionally when
Olga was busy, but that didn’t count. Olga was the goods and she
was his woman. Other men didn’t rate with her, that’s all. He studied
her. There she sat with her round dark face, her high cheekbones, and
her dark mascara-ed eyes. Her long thin fingers covered with rings
fascinated him. Her slimness, her elegance made him feel very uncouth
and protective and masculine.
“Well,” said Olga, “take a good look.”
“Listen, baby,” said Joe, “you got it. I ain’t kidding. You got
everything. There ain’t a woman in Chicago that’s got half your stuff.
You make ’em all look silly.”
Olga reached across the table and patted his hand.
“I don’t believe it, but say it again. I like it.”
“No fooling.”
“What a line,” said Olga.
The waiter brought their dessert.
“I’ll tell you,” said Olga, looking at her wrist watch, “let’s go to a
movie. I got time.”
Joe didn’t like movies very well; all that sappy love stuff! But now he
wanted to please Olga.
“All right. Where’ll it be?”
Olga turned to the waiter.
“Bring us a paper, please.”
The waiter brought a paper and handed it to Joe. He unfolded it and
started to turn to the theatrical page, but instead he read with
absorption an article on the front page. Olga saw him swallow several
times. When he glanced up at her there was a bewildered look in his
eyes and his face had begun to get pale.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“They got Tony,” said Joe.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Rico, I guess. He must have turned yellow.”
Joe ran his hand across his forehead, then he took out his gold
cigarette case, but without ostentation this time, and lit a cigarette.
Olga took the paper from him. She read:
ANOTHER GANG KILLING
Antonio Passalacqua, known as Tony Passa, reputed to be a member of
the Vettori gang, was found dead near the steps of St. Dominick’s
Cathedral ... as far as the police can ascertain no one saw him
killed ... when questioned Sam Vettori denied all knowledge of the
shooting and intimated that it was the work of a rival gang ...
police say that this is likely.
“Jesus!” said Joe.
Olga turned quickly to the theatrical page.
“Joe, honey,” she said, “there’s a good comedy at the Oriental. What do
you say?”
Joe crumpled up his cigarette and put it in the ash-tray.
“Boy, Rico didn’t waste no time with him.”
“Joe, don’t you want to see that comedy?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “let’s go see it.”
Joe sat silent in the taxi all the way to the theatre. As they were
getting out, he said:
“Boy, that Rico is sure careless with a rod.”
“Forget it, honey,” said Olga.
VI
When Rico came in Seal Skin was sitting in a chair by the window and
Otero was lying on the bed without his shirt, singing loudly. Rico
walked over and put his hand on Seal Skin’s shoulder.
“Listen,” he said, “I thought you told me you was gonna look after
The Greek?”
“I can’t do nothing with him,” said Seal Skin.
Rico went over to the bed and looked at Otero.
“Señor Rico,” cried Otero, “listen, I will sing for you.”
Rico turned.
“Seal,” he said, “that bird’s gonna spill something if you don’t keep
him sober.”
“Listen,” said Seal Skin, “I ain’t no nurse. A guy ought to look out
for himself. What the hell can I do, anyway? I can’t knock him cold.”
“You never did have much sense,” said Rico.
“All right, wise boy. Let’s see what you can do.”
Rico took off his overcoat.
“Got any ice?”
“Sure,” said Seal Skin without moving.
“Well, goddam it, get on your feet and get it.”
Seal Skin was afraid of Rico but she didn’t want him to suspect it. She
got to her feet leisurely, picked up one of Otero’s big cigars, lit it,
and stood puffing. Then, having demonstrated her lack of fear, she
went to the kitchen for the ice.
Rico went over to the bed.
“Otero,” he said, “have you got any liquor around here?”
“What do I care for liquor!” cried Otero. “I will sing for you.”
Rico slapped Otero’s face.
“A hell of a crew I’m mixed up with,” he said.
Otero looked at him, startled.
“What is wrong with me?”
“You’re a dirty yellow bum.”
“I am not a yellow bum,” cried Otero, trying to sit up.
Rico struck him hard this time, knocking him back on the bed. Otero put
his hand to his face and looked at Rico.
“If you got any more liquor here you better tell me where it is,” said
Rico.
Otero reached under his pillow and pulled out a quart bottle over half
full. Rico slipped it into his pocket.
Otero’s face got red.
“Rico,” he said, “you give me back my liquor.”
He tried to sit up but Rico hit him and he fell back. Seal Skin
came in with a couple of pieces of ice wrapped in a towel.
“What the hell you want to beat him up for?” she said.
“I’m gonna get him sober and keep him that way.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re gonna have a full time job.”
Rico took the ice, a piece in each hand, and began to rub it over
Otero’s face and chest. He rubbed hard and it hurt Otero, who struggled.
“Rico,” he said, “what have I done to you? Rico, you are my friend. Why
do you treat me this way?”
“He’ll be bawling next,” said Seal Skin.
Of a sudden Otero got angry and struggled so fiercely that he threw
Rico off and climbed out of bed. The ice clattered to the floor. Rico
took one step toward him and set himself for a punch, but Seal Skin
grabbed his arm.
“For God’s sake let up on him,” she cried, “ain’t he in bad enough
shape?”
Rico was furious. He slapped Seal Skin across the face with his open
hand.
“A fine bunch of yellow bellies and squealers I’m mixed up with,”
he cried. “Listen, idiot, ain’t he a meal ticket? You want the black
wagon to come and haul him away?”
Otero reeled across the room. Rico leapt after him and knocked him to
the floor. Otero raised his head.
“Rico,” he said, “what have I done to you?”
Rico picked up the ice and kneeling down beside Otero began to rub him
with it, harder than before. Otero gasped.
“Listen,” said Rico, “you got to get sober. I’m your friend, Otero. I
don’t want to see you get us all hung. Listen, Otero, do you get what
I’m saying? You got to sober up and stay that way.”
Tears ran down Otero’s cheeks.
“All right, Rico,” he said.
In half an hour Rico had him sober. Seal Skin was sitting with her feet
on the window sill, smoking one of Otero’s big cigars. Otero sat pale
and shaken, looking at Rico.
“Well, big boy,” said Seal Skin, “I got to hand it to you. You done it.”
Rico smiled. Then he took out his billfold and handed Seal Skin a
ten.
“There’s a little cush for you. You ain’t sore at me cause I socked
you, are you? I got red hot mad, that’s all.”
“You didn’t sock me hard,” said Seal Skin, “but it was ten dollars’
worth.”
Otero didn’t have much to say. He sat looking at the floor, ashamed of
himself.
“How do you feel?” asked Rico.
“Me, not so good,” said Otero.
“Want a little drink?”
Otero looked at Rico, not trusting him, then he nodded. Rico handed him
the bottle.
“I said little drink,” cautioned Rico.
Otero took a swallow and handed back the bottle.
“Now,” said Rico, “get your clothes on and we’ll take a look at Tony.”
VII
There were many rumors in Little Italy about the passing of Sam
Vettori. The full truth, of course, was only guessed at, but the
simple facts were known. Sam Vettori’s star was setting, Rico’s was
rising. Rico had always been right; there was never any question of
that. Rico had always inspired fear. But now, as the probable head of
a big minor gang whose activities were varied and whose yearly income
was enormous, his potentialities were prodigiously increased and he was