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 proferred 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.
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 office33 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’s34 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, comfor
tably 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 mascaraed 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 ashtray.
“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 cush35 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.
O
tero 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 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.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 99
