Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “I’m on, Sam.”

  Tony pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a flourish, but his hands shook a little.

  “Rico and Otero,” said Vettori, looking at each in turn, “will handle the rods. Yeah?”

  Rico said nothing. But Otero smiled, showing his stained teeth, and said:

  “That’s us, eh, Rico?”

  “Well,” Vettori went on, “I guess we got that over. Now, Joe, I want you on the inside. Dress yourself up like you are, see, and fix it so you’ll get there at midnight. All the whistles’ll be tooting and everybody’ll be drunk and won’t know nothing. See? Now you get there at midnight and go to the cigar counter for change. At twelvefive the fun’ll begin. We’ll set our watches by telephone, because I don’t want you here that night. All right. Rico and Otero come in quick, maybe Tony, too, if you can get a good safe place to park. That’s up to Rico. He’s bossing the job.”

  Rico looked at Joe.

  “Now, they’ll stick you up if everything’s O.K. If not, give them the high sign and they’ll beat it. We ain’t taking no chances, because one night don’t make much difference, only New Year’s Eve’s a good night, see? All right. You play like you don’t know them, got it? But while they’re working, you got your eyes open, see? And if something happens, you got a rod, but don’t use it. We got to watch that.”

  Vettori shifted his stogie and shook his finger sideways at Rico.

  “That’s your trouble, Rico. The Big Boy can’t fix murder. He can fix anything but murder. Get that. You’re too quick with the lead. If that guy over at the pool room’d died we wouldn’t none of us be sitting here right now. . . .”

  Otero broke in vehemently, surprising them.

  “But he had to! He had to! Rico does what is right.”

  “All right,” said Vettori, “but take it easy. Now, Joe, you got your hands up, but you watch. If nothing happens nobody knows the difference. But if something does happen you pull the rod and help the boys get out. All right. Here’s the dope. Get what’s in the cash register first. Get that because that’s easy. If things go right, tackle the safe; it’ll probably be open. Another thing: no frisking in the lobby. That’s too dangerous and takes too long. Let the yaps keep their money. All right.”

  Vettori took a map from his pocket and spread it out on the table. The men crowded round him.

  “You go straight in,” said Vettori, marking the route with a pencil, “on the right is the check-room; watch the girls behind the counter, Joe. On the left is the cigarcounter and the cashier’s desk. At the end of the lobby is a big door; the real joint’s beyond that. If things go right, nobody in the place’ll know it’s been stuck up, except maybe some yaps in the lobby. Get the idea? With all them horns tooting and all that damn noise, see? All right. On the right of the lobby is a door and that goes into the manager’s office. The box is in there. The manager’s a goddam bohunk6 and there ain’t an ounce of fight in him. See? Scabby give me the lowdown.”

  Vettori rolled up his map, put it in his pocket, then looked at his watch.

  “Well,” he said, “got it all?”

  Joe turned his diamond ring round on his finger and looked at the table.

  “What’s the word, Joe?” said Rico.

  “It’s a tough one, Rico. What’s the guarantee?”

  “Guarantee, hell!” cried Rico. “Why, a blind guy could do your stand.”

  “Well, I ain’t doing no time for fifty bucks,” said Joe.

  Vettori laughed.

  “I’ll give you a couple hundred now,” he said.

  Joe nodded.

  “All right, I’m in. Never mind the couple hundred.”

  They all got to their feet. Below them the jazzband was still playing and the saxophone was still sending vibrations along the floor.

  “What’ll you have, boys,” said Vettori, “want some drinks sent up?”

  “Not me,” said Tony, “I’m going over and see my woman.”

  Otero clapped his hands.

  “He’s got a woman.”

  Rico hit Otero on the back.

  “The Greek’s got a woman too,” said Rico.

  Otero with his hands cupped made a series of curves in the air. Joe was patronizing; Olga Stassoff, the dancer, was his woman.

  “A beauty is she, Otero?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Well,” said Vettori, “want any drinks sent up?”

  “Sure,” said Joe, “send me up a snort. I guess Rico’ll take milk.”

  Rico didn’t drink.

  “All right about Rico,” said Vettori in a good humor, “he’s a smart boy.”

  Tony went out followed by Vettori.

  “I think I go see my woman,” said Otero.

  Joe laughed. Rico said:

  “Goodbye, Otero. Give Seal Skin a rub for me.”

  When Otero had gone, Joe said:

  “Has old Seal Skin got The Greek hooked yet?”

  “Well,” said Rico, “he spends a lot of jack on her. She ain’t much to look at and she’s pretty old, but what’s the difference?”

  Joe never could figure Rico out. Women didn’t seem to interest him.

  Rico went over to the window and stood looking out at the electric sign on a level with his eyes.

  CLUB

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  Rico and Joe felt queer alone together. They were silent. Joe took out his gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Snow began to fall past the window.

  “Look,” said Rico, “it’s snowing.”'

  “Yeah,” said Joe, looking up mechanically, “snowing hard.”

  II

  Vettori was sitting in his little office on the main floor. On the other side of the wall the jazzband was playing, but he paid no attention. The noise of the jazzband was the same to him as the ticking of a clock to an ordinary person. He felt very pleasant and comfortable over his bottle of wine and his plate of spaghetti. Things were right!

  He congratulated himself on his subordinates. Each man a specialist. Yes, yes! That was the way to do. None of this hit or miss stuff for Sam Vettori. Rico the best gunman in Little Italy; a swelled head, all right, but he can be handled, and there you are! Otero so crazy about Rico he “don’t know nothing.” Follow Rico any place; do anything Rico tells him. And handy with a rod. Well, well. Not bad for a Mexican. As a rule foreigners were not right with Sam Vettori, but in general he had an open mind, and Otero was the goods.7 And look at Joe Massara, there was a man for you! A swell Italian who could pass anywhere. One winter in Florida, so they say, Joe passed himself off as a count and hooked a rich widow for plenty. Yes, yes ! That was Joe for you. As an inside man you couldn’t beat him. And Tony! He could drive a car sixty miles an hour straight up the Tribune Tower. Only one thing, sometimes Tony was undependable. Used to be a choir boy at St. Dominick’s and that stuff. But he had outgrown that, maybe; anyway he was dead scared of Rico and that would shut his mouth.

  Vettori leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and unbuttoned his vest. Spaghetti and wine, what is better!

  The band stopped playing. Bat Carillo, the bouncer, put his head in the door.

  “Couple of hard guys looking for trouble, boss,” he said.

  Vettori looked up.

  “Yeah? Know them?”

  “Never seen them before.”

  Vettori heaved himself to his feet and walked with Carillo to the swinging doors which separated the back-rooms and kitchen from the club proper. He pushed the door open about a foot and peered in. Carillo pointed.

  Vettori laughed and closed the door.

  “Some of them dumb Irish,” he said; “let ’em alone unless they get bad and start something, then bounce ’em.”

  “O.K., boss,” said Carillo.

  Waiters passed Vettori in the corridor, sweat dropping from their faces, steam rising from the d
ishes on the slanted trays. Vettori rubbed his hands.

  “Business is good. Well, well! We won’t none of us die in the poor house.”

  When he got back to his office he found Scabby, the informer, waiting for him. Scabby was dark and undersized with a heavy, sullen, blotched face. Passing as a police informer, he was in reality a member of the Vettori gang. He played a dangerous game as he informed on other gangs. His life wasn’t worth a cent and he was jumpy and quick with a gun.

  “Well, well, Giovanni,” said Vettori, “what’s the news?”

  “Everything’s jake,”8 said Scabby, taking off his hat and revealing a shining bald head.

  Vettori called a waiter.

  “Some spaghetti for this man here,” he said, “and a bottle of wine.”

  “That’s the ticket,” said Scabby without smiling; he never smiled; his face was melancholy and lined, and sagged like a hound’s. “The boys on?”

  “All set,” said Vettori. “It looks easy.”

  Scabby nodded.

  “It ought to be. But no gunplay, get that, Sam. The Big Boy’d raise hell if he knew what was up.”

  Vettori’s face hardened.

  “I heard that once, Scabby. That’s enough. This is too good to pass up.”

  “All right,” said Scabby, “I’ve had my say. But things ain’t what they used to be, Sam. It’s getting dangerous. They’ve even got the Big Boy scared. It’s the damn newspapers. They play that crime stuff off the boards. Big headlines, see? That’s the trouble.”

  They sat silent. Vettori, absorbed, puffed on his stogie. Finally he said:

  “Listen, Scabby, you ain’t heard nothing, see? I got to keep these boys on their toes. Especially Joe. Don’t spill nothing about the Big Boy.”

  Scabby shook his head vigorously. Vettori took out his billfold and handed Scabby a fifty.

  “That part of your split, Scabby. Keep your eyes open, that’s all.”

  Scabby pocketed the money. The waiter came in bringing the spaghetti and the wine. Carillo put his head in the door.

  “Reilly, the dick’s, up front.”

  Vettori nodded.

  “He’s O.K. If he sticks around, send him back in about half an hour.”

  “Sure,” said Scabby, “I’ll be out of here in less than that.”

  III

  Otero lay looking out the window at the electric sign across the street.

  CLUB

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  Snow was falling past the windows. Otero lay smoking a big twenty-five cent cigar9 and singing softly to himself. He always sang when he was with Seal Skin.

  “Some snow,” said Otero.

  “Yeah, some snow,” said Seal Skin, who was sitting with her feet on the window sill, smoking one of Otero’s cigars.

  “Heavy like cotton,” said Otero.

  “Yeah,” said Seal Skin.

  “Where I used to be it never snowed.”

  “Didn’t it?”

  “No, it never snowed.”

  Seal Skin blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “How come you ever left Mexico, Ramón?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Otero scratched his head. “I just left.”

  “Was they after you?”

  “No, I just left.”

  Otero got up and put his arms around Seal Skin.

  “Some girl,” he said.

  Seal Skin gave him a push.

  “Wait’ll I finish this.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Otero, smiling and patting her on the shoulder.

  “Look,” said Seal Skin, “you’re a good guy, Ramón. But dumb. How come you hang after Rico?”

  “Rico is a great man.”

  Seal Skin laughed out loud.

  “Yeah? Great, but careless. He’ll never die of old age.”

  Otero didn’t understand.

  “What you say?”

  “They’ll fill him full of lead. He’s too cocky.”

  Otero shook his head.

  “No, they’ll never get Rico.”

  “They get ’em all.”

  “No,” said Otero, “they’ll never get Rico. Once I say to him, ‘Look, you must be careful.’ But he say, ‘Not me, they’ll never get Rico.’”

  Seal Skin opened the window and flung her cigar down into the street. A gust of cold air rushed into the overheated room.

  “Listen,” she said, “that’s bunk. Rico’s no different from anybody else. You stick with Rico long enough and you’ll have a swell funeral. Why don’t you get into the beer racket? That’s safe.”

  “I go with Rico,” said Otero. “What do I care? I have no people. Once I had a brother but they shot him.”

  “The cops?”

  “No, the rurales. He was with Villa.”10

  “Who the hell’s Villa?”

  “Villa was a great man, like Rico.”

  Seal Skin got up and took a drink from a bottle on the bureau. Then she said:

  “Let’s hit the hay, Ramón.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Otero.

  IV

  It was nearly two o’clock when Tony left his woman. A lake wind11 was blowing hard and the snow fell heavily past the street lights. Tony muffled himself in his overcoat and pulled his cap low. He felt tired and disgusted.

  At the corner near his home, he turned into Sicily Pete’s restaurant. Three Italians were playing cards at a table in the back. Up front a mechanical piano ground out The Rosary.12

  “Hello, Tony, how’s the boy?” said Pete.

  “Not so good,” said Tony.

  “You ain’t looking any too good, Tony,” said Pete.

  Tony ran his hands over his face and stared at his image in the mirror behind the counter. Pale; circles under his eyes.

  “Well, I guess I’ll live,” said Tony.

  Pete smacked the counter with both hands.

  “Love of God! Sure you’ll live. You be O.K. tomorrow morning. I know, Tony, my boy. Don’t forget I was a young fellow once. I know. I know.”

  “Sure you know,” said Tony, sarcastic.

  “Sure I do. You think I don’t know about that little red head. Hot stuff, Tony, my boy. Only don’t be a fool. Save some for tomorrow night.”

  Pete laughed, shaking all over, and smacked the counter with his hands.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Pete?” cried one of the card players.

  “Never you mind. All right, Tony, what’ll you have?”

  Tony couldn’t decide. Pete went to wait on one of the card players. The mechanical piano finished The Rosary on a discord. Tony went over and put a nickel in the slot.

  “I got a combination to go and two Javas,” cried Pete.

  The mechanical piano began to play O Sole Mio.

  “I’ll take a combination,” said Tony, “and a cup of Java.”

  “O.K.,” said Pete; “I got two combinations, one to go and three on the Java.”

  “How’s business, Pete?” asked Tony.

  “Oh, what you call soso. Not good, not bad. I never get rich here.”

  “Why don’t you put in a line of bottled goods?”13 said Tony, smiling.

  Pete raised both hands over his head and brought them down hard on the counter.

  “None of that for Sicily Pete. Oh no. Pete’s too smart for that. If the bulls don’t get you, why some of them gangsters do. I know. One say, you buy from me; the other say, no, you buy from me. All the same. No matter who you buy from, bango!”

  Pete brought Tony his combination and his coffee and stood at the counter with him while he ate it.

  “Tony,” said Pete, putting his head on one side, “you know you look like your old man. Other day when you was in here I say to the missus, look, ain’t he just like his old man? Well, well. That is good. A boy should look like his old man. That is a good sign.”

  “Knew the old man pretty well, didn’t you
Pete?” said Tony, finishing his coffee.

  “Yes, pretty well. When he was a young fellow he was like you. Full of pep and always after the girls. But I don’t know, your mama she got hold of him, then he wasn’t like he used to be. He wasn’t like the same fellow. Pretty soon he died.”

  Tony laughed.

  “Hard on the old lady, ain’t you?”

  “Love of God, no,” said Pete, an expression of acute misery on his face, “you don’t get me, Tony. I mean he got to be a good fellow, like me. Work, work, that’s all he knew. Well, work is a good thing. It keeps you out of trouble, but I don’t know . . .”

  Pete wiped the sweat from his forehead and meditated. Tony flipped him a fifty-cent piece. The mechanical piano stopped on a prolonged, slurred discord.

  “Well, I guess I’ll hit for home,” said Tony, “so long, Pete.”

  “Good night, Tony,” said Pete, with one of his blandest smiles, “come in again.”

  The wind struck Tony in the face as he left the restaurant. The streets were white and silent. Tony walked home slowly, tired and disgusted.

  As he entered the flat he saw a dim light in the front room. He tried to sneak into his bedroom, but his mother heard him. She rose from her chair, a monstrous silhouette against the dim front room light.

  “A fine time for you to come in, Antonio,” she said. “Have you been out again with them good-for-nothing loafers?”

  “Yes,” said Tony, in a bad-temper.

  “So . . .” said his mother, “you don’t even lie any more. Well, well ! You are doing fine. Pretty soon you won’t come home at all, you bum.”

  “You said a mouthful,” said Tony.

  “Sure, you won’t listen to your mother. Some day you’ll remember what I told you. You loaf with crooks and bums long enough, you’ll see what will happen.”

  “All right,” said Tony, going into his room and banging the door behind him.

  His mother stood in the middle of the room for a minute, then she put out the light and sat in the dark, crying.

  V

  The little blonde check-girl helped Joe take off his big ulster, her hand lingering on his arm. He handed her a quarter.

  “Don’t go on a bat with that two-bits,” he said.

  “No sir,” said the check-girl.