Little Caesar
treated accordingly.
When he entered Tony’s flat several members of the Vettori gang,
sitting near the door, got up and offered him their chairs. He merely
shook his head and walked across to where Sam Vettori was sitting.
Otero, who had entered a little behind Rico, stopped to talk with
Blackie Avezzano.
Carillo brought a chair for Rico and Rico sat down beside Sam Vettori.
“We’re going to plant the kid right,” said Vettori, “that’ll look good.”
Rico stared across the room at a large horseshoe wreath which bore the
single word: Tony. That was his contribution.
“Sure,” said Rico.
He was a little uneasy. Not that he felt any remorse. What he had
done was merely an act of policy. A man in this game must be a man. If
he gets yellow, why, there’s only one remedy for it. No, Rico was never
likely to err on the side of contrition. It was the massed flowers;
their sickly and overpowering odor made him vaguely uneasy.
“They sure fix ’em up good now,” said Vettori, nodding in the direction
of the coffin; “he don’t look dead. He looks like he was asleep.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“It beats me how they do it,” said Vettori.
Carillo came across the room and whispered to Rico and Vettori.
“Two bulls in the hallway.”
“They coming in?” asked Rico.
“No, just standing there.”
“All right.”
There was a movement at the door. Mrs. Passalacqua came in between two
of her friends. She had been at St. Dominick’s for over an hour. Rico
got up and offered her his chair. One of the women helped her off with
her hat. She sat down. Her gray hair was parted in the middle and
drawn tightly down; her face was a dead white. She was wearing a plain
black dress and she sat with her hands in her lap. She looked at no
one, but fastened her eyes on the coffin.
Rico walked over to look at Tony. At the head of the coffin were two
big candles, one of them leaning a little and dripping tallow. Tony
lay with his hands folded. Rico looked down. Somehow he had expected
Tony to be changed. He was not. Here lay the same Tony who used to
play poker with such fury. The same Tony, yes, only dead. Rico saw the
rigidity of the face, the parchment skin. He stood there, looking.
Carillo put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Bulls want to see you, boss.”
Rico nodded.
“They want you to come out in the hall.”
“All right,” said Rico, turning away from the coffin, “tell Otero.”
Otero came over beside Rico and stood looking at Tony.
“Listen,” said Rico, “this may be a pinch. I don’t know. If it is, I’ll
go with them. They ain’t got nothing on me. But if there’s any
trouble, Scabby’ll keep you posted. Ma’s got my jack, see?”
“All right,” said Otero.
Rico started across the room and Otero followed him. Before Rico
reached the door Tony’s mother suddenly put her hands to her face and
began to sob wildly.
“Oh, Tony, Tony!” she cried.
The women who had come in with her tried to quiet her, but she pushed
them away, and, rising, walked over to the coffin and stood looking
down at Tony. Then, still sobbing, she let the women lead her into the
next room.
“That’s a woman for you,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Otero, shrugging, “Tony was her son.”
The hallway was lined with poor Italians who, not knowing the
Passalacquas, had come out of curiosity. They stood in silent groups,
trying to peep in through the open door. Women in disreputable
housedresses carrying dirty children; pregnant women; old men with
crinkly gray hair and seamed brown faces; young girls trying to
look up-to-date and American. When Rico came out they all stared
at him.
Flaherty took hold of his arm.
“Rico,” he said, “come down to the end of the hall. I want to see you a
minute.”
“Is this a pinch?” asked Rico.
Flaherty laughed.
“Got a bad conscience, have you? Well, you ought to have.”
Rico noticed that the other detective, whom he had never seen before,
kept staring at him. Rico planted his feet firmly and stared back.
“What’s the big idea, Flaherty?” he asked.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “just to put your mind at rest I’ll tell you,
this ain’t a pinch. It ought to be, but it ain’t. Now will you take a
walk...?”
“Sure,” said Rico.
Otero came out into the hallway and stood watching them. Rico went down
to the end of the hall with the two plain-clothes men. Some of the poor
Italians followed them and stood staring. But Flaherty motioned them
off as if he were shooing chickens.
“Beat it,” he said; “go tend to your own business.”
They moved away slowly, looking back.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s have it.”
Flaherty took out a big cigar and began chewing on it. The other man
kept staring. Rico was puzzled and wondered what the game was; then he
noticed that the light at their end of the hall was good, much better
than any other place in the hall. The once-over? Well, what then.
“Listen, Rico,” said Flaherty, “I like you and I’m going to give you a
tip. It’s going to be tough on you birds from now on. The Old Man’s got
his back up. Now get this. If you got anything on your mind, you better
spill it.” Flaherty paused to light his cigar. The other detective
watched Rico intently. “Because it’s going to be easy for the bird that
spilled it first. But God help the rest of them.”
Rico smiled slightly.
“Quit stalling,” he said.
Flaherty glanced at the man with him, but the man shook his head.
Flaherty said:
“Well, I’m giving you a friendly tip.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “you bulls always was friendly as hell. I spent two
years once just thinking how friendly you was. Listen, I ain’t got
nothing to spill. What the hell’s wrong with you, Flaherty? Did I ever
do any spilling?”
Flaherty laughed.
“Well,” he said, “there’s a first time for everything. All right, Rico,
you can go.”
The two plain-clothes men pushed their way through the crowd and went
down the stairs. Rico went back into Tony’s flat. Sam Vettori and Otero
were waiting for him. Vettori was mopping his face with his big white
silk handkerchief.
“Well?” he demanded.
Rico shrugged.
“Just stalling.”
“What’s the game?”
“You got me. I guess Flaherty wanted this other bird to give me the
once-over.”
“Things getting pretty hot, Rico.”
“Don’t beef, Sam. We’re gonna come through.”
Otero said:
“The old lady sure is taking it hard.”
They could hear Tony’s mother sobbing loudly in the next room.
PART IV
I
For three or four years Bat Carillo, once a third-rate
light-heavyweight, had been the leader of one of Vettori’s gangs
of hooligans. The members of this gang specialized in strong arm
stuff and intimidation; they threw bombs; they smashed up barrooms
and vice-joints operated by rival gangs. They were, in other words,
Vettori’s shock troops. Carillo was an excellent lieutenant, as
he always carried out orders to the letter; and was congenitally
incapable of imagining himself as chief in his own right. A good honest
subordinate without ambition. Vettori trusted him.
In Carillo’s attitude since the killing of Courtney, therefore,
Vettori saw the most unmistakable symptom of his own passing. Carillo
had attached himself to Rico and called him “boss.” Carillo was not
careless with the word “boss”; it was not a conventional expression;
when he said “boss” he meant it. Aroused, Vettori saw similar
manifestations all around him; in Blackie Avezzano, in Killer
Pepi, in a dozen others.
Vettori had always disliked Rico. Now he hated him. If Carillo or
Killer Pepi had remained faithful he would have had one of them kill
him and damn the consequences. But there was no question of that now.
He knew that he was whipped and he saw the necessity of a compromise.
Hanging was just over the horizon and Rico’s gun promised an even more
certain death. Vettori had never split with anyone. He had always taken
with both hands and given as little as possible. But it was split now
or die and Vettori could not contemplate the prospect of dying with any
degree of complacency. He sent for Rico.
A new Rico appeared, followed by Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi. Rico
was wearing a big ulster like Joe’s and a derby also like Joe’s. He
had on fawn-colored spats drawn over pointed patent-leather shoes; and
a diamond horseshoe pin sparkled in a red, green and white striped
necktie.
Vettori looked him over and winked at Killer Pepi, but Killer
Pepi’s face was stony. Carillo got a chair for Rico.
“What’s on your mind, Sam?” said Rico, sitting down, throwing back his
ulster and pulling up his trousers to preserve the crease.
Vettori hesitated.
“I want to see you alone,” he said.
“No,” said Rico, “I think I know your game, Sam, and I want the boys to
get an earful. Go ahead and spill it.”
Vettori began to sweat. Killer Pepi said:
“Yeah, we know.”
“You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?” said Vettori.
“We know, all right,” said Pepi.
Nobody said anything. Rico took off his hat and began to comb his hair.
Vettori got out his cards and began to lay out a game of solitaire.
Pepi said:
“We know you went yellow, Sam, when Tony blew his top and started after
Come-To-Jesus McConagha. We know all right.”
Vettori looked up at him.
“What the hell I got you guys for anyway! Who hands out the cush?”
Rico paused in the combing of his hair.
“Don’t get rough, Sam.”
Killer Pepi went over and stood with his back against the door. Otero
sat down opposite Vettori.
“Well,” said Rico, “if you want to see me, spill it quick because I
ain’t got all night.”
Vettori sighed profoundly, then he put down his cards and looked at the
men around him. He saw four hostile faces.
“All right,” said Vettori, “but why the strong arm stuff, Rico? Sit
down, you guys, and I’ll have some drinks sent up.”
The three men looked at Rico.
“All right,” he said, “go bring up some drinks, Bat.”
Carillo went out. Nobody said anything. Outside, a winter dusk settled
and the big electric sign on a level with the windows was switched on.
They sat looking at the sign.
CLUB
P
A
L
E
R
M
O
DANCING
Carillo brought in the drinks and they all sat around the table under
the green-shaded lamp. Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi drank whiskey;
Vettori wine; Rico pop.
Vettori put down his glass.
“Well, Rico,” he said, “I got a proposition to make you.”
“All right,” said Rico, “spring it.”
“Listen,” said Vettori, “I’m getting old. I’ll never see forty-five
again and when a guy’s that old he ain’t worth much.”
“You ain’t getting old, Sam, you’re losing your guts,” said Rico.
Killer Pepi laughed out loud and banged his fist on the table. But
Vettori swallowed this insult.
“All right, Rico,” he said, “that’s your story. Well, here’s how it
is. I need a partner. You’re young, Rico, and you got the guts. All
the guys like you and they’ll do what you say. I got the lay-out and
you’re locking for a chance to be a big guy. Well, here’s your chance.”
Vettori thought for a moment, then he said: “I’ll split the works with
you.”
Carillo and Pepi exchanged a look. Otero began to hum to himself. But
Rico said:
“I’ll think it over.”
Vettori began to sweat again. Was Rico going to get rid of him?
“Well,” he said, putting on a front, “you can take it or leave it. I
like you, Rico, and I’m doing you a favor. Who’s got the money? Who’s
got the pull? What the hell would you guys do if you didn’t have the
Big Boy to pull you through?”