The Sheeny began to bathe Rico’s wound.
"’Tain’t much,” he said, “but it pays to be careful.”
When The Sheeny had got Rico bandaged, Rico put on his shirt and sat smoking. Bat Carillo and Ottavio Vettori, whom he had sent for, came in and sat down beside him. The Sheeny put on his hat.
“Well,” he said, smiling at Rico, “I guess I’m done. If you guys have any trouble with them wounds let me know.”
Rico got his billfold and gave The Sheeny a fifty.
“Thank you! Thank you!” said The Sheeny, bowing.
Joe Sansone let him out.
Rico said:
“Now, listen, you birds, tonight’s the big clean-up. If these guys want trouble, why, that’s just what we’re looking for.”
“You bet,” said Killer Pepi.
“Now,” Rico went on, “I got things fixed with Joe Peeper and I’m gonna to give Little Arnie the grand rush right away. I want Killer Pepi and Otero and Ottavio to go with me.”
“How about me?” demanded Joe Sansone.
“You too, Joe. And you, Bat, I want you to take your gang and smash up Jew Mike’s. Run everybody out and then smash the place. If Little Arnie wants trouble, why that’s what we got the most of. Got it?”
“O.K.,” said Bat, “how about the rods?”
“Don’t use ’em,” said Rico; “Jew Mike’s yellow and he won’t put up no fight.”
“Them guys of mine sure are hard to hold on to,” said Carillo, grinning.
“That’s your job,” said Rico. “We got to watch this plugging stuff with Flaherty on our trail.”
“O.K., boss,” said Carillo.
III
When the doorman saw Rico get out of the automobile he stood stunned, then, pulling himself together, he made an attempt to run. But Pepi crossed the pavement in two strides, grabbed him by the collar and pushed him ahead of him up the stairs.
“Listen, Handsome,” said Pepi, “you tell the look-out we’re O.K. or they’ll bury you.”
At the head of the stairs the doorman spoke to the look-out through the shutter.
“These birds are all right,” he said.
The look-out opened the door and Pepi shoved a gun against him.
“Turn your back, Buddy,” said Pepi, “and march straight ahead of me.”
Rico, followed by Joe Sansone, Ottavio Vettori, and Otero, climbed the long flight of stairs and entered the lobby. The lobby was deserted except for two or three couples. Beyond it, through a big arched doorway, they could see the crowded roulette wheels. Rico caught up with Pepi and said to the doorman:
“Where’s Joe Peeper?”
The doorman had an agonized look. He was sure they were going to kill him. He just stood there, unable to force himself to speak.
“Say,” said Pepi, “speak up.”
The doorman pointed to a door.
“He’s in with the boss, is he?” said Rico.
The doorman nodded.
“Yeah,” said the look-out, eager to get in good, “Joe’s in there with the boss and a couple of other guys.”
“All right,” said Rico; “now, Pepi, if the door’s locked, do your stuff.”
Pepi could force the heaviest door with his shoulder.
Joe Sansone tried the door; it was locked.
“Now,” said Rico, “Pepi’ll force the door. You cover him, Joe, in case somebody in there gets nervous and pulls a gat. I’ll follow you. Otero, you stay out here and don’t let nobody in. You watch this pair of hard guys here, Ottavio.” Rico jerked his thumb toward the look-out and the doorman.
“You don’t have to watch us,” said the doorman.
They all laughed.
“All right, Pepi,” said Rico.
Pepi hunched his shoulders and flung himself against the door. It opened with a crash. They saw four startled men rise half way out of their chairs and stand staring. Joe Peeper cried:
“It’s Rico!”
Pepi was on his hands and knees in the middle of the room, but Joe Sansone stepped in behind him and covered the four men with his big automatic. Rico came in, took off his hat and bowed.
“Hello, Arnie,” he said; “how’s business?”
Little Arnie sat with his mouth slightly open. As a rule Little Arnie was imperturbable. He hid an excess of both cunning and timidity behind a cold, repellent, sallow Jewish mask. But this cyclonic entry was too much for him. His mask had slipped, revealing a pale, terrified countenance.
“Well,” he said, “what’s the game?”
Joe Peeper, who was in Rico’s pay, said:
“Pull up a chair, you guys.”
Pepi found two chairs. Joe Sansone and Rico sat down; Pepi stood behind Rico’s chair.
Little Arnie turned to the two men sitting beside him. They were strangers to Rico and they looked tough.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” said Arnie, “but it’s a private row, so you guys better beat it.”
Rico said very quietly:
“Nobody’s gonna leave this room.”
One of the toughs shouted:
“Think not, wop! Well, who the hell’s gonna stop us?”
Before Rico could reply, Joe Sansone said:
“Me, I’m gonna stop you, see! And I ain’t gentle. I’m just itching to put some lead in a couple of hard guys.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, smiling, “you guys are invited to this private party.”
The two men looked at Arnie, who sat tapping his desk with a pencil.
“Say,” said one, “you sure got a fine bunch of friends, Arnie.”
“Yeah,” said Arnie.
Pepi laughed and said: “Yeah, he sure has. Arnie, you ought to had better sense than to get a couple of outside yaps to bump Rico off.”
Nobody said anything. Arnie took out a cigar and lit it. The two strangers sat staring at Rico. Pepi sat staring at them. Finally he asked: “Where you guys from?”
The men looked uneasily at Arnie. Little by little they were losing their nerve.
“Speak up,” said Pepi, “where you guys from?”
“We’re from Detroit,” said one of the men.
“Where the hell’s that?” Joe Sansone inquired. “I never heard of it.”
“Say,” said Pepi, “don’t you know that tough guys like you oughtn’t to be running around loose? No sir. You’re liable to get arrested for firing a rod in the city limits.”
“Listen,” said one of the men from Detroit, “what you guys got against us? We ain’t done nothing. We just got in.”
They were thoroughly intimidated.
Arnie, who had recovered his poise, said:
“Well, Rico, what’s the talk? Let’s have it.”
Pepi and Joe Sansone both started to talk at once, but Rico motioned for them to be quiet.
“Arnie,” said Rico, “you’re through. If you ain’t out of town by tomorrow morning, you won’t never leave town except in a box.”
Arnie said nothing but sat staring at the smoke rising from his cigar.
“In the first place,” Rico went on, “you been double-crossing me for two months. In the second place you hire these bums here to pop me. Now I guess that’s about all.”
Arnie laughed.
“Rico,” he said, “somebody has sure been stringing you. Why, you ought to know I wouldn’t double-cross you. Hell, that wouldn’t help me none.”
“Can that,” said Rico. “Your number’s up, Jew. Take it like a man.”
Arnie’s face got red.
“Listen, Rico, if you think you can muscle into this joint you’re off your nut.”
“All right, Joe,” said Rico, jerking his head in Joe Peeper’s direction, “spill it.”
Joe Peeper looked sideways at Arnie.
“The books’re crooked, Rico,” said Joe Peeper; “he’s been gypping you out of half your split every week.”
The Detroit toughs began to shift about uneasily.
“Well, you two-timing bastard,” said Arnie.
Rico laughed.
“Arnie,” he said, “that’s that. Here’s the dope. You get your hat and beat it. Leave the burg. If I ever hear about you being in town again, why, I’m gonna turn the Killer loose on you.”
“Yeah,” said Pepi, “and I never did like kikes.”
“I ain’t any too fond of them, myself,” said Joe Sansone.
Arnie meditated. Rico said:
“I been square with you, Arnie, but you couldn’t stand prosperity, that’s all. So take it standing up.”
“What the hell else can he do?” Pepi demanded.
“I’ll tell you what I can do,” said Arnie, “I can have a talk with Mr. Flaherty.”
Arnie studied Rico carefully to see what effect this would have. But Rico merely smiled at him.
“Getting pretty low, Arnie,” he said, “when you take the bulls in with you.” Then he paused and leaned forward in his chair. “If you go to see Mr. Flaherty you better have an alibi because he might ask you about Limpy John.”
Arnie dropped his cigar and sat staring into space, his hands lying palms up on the table.
“All over but the shouting,” said Joe Sansone, “somebody better throw in a towel. But I don’t suppose the dirty bums in Detroit ever heard of towels.”
“Aw, lay off of us,” said one of the Detroit toughs.
Joe Sansone stared at him.
“Say, Gyp-the-Blood,49 I bet they think you’re a pretty hard bird where you live, don’t they?”
Arnie turned to Joe Peeper.
“Well, Joe,” he said, “you sure put the skids under me.”
“Sure I did,” said Joe Peeper; “you thought you could bat me around and make me like it.”
Pepi laughed.
“Arnie,” he said, “you better go back to Detroit with your boy friends.”
When Rico and his men left Arnie’s joint Joe Peeper followed them. As soon as they reached the pavement, Joe walked up to Rico and said:
“You sore at me, Rico?”
All Rico’s men stopped and stood staring at Joe, wondering what his game was.
“You guys get in the car,” said Rico.
They all got in except Pepi, who stood with his back against the car, his right hand in his pocket. Pepi didn’t trust anybody who had ever been mixed up with Little Arnie.
“What’s on your mind, Joe?” Rico demanded.
“I thought you acted like you was sore at me,” said Joe Peeper; “honest to God, Rico, I didn’t know nothing about them Detroit bums. I didn’t know what Arnie was up to. Lord, you know I wouldn’t double-cross you after all you done for me.”
“Well, who said you did?”
“Nobody,” said Joe, “only it looked funny, and I thought maybe you guys had got a wrong notion. I’d be a sap to pull anything like that.”
Rico laughed.
“Forget it,” he said.
Rico started to get into the automobile, but Joe took hold of his arm.
“How about me, Rico?” he said. “If I stick around here they’ll bump me off sure.”
“Yeah?” said Rico; “say, them guys wouldn’t bump nobody off now. But get in. I can use you, Joe.”
Joe got in the back seat with Otero and Ottavio Vettori. He talked to them all the way back to The Palermo, trying to get in good with them, but they said nothing.
IV
The next day in the society column of one of the Chicago papers there appeared a small item, which read:
“Mr. Arnold Worch, of the North Side, has just left for Detroit where he intends to spend the summer. He was accompanied by two of his Detroit friends, who have been in Chicago for a short stay.”
This was the work of Ottavio Vettori. The underworld was convulsed and thousands of extra copies of the paper were sold. The clipping was to be found pasted up in all the barrooms, gambling joints, and dance-halls. Rico and Ottavio Vettori had become famous over night.
Little Arnie wasn’t the only one who left town. Several of Little Arnie’s henchmen, who had been closely connected with the attempted killing, followed him into exile. Joseph Pavlovsky, the doorman, who had driven the car, went to Hammond, where, on the money Arnie had given him, he opened a speak-easy. Pippy Coke, who with the two Detroit gunmen had done the shooting, went with Pavlovsky, and they were followed by two croupiers, who had shadowed Rico.
Arnie’s gang was smashed and the Little Italians took over a territory they hadn’t controlled since the days of Monk De Angelo.
Arnie had come to Chicago from New York about five years ago. His reputation had got so bad in New York that no one would do business with him. He came west with a small stake and was lucky enough to arrive at just the right time. Kips Berger, also formerly of New York and once one of Arnie’s pals, had gone broke and was willing to sell out his big gambling joint for practically nothing. Arnie bought it and prospered. This gambling joint was in a neutral zone, touching Little Italy on the south side and the vast territory that Pete Montana controlled on the north. Arnie was acute enough to see his advantage. He worked hard at his job and in a little while had consolidated his territory. But he was not a good gang chief: first, because he was a coward, second, because his closest associate couldn’t trust him, third, because he was inclined to lose his head in an emergency. His lieutenant, Jew Mike, was a tougher and more violent replica of his chief. Between them they bossed the territory, but under them the gang never prospered and their hold was at best precarious. They held on only because there was little or no opposition. Their gangsters were a poor lot and were content to take small splits. On the south, Sam Vettori was slipping and his lethargy prevented his interfering; on the north the great Pete Montana was magnificently indifferent.
Arnie had been slipping for the last year or so, and Rico’s sudden rise had accelerated his decline. Arnie, fearing the worst, committed blunder after blunder; first, he made advances to Rico, then, getting Rico’s protection for a thirty percent split, things looked too easy and he began to doublecross him. Lastly, although he should have known better, he made the tactical error of trying to get Rico killed. If he had succeeded his position would not have been improved; he would have been worse off, because the Vettori gang would have made short work of him.
No one regretted the passing of Little Arnie. He had never been straight with anybody. No one could depend on him and he had none of the qualities that go to make up a good gang chief. The wonder is that he lasted as long as he did.
Arnie’s fall was the signal for a series of minor tumbles. Jew Mike, whose joint Bat Carillo and his gang had demolished, fled to the South Side, where he opened a couple of vice-joints. Kid Burg moved to Cicero, and Squint Maschke, after a short exile, offered his services to Rico, who gave him twenty-four hours to make a second disappearance. With the fall of Arnie’s three lieutenants, the last vestiges of his rule vanished.
V
Otero helped Rico out of his coat, then, while Rico doused his face at the wash stand, he sat down, tipped back his chair and rolled himself a cigarette.
“You better lay down, Rico, and get some rest,” said Otero; “you ain’t looking so good.”
“I’m O.K.,” said Rico.
But this was bravado. He had slept only four hours in the last two days; his face was pale and drawn and he suffered from an intermittent fever. His wound, though a slight one, was not healing properly, and The Sheeny had warned him that he had better take it easy. Inactivity at any time was abhorrent to Rico; now it was impossible. His big chance had come. Nothing could stop him now but a hunk of lead in the right spot.
Rico, a little unsteady on his legs, stood staring at Otero.
“You’re sure making yourself at home,” he said.
“Well,” said Otero, “I think I stay.”
Rico laughed.
“Listen, I don’t need no nurse. Beat it.”
“No,” said Otero, tossing away his cigarette and starting to roll another one, “I think I stay.”
Rico walk
ed over to the bed and stood staring at it. If he had been alone he would have flopped down and been asleep in an instant.
“Think I’ll catch a little sleep,” he said; “you beat it, Otero.”
Otero didn’t say anything. He finished rolling his cigarette, lit it, and tipped his hat down over his eyes.
“Goddam it,” cried Rico, “beat it! I’m sick of you trailing me like a Chicago Avenue bull. I ain’t gonna drop in my tracks.”
“All right,” said Otero, “you lay down. I finish my cigarette.”
Rico threw himself on the bed, fully dressed except for his coat. He put his hands under his head and tried to keep awake by staring at the ceiling. But in a moment he was asleep.
Otero sat looking at his chief. All along he’d known. Rico was a great man like Pancho Villa. Even in Toledo when he and Rico were sticking up filling-stations, he knew. A little, skinny young fellow with a little mustache, sure, that’s what everybody saw. But everybody didn’t have the eyes of Otero.
Otero flung his second cigarette on the floor and rolled another one. Rico turned from side to side in his sleep and mumbled. His face was white and drawn. Otero got to his feet and went over to look at him. No, Rico was not well. Otero put his hand on Rico’s forehead. Fever! He stood looking down at his chief, shaking his head.
“Like hell!” cried Rico; “you can’t hand Rico none of that bunk. No Irish bastard’ll ever put no cuffs on Rico.”
Otero went back to his chair and sat dozing under his big hat, while Rico tossed from side to side and talked.
Someone knocked at the door. Otero was slow in opening his eyes, but Rico sat up, stared for a moment, then jumped out of bed and got his automatic.
“Go see who it is,” he said to Otero; “don’t open the door. Ask them.”
Otero went over to the door and called:
“Who’s there?”
There was a short silence, then a voice with a marked Italian accent said:
“A couple of right guys. We want to see Rico.”
Otero turned and looked at Rico, who came over to the door.
“Listen, you right guys,” said Rico, “I’ll give you a one-two-three to get out of that hall and then I’m gonna start pumping lead. Got it?”
There was a pause.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 104
