“Rico,” said another voice, a deeper voice with no trace of an accent, “you don’t know me, but I’m Pete Montana and I want to talk turkey.”
Otero and Rico exchanged a stupefied look.
“Pete,” said Rico, “do you know the Big Boy?”
“Sure.”
“What’s his name in full?”
“James Michael O’Doul.”
“All right, Otero,” said Rico, “let ’em in.”
Otero unbarred the door. Rico, with his gun still leveled, stood a little behind the door, watching.
Pete Montana, followed by Ritz Colonna, his lieutenant, came in. Montana, in private life Pietro Fontano, was a big, solemn, respectable-looking Italian. He was dressed very quietly, wore no jewelry, and carried a cane. Colonna, once a ham prize-fighter, was a small, bull-necked man with a battered, dark face. His clothes were shabby and he wore an old cap on the side of his head.
Montana and Rico stood measuring each other. Rico looked small and frail beside the robust Montana, but Rico wasn’t impressed, for Montana looked fat and puffy, like Sam Vettori. Otero barred the door.
“Get a couple of chairs, Otero,” said Rico.
Otero dragged up the only two chairs in the room and Montana and Colonna sat down. Otero squatted on his heels with his back to the wall and Rico sat on the bed.
Montana took out a monogrammed cigar-case and passed it around, then he selected one of the cigars himself and cut off the end with a little gold cutter on his watch chain.
“Mopping up, ain’t you, Rico?” asked Montana, who kept his eyes lowered.
“Well,” said Rico, “Arnie was double-crossing me.”
“He wasn’t no good,” said Colonna. “I was just aching to bump that bird off.”
Montana motioned for him to be quiet.
“They slung some lead, didn’t they, Rico?”
“Yeah, and I stopped some of it. Nothing to shout about.”
“If he’d’ve got you, his number was up,” said Montana; “you know, I been watching you ever since you muscled in on Sam Vettori.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure thing. We been taking an interest in you, ain’t we, Ritz?”
Ritz grinned.
“That’s the word,” he said.
“Sure,” said Montana, “you’re on the up and up with us.”
“Well,” said Rico, “that’s O.K. with me.”
Montana looked up at Rico suddenly.
“Any guy that can muscle in on Sam Vettori and Little Arnie is on the up and up with me. The Big Boy’s with me there.”
Rico smoked and said nothing. But he wondered what the game was. Was Pete Montana getting soft like Sam Vettori? Could it be possible that the great Pete Montana was turning sap? All this palaver and softie talk. Rico’s head began to buzz.
“Look,” said Montana, “I used to work Arnie’s territory myself, but it slowed down, you know what I mean. It wasn’t worth nothing when Kips Berger had it, and after Arnie got it I didn’t pay no attention. I got all I can handle, ain’t I, Ritz?”
“That’s the word,” said Ritz.
“Yeah,” said Montana, “by rights that territory’s mine, get the idea? I could get all the protection I wanted, but I don’t muscle in on no right guy, see? Kiketown’s yours, Rico.”
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “I ain’t looking for no trouble with you, Pete.”
“That’s the talk,” said Montana; then he turned to Ritz: “See, Ritz, you had the wrong steer.”50
“Yeah, I had the wrong steer,” said Ritz.
Montana turned back to Rico.
“Yeah,” he said, “some wise guys was giving Ritz a lot of bull. Ritz said you was trying to muscle in on my territory.”
Rico thought he was dreaming. So this was the great Pete Montana. A guy that couldn’t turn over in bed without getting plastered all over the front page. All that softie stuff was a front. Pete Montana was scared.
“No,” said Rico, “them guys don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Montana smiled blandly.
“Maybe we can team up on a job or two, Rico. I like your work. The Big Boy’s no fool and he thinks you’re the goods. Yeah, maybe we can team up, but I ain’t making no promises. Only this. I ain’t looking for no split on Arnie’s layout. She’s yours.”
“Don’t forget the hide-out, chief,” said Ritz.
Montana smiled again.
“By God, I sure enough did forget it. Yeah, Rico, some of Ritz’s boys has got a hide-out a half a block from Arnie’s joint. That’s O.K., ain’t it?”
Rico’s manner changed. He lost his affability and his face became serious.
“Well,” he said, “as long as there ain’t no cutting in. I won’t stand for no cutting in.”
Montana looked at Ritz. Ritz said:
“Hell, there won’t be no cutting in.”
“What do you say, Pete?” asked Rico.
Montana meditated, pulling at one of his thick lips. Otero sat watching Rico. Caramba! Here was little Rico telling the big Pete Montana where to get off. Otero never took his eyes off Rico’s face.
“Well,” said Montana, “they’re my men and I’m behind them. If there’s any cutting in, why, I’ll settle with you, Rico. Christ, no use for us to fight over a little thing like that. Anyway, if we get along, I’ll put you in on the alcohol racket.”
“All right,” said Rico, “you and me can do business, Pete.”
Montana got up and offered Rico his hand. They pumped arms briefly. Then Pete said: “Well, I guess we’ll saunter. But let me give you a tip, Rico. You’re getting too much notice, get the idea? You got the bulls watching you. I know a new guy has always got to expect that, but take it easy for a while. They’ll go to sleep; they always do.”
Rico admired Montana’s shiftiness, but he wasn’t fooled. Pete was trying to tie him up, make him leery.
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “a new guy has got a lot to learn.”
Montana smiled blandly, certain he had scored.
“Well,” said Montana, “so long. Maybe I’ll drop down to your new joint and give it the once over some night.”
“All right,” said Rico, “just let me know.”
Otero unbarred the door. Montana started out; Ritz offered his hand to Rico, then followed his chief. Otero barred the door.
Rico stood in the middle of the room, staring into space. Otero said:
“He ain’t so much.”
Rico laughed out loud.
“Otero,” he cried, “you said a mouthful.”
46 These are fictional characters.
47 Go to sleep.
48 A derogatory term for Jews, traced by the Oxford English Dictionary back to 1824.
49 Harry Horowitz (1889-1914), also known as “Gyp-the-Blood,” was a notorious gang leader in New York City. Though only 5'5" tall and weighed 140 pounds, he was enormously strong. Horowitz was executed in 1914 for his part in the murder of the gambler Herman Rosenthal.
A mugshot of Harry Horowitz, alias “Gyp-the Blood,” in 1912.
50 Information.
PART VI
I
Rico felt small and unimportant in the Big Boy’s apartment.51 He was intensely selfcentered and as a rule surroundings made no impression on him. But he had never seen anything like this before. He sat in the big, panelled diningroom, eating cautiously, dropping his fork from nervousness, and looking furtively about him. From time to time he pulled at his high, stiff collar, and when he caught the Big Boy’s eye he grinned.
Joe Sansone had dressed him so that he would look presentable. It had taken a good deal of management and tact, but Joe Sansone was a stickler for clothes and persevered with Rico, who swore at him at first and wouldn’t listen.
“Look, boss,” he said, “you’re getting up in the world. Ain’t none of us ever been asked to eat with the Big Boy at his dump. Hear what I’m telling you. Nobody’s ever crashed the gates before but Pete Montana. See what I mean? You don�
��t want the Big Boy to think you ain’t got no class.”
Joe had his own dress suit cleaned and pressed, and punctually at five he presented himself at Rico’s door with the outfit under his arm. Rico had resisted from the beginning; first, he balked at the suspenders, then the starched shirt. Joe, laboring with the studs, the buttoned shoes, the invincible collar, cursed and sweated. Rico resisted. But Joe won.
As Joe was ten pounds heavier than Rico, the dress suit was not precisely a perfect fit, but as Joe said “men are wearing their clothes a lot looser now.” To which Rico sardonically replied: “Yeah? Say, they rig you up better than this in stir.”52
Finally Joe got Rico into his harness.53 Rico stamped about declaring that he’d be goddamned if he’d go out looking like that. Why, the Big Boy would think he was off his nut.
“You look fine, boss,” said Joe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “all I need is a napkin over my arm.”
But Joe moved Rico’s bureau out from its corner and tipped the mirror so Rico could get a full length view of himself. He was won over immediately. Why, honest to God, he looked like one of them rich clubmen he read about in the magazines. The enormous white shirtfront, the black silk coat lapels, the neatly-tied white tie dazzled him.
“I guess I don’t look so bad,” he said to Joe; “we got plenty of time, let’s go down to Sam’s place for a while.”
Rico played with his dessert and looked about the room. The Big Boy ate with gusto, smacking his lips. The magnificence of the Big Boy’s apartment crushed Rico. He stared at the big pictures of oldtime guys in their gold frames; at the silver and glass ware on the serving table; at the high, carved chairs. Lord, why, it was like a hop dream.54
He shook his head slowly.
“Some dump you got here,” he said.
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, glancing negligently about him, “and I sure paid for it. See that picture over there?” He pointed to an imitation Valesquez. “That baby set me back one hundred and fifty berries.”
Rico stared.
“Jesus, one hundred and fifty berries for a picture!”
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “but that ain’t nothing. See that bunch of junk over there?” He jerked his head in the direction of the serving table. “That stuff set me back one grand.”
Rico stared.
“One grand for that stuff?”
“Sure,” said the Big Boy, “that’s the real thing. Only what the hell, I say! A plate’s to eat off of, ain’t it? What’s the odds what it’s made of? But I got a spell about two years ago. I had a pot full of money and I thought, well, other guys that ain’t got as much dough as I got put on a front, so why shouldn’t I? Sure, I could buy and sell guys that’s got three homes and a couple of chugwagons.55 So I got a guy down at a big store, you know, one of them decorators, to pick me out a swell apartment and fix it up A1. So he did. I got a library too and a lot of other stuff that ain’t worth a damn. I was talking to a rich guy the other day and he said I was a damn fool to buy real books because he had a library twice as big as mine and dummy books. What the hell! If a guy’s gonna have a library, why, I say do it right. So there you are. I got so damn many books it gives me a headache just to look at ’em through the glass. Shakespeare and all that stuff.”
“Yeah?” said Rico, stupefied.
A servant took away their dessert and brought coffee. Then he passed a humidor full of cigars. Rico took one of the fat, black cigars, lit it, and tipped his chair back. What a way to live!
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “I got a lot of dough tied up in this dump. I get rent free, though. Eschelman, the contractor, owns this dump and he knows how I stand in the city. Boy, he puts up what he pleases and gets away with it. See the idea, Rico? If a guy stands in with me, he owns the burg.”
“Sure,” said Rico, “you’re a big guy.”
“I get him contracts, too,” said the Big Boy; “course I get mine out of it, but I made that guy. When he come here from down state he didn’t have an extra pair of pants, now he’s climbing. Yeah, if I had a wife and a couple of kids, why, I’d build me a big house out in some swell suburb, but as it is, I’d just as leave be here on one floor. I got everything I need and then some.”
“Sure,” said Rico.
“Let’s go in the library,” said the Big Boy, “it’s more comfortable in there.”
The Big Boy told the servant to take their coffee into the library. Then he got up and Rico followed him. The Big Boy put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Kind of lit up yourself tonight, ain’t you, Rico?”
“Yeah, I thought I better put on the monkey suit.”
“That’s right, Rico. May as well learn now.”
“Sure,” said Rico.
The Big Boy motioned Rico to a chair, then sat down. Rico looked about him at the great expanse of glass guarding tier after tier of books. Lord, if a guy’d read that many books he’d sure know a lot!
“Rico,” said the Big Boy, “let’s talk serious.”
“All right,” said Rico.
The Big Boy leaned forward in his chair and stared at Rico.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m gonna talk and you ain’t gonna hear a word I say, see, this is inside dope and if it gets out it’ll be just too bad for somebody.”
“You know me,” said Rico.
“All right,” said the Big Boy; “get this: if I didn’t think a hell of a lot of you I wouldn’t be asking you to eat with me. You’re on the square, Rico, and you’re a comer, see. You got the nerve and you’re a good, sober, steady guy. That’s what we need. Trouble with most of these guys they ain’t got nothing from the collar up. O.K. Now, listen. Pete Montana’s through.”
Rico nearly leapt out of his chair.
“Yeah?”
“Now don’t get excited,” said the Big Boy, “because, when it gets out, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Ritz Colonna and a couple of other lowdown bums is gonna make a rush, see, and that means that somebody’s gonna get hurt.”
“Sure,” said Rico, settling back.
“But not you,” said the Big Boy; “you’re gonna lay back and let them dumb eggs bump each other off, then we’ll get our licks in, see? Pete’s through. The Old Man’s gonna have a talk with him tomorrow or the next day and Pete’s gonna mosey. He’s all swelled up, thinks he’s king and all that stuff, but wait till the Old Man gets through with him. Why, he can hang that guy. Besides that, he can turn the Federal guys loose on him for peddling narcotics. And boy, how he peddles them! He built that big house of his on ’em. Well, see how things are? I can’t spill no more.”
“Well,” said Rico, “I’m on.”
“All right,” said the Big Boy, “but listen: I’m doing a hell of a lot for you and when I get you planted I want plenty of service.”
“You’ll sure get it,” said Rico.
Rico, with the Big Boy’s cigar still between his teeth, lay back in the taxi and stared out at the tangle of traffic on Michigan Boulevard. Things were sure to God looking up! Five years ago he wasn’t nobody to speak of; just a lonely yegg, sticking up chainstores and filling-stations. Chiggi had sure given him the right dope. He remembered one night in Toledo when he was pretty low. There was a blonde he used to meet at one of the call-houses and she sure did satisfy him, but, boy, she had to have the coin on the nose or there wasn’t nothing doing. Well, he didn’t have a red.56 He was just sitting there in Chiggi’s thinking about the blonde, when Chiggi came over and said: “Listen, kid, you got big town stuff in you. What you want around here? Get somebody to stake you or hit the rods. Hell, don’t be a piker.” Well, Chiggi staked him, but he blew the stake on the blonde, oh, boy what a couple of days, and then he hit the rods with Otero. Little Italy sure looked good to them. They didn’t have a good pair of pants between them, and a bowl of mulligan57 tasted better than the stuff he’d ate at the Big Boy’s. Well, here he was riding taxis and hobnobbing with guys like James O’Doul, who paid one grand for a bunch of cro
ckery. Yeah, here he was!
Rico saw nothing but success in the future. With the Big Boy behind him he couldn’t be stopped, and when he once got some place he knew how to stay there. Play square with the guys that are square with you; the hell with everybody else.
Rico smoked his cigar slowly (he had six more of them in his pocket), and looked absently at the jam of traffic: taxis, Hispano-Suizas,58 Fords, huge double-decked busses, leaning as they turned corners. Rico dropped the cigar butt out the window. Lying back in the seat he observed:
“And I thought Pete Montana was such a hell of a guy!”
II
Olga was only partly dressed when Joe burst in on her. She looked at him, startled.
“My Lord,” she said, “what makes you so pale, Joe?”
“Got any liquor?” demanded Joe.
Olga opened a drawer and handed him a flask. He tipped it up and took a long pull, then he stood with the flask in his hand staring at the wall.
“Joe,” Olga insisted, “what’s wrong with you?”
Joe came to himself, screwed the top on the flask, and handed it back to Olga.
“Boy, I got a shock,” said Joe.
Olga came over and put her arm around him.
“Tell Olga all about it.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I was finishing up my Pierrot dance, see, and you know when it’s dark and they got the spot on you you can’t see nothing. Well, I was circling the outside of the floor like I do before I take that last leap when some dame at a corner table gives a yell, a hell of a yell. Sibby hears the yell and switches on all the lights and here I am, right in front of a dame that looks like she’s off her nut. She was standing up and she had her hands on the table and she was staring right at me. If I didn’t feel funny, boy! Well, there was a guy with her and he kept asking her what was the matter, but she wouldn’t say nothing. I thought she was gonna jump right on me, she looked so funny, yeah, that dame sure looked funny.”
Joe paused and meditated. Olga laughed.
“Listen,” she said, “you better lay off the liquor.”
“No, straight,” said Joe, “you know I kind of got the idea she recognized me or something, but, hell, I never seen her before. She’s an old dame, about forty, and she’s got peroxide hair. There was a guy with her, a nice-looking guy, and he kept saying, ‘What’s the matter, Nell, what’s the matter, Nell,’ but he couldn’t get nothing out of her.”
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 105
