Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

She watched him walk across the long dance-floor, pick his way among the crowded tables, bowing from time to time to one he had jostled, and disappear through the employees’ door at the back. Then she put checks on his coat and hat and hung them up.

  “God, what a hot-looking man,” she said; “I don’t see how that little hunky got him.”

  Olga Stassoff was just putting the finishing touches to her make-up. Joe came in softly and stood watching her. She began to sing.

  “If you’re singing for me,” said Joe, “you can stop any time.”

  Olga turned around.

  “Well, what are you doing here? Broke?”

  “Shut up,” said Joe.

  Then he turned and walked out of the room. Olga jumped to her feet and ran after him. She caught him near the employees’ door. He pushed her away.

  “Ain’t that a fine way to hello to a guy!” he said. “Why, you must think you got me roped and hog-tied.”

  “I was just kidding, Joe,” said Olga, “honest I didn’t mean it. I was just kidding.”

  “Well, get this,” said Joe, “I’m goddam sick of that line. What do you take me for? That goes big with some of your swell boy friends who’ve got ugly wives and ain’t any too particular, but me! I don’t take that kind of talk from nobody.”

  Olga put her arms around him, but he pushed her away.

  “Listen, Joe,” she said, “I got good news for you, so get out of your fighting clothes and come to earth. Can’t you take a little kidding?”

  Joe took out his gold cigarette case and selected a cigarette. He always smoked the best, when Olga had plenty of money, and he usually carried three or four different brands. With a flourish he put away his case, then, very preoccupied, he placed the selected cigarette on the back of his left hand and, with a slight tap of his right hand, flipped it into his mouth. Olga laughed.

  “Now,” said Joe, “spill the good news.”

  DeVoss, the manager, came through the swinging doors.

  “Have you told him yet, Olga?” he asked.

  Joe gave the manager a most ingratiating smile.

  “What’s the big talk, Mr. DeVoss? Am I missing something?”

  “You sure are,” said DeVoss. “The Stranskys broke their contract and I’m putting you on in their place.”

  Joe leapt into the air and executed a twinkle.14 Olga burst out laughing.

  “Well,” said Joe, “how much?”

  “One hundred to start, Joe, then we’ll see.”

  “Well,” said Joe, “I can’t buy no limousines with that, but I’ll take it.”

  Joe and DeVoss shook hands.

  “Now,” said the manager, “there’s a girl out here who’s just dying to dance with you, Joe.”

  Joe shook his head.

  “No, I don’t like that stuff. They always think they got to hand you something. What the hell! I don’t want no dame handing me nothing.”

  Olga put her hand over her mouth.

  “Don’t worry about that, Joe,” said DeVoss, “she already asked me about that and I told her you’d be insulted so she gave me a ten.” DeVoss took a crumpled bill out of his pocket and handed it to Joe. “There, now get this. She’s an up and up girl and she means lots of business to this place. Her old man’s got a couple of million bucks and she’s the real thing. All right, Joe?”

  “Sure, sure,” said Joe, “always willing to oblige.”

  DeVoss went through the swinging doors and stood waiting for Joe on the other side. Olga took Joe by the arm.

  “Listen,” she said, “none of your funny business now. Just do your stuff and leave it at that. I’m on to these society women. I know what they want.”

  Joe leapt into the air and executed another twinkle.

  “Alley up!”15 he cried, “don’t you trust me, baby?”

  Olga put her hands on her hips and began to laugh. How could you be sore at a guy like that?

  VI

  Rico was standing in front of his mirror, combing his hair with a little ivory pocket comb. Rico was vain of his hair. It was black and lustrous, combed straight back from his low forehead and arranged in three symmetrical waves.

  Rico was a simple man. He loved but three things: himself, his hair and his gun. He took excellent care of all three.

  2 Halsted Street is a major thoroughfare in Chicago, on the eastern border of the Near West Side neighborhood then known as Little Italy, now University Village, in between campuses of the University of Illinois at Chicago, near Jane Addams’s Hull House in the late nineteenth century. It also is a boundary of the area known as Little Sicily.

  Halsted Street in Little Italy, ca. 1920s

  3 Rudolph Valentino (1895–1926), whose real name was Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina d’Antonguella was an Italian-American actor best remembered for his leading role in The Sheik and other silent films. He was the original Latin lover, as the press termed him, and strikingly handsome. Valentino’s early death led to public outcries by his legions of female fans.

  Rudolph Valentino, 1923

  4 Chicago may be said to be a city of bridges. From its earliest development, bridges were implemented to allow the city to utilize the Chicago River—a system of rivers and canals 156 miles in length—for portages and connections to the Great Lakes. Today there are 52 movable bridges in Chicago, 43 of which are operable. Halsted Street features two bridges, over the north branch and the south branch of the River.

  5 According to The Gang: A Study of 1,313 Gangs in Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1927) by Frederick N. Thrasher, “It has been estimated that 90 percent of Chicago’s robberies are preceded by the theft of motor cars, most of which are abandoned after they have been used in the commission of crime.” (p. 446)

  6 A slang expression for a person of central European descent, originally only those from Bohemia, usually connoting a common laborer.

  7 In this context, the phrase means “quality.”

  8 Satisfactory; good; agreeable.

  9 This was a premium cigar. For example, in 1926, the mass-market brand White Owl sold for 3 for 20 cents.

  10 Francisco “Pancho” Villa was one of the leaders of the Mexican Revolution and its best-known figure. He was assassinated in 1923. The “rurales” mentioned by Otero were the federally-organized rural police of Mexico.

  11 Chicago—the “Windy City”—is often made frigid in the winter by winds off Lake Michigan.

  12 The song “The Rosary” was composed by Ethelbert Nevin and Robert Cameron Rogers in 1898 and frequently recorded. The Taylor Trio had a hit instrumental version in 1916.

  13 Tony means that Pete should sell bootlegged liquor.

  14 A variation of the basic waltz box step, in which a step in any direction is followed by a close and a step in another direction.

  15 The only sense that can be made of this is the modern “alley-oop,” an expression (from the French allez) made at the beginning of a lifting movement—here relating to Joe’s dance-step.

  PART II

  I

  Hear me,” said Rico, his face twitching, “he’s turned yellow. He’s turned yellow. What the hell you expect from a choir boy!”

  Otero said nothing but sat with his chair tipped back against the wall smoking a cigarette, his eyes closed. Sam Vettori stood in the middle of the room and stared at his watch.

  “Keep your shirt on, Rico,” said Vettori, “you’re on edge.”

  “Sure, Rico,” said Otero.

  Carillo came in without knocking. Vettori put away his watch.

  “Well!”

  “O.K., boss,” said Carillo, “Tony’s in the alley.”

  Vettori took out his watch again.

  “Rico, it’s eleven-thirty-five. What do you say?”

  “Let’s get going.”

  Otero got slowly to his feet, stamped out his cigarette, and, taking the riot gun16 from the table in front of him, slipped it under his overcoat. Rico examined his big automatic.17


  Carillo went out, softly closing the door. Otero walked over and patted Rico on the shoulder.

  “O.K. now, eh, Rico?”

  Rico smiled. Vettori’s face was covered with sweat and he pulled out a big white silk handkerchief to mop it.

  “Rico,” he said, “from now on you boss the job. Only, get this: for the love of God, no gunwork. That’s all. I ain’t ripe for the rope.”

  Rico said nothing. Otero shrugged.

  Vettori, still mopping his face, opened a window and a gust of cold air rushed in.

  Rico took out his little ivory pocket comb and mechanically combed his hair. Then he put on his hat and tilted it over his eyes.

  “Well,” he said to Otero, “let’s go.”

  Otero followed Rico out. Vettori called:

  “Make it clean, Rico. Make it clean.”

  They went down the back stairs. Carillo was waiting at the foot of the stairs and held the alley door open for them. The alley way was dark and Otero stumbled.

  “Caramba!”

  “Watch that gun,” said Rico.

  Tony was sitting at the wheel of a big, open Cadillac. He tossed his cigarette away and said:

  “Well, here we are.”

  Rico said nothing, but got into the front seat with Tony. Otero got into the back seat. Carillo stood looking at them for a moment, then closed the door. Tony stepped on the starter.18

  “All right,” said Rico, “let’s go, but take it easy. We gots lots of time.”

  They took it easy. Tony drove along as leisurely as though they were going to a New Year’s party. Rico leaned back and smoked, watching all the passing cars. Otero, who had removed the riot gun and had it on the seat beside him, was sitting bolt upright, his hands on his knees. He could never get used to riding in an automobile.19 Rico turned and saw the gun.

  “Put that rod on the floor,” he said.

  Otero obeyed.

  It had got colder. The snow was no longer falling and a chilly wind was blowing up in gusts from the lake. The streets were nearly deserted. Over west a whistle began to blow, discordant and shrill.

  “Well,” said Tony, nodding in the direction of the whistle, “it won’t be long now.”

  But Rico leaned over and hissed in his ear.

  “Police car!”

  A big Packard with a hooded machine-gun in the back seat passed them. There were two plain-clothes men in the front and two in the back.

  “What’ll I do?” asked Tony.

  One of the men leaned out and stared back at them.

  “Jesus,” said Tony, “he’s looking at us.”

  “Keep your shirt on,” said Rico, putting his hand on Tony’s arm.

  Otero took a cigarette from his pack and rolled it between his palms.

  The police car slowed up. Rico’s fingers closed on Tony’s arm.

  “Here’s an alley,” said Rico, “duck!”

  Tony took the turn on two wheels, just missing a parked car. Otero was thrown from one end of his seat to the other, losing his cigarette. The Cadillac’s exhaust roared in the narrow alley way. There was nothing but darkness ahead of them.

  “It’s a blind,” said Tony.

  “No,” said Rico. “I know this place like a book. Turn to your right at the end.”

  Rico leaned out and stared back. Then he laughed.

  “Ain’t that like the damn dummies! Nothing in sight.”

  They came back to Michigan Boulevard by a wide detour. Here the wind blew fiercely, raising little whirlwinds of snow. Now there were whistles blowing in all parts of town. Rico looked at his wrist-watch.

  “Five of twelve. All right, Tony. Step on it.”

  “What time, Rico?” asked Otero.

  Rico told him.

  “Fine, fine,” said Otero, “eh, Rico?”

  Half a block down the street they saw the huge electric sign of the Casa Alvarado. The street was deserted except for the parked cars. They drove along slowly now.

  Rico leaned out.

  “That’s a break,” he said, pointing to a parking place where they couldn’t be hemmed in. “Listen, Tony, this ain’t going to be no cinch, so you better give us a lift.”

  Tony pretended to be preoccupied with parking.

  “Get me?”

  Tony was pale and his lips were twitching.

  “That ain’t my stand, Rico,” he said.

  Rico looked at him. Tony sat silent for a moment, then, pulling at the vizer of his cap, said:

  “But you’re the boss, Rico.”

  “O.K.,” said Rico, smiling. “Now, Otero, get this. I go first. You follow me with the big rod. I stick up the cashier. Tony swings the sacks. Got it?” Rico took three small neatly-folded canvas sacks out of his pocket and handed them to Tony. “Otero, you watch the door. If you see anybody coming in, let ’em come in, then back ’em up against the wall. If things go right, I’ll tap the box. Got it?”

  Rico looked at his watch. It was three minutes past twelve.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Otero got out lazily, hiding the riot gun under his coat. Rico got out, followed by Tony.

  “Got your rod, Tony?” asked Rico.

  Tony nodded.

  “All right, keep it in your pocket. Maybe you won’t need it right away. If anybody gets funny, why, pull it.”

  “O.K.,” said Tony, “but for God’s sake, Rico, no gunwork.”

  Otero said:

  “You leave Rico alone. He does what is right.”

  Whistles were blowing all over town. They walked up the carpet which was laid across the pavement under the canvas marquee. Inside there was a blaze of lights and they could hear the music. The lobby was deserted except for two check girls, one waiter, a cigar clerk, and the cashier, a pale woman with a green eyeshade, who was perched on a stool. Joe Massara, in a big ulster and a derby hat, was standing at the cigar counter, kidding the clerk. He saw them out of the corner of his eye and nodded twice.

  They came in quickly, Rico in front with his big automatic at ready, Otero slightly behind him and to the left, carrying the sawed-off shotgun hip-high; Tony in the rear, his hand in his overcoat pocket.

  Before Rico could say anything, Joe Massara faced them, put his back up against the counter and raised his hands.

  “My God,” he cried, “it’s a hold-up.”

  One of the check girls screamed piercingly. The waiter’s knees buckled and he almost fell. The others stood petrified.

  “You’re goddam right it’s a hold-up!” shouted Rico, trying to intimidate them, “and it ain’t gonna be no picnic. Get that, all of you birds. I got lead in this here rod and my finger’s itching. One crack out of any of you and they’ll pat you with a spade. All right, Tony.”

  Tony, white as chalk, took the sacks out of his pocket and walked over to the cashier’s desk. The cashier was standing behind the register, hands raised. When Tony came up she said:

  “Take anything you want, only for God’s sake don’t touch me.”

  “O.K.,” said Tony, “clean out the box but don’t get funny.”

  Tony held the sacks while the cashier scooped the money into them. Tony saw pack after pack of wrapped greenbacks drop into the sacks. He began to feel a little better.

  Rico left the cashier to Tony, but looked at each of the others in turn, his eyes, under his tilted hat, intimidating them as successfully as the big Luger20 in his hand. Otero stood behind him and a little to the left, impassive, the riot gun hip-high.

  The manager opened the door of his office and with a dazed look hesitated for a moment, then, with a great sigh, put his back against the wall and raised his hands. He was a Czech with a swarthy complexion which gradually turned greenish.

  Rico glared at the manager.

  “Stay put, you!” he said.

  “All right, all right,” said the Czech.

  Joe Massara said:

  “Jesus, my arm’s paralyzed.”

  “Yeah,” shouted Rico, “well, don’t let it dr
op.”

  “All set,” cried Tony.

  Otero was busy at the door with a man in a top hat who had just come in. The man couldn’t believe his eyes and kept muttering:

  “Good Lord! Good Lord!”

  Otero backed him against the wall.

  In the club proper, beyond the big arched doorways, the band was playing loudly, horns were tooting, people were shouting.

  “All right,” said Rico, “get out your gat, Tony. I’ll tap the box inside.”

  “God,” said Tony, “it’ll take too long.”

  Rico looked at him. Tony, holding the sacks in one arm, pulled out his gun. Rico walked over to the manager.

  “Listen,” he said. “I want action. Go in and open that box and slip me the jack. One funny move and I’ll blow your guts out.”

  “Oh, my God!” cried the Czech.

  They disappeared. There was a dead silence in the lobby. One of the check girls began to cry.

  “Nice little hold-up,” said Joe.

  Nobody said anything.

  “Yeah,” said Joe, nonchalant, “fine little hold-up.”

  He smiled at the waiter, who looked hastily away and turned agonized eyes on Tony as if to say: “Look, I can’t help what that bird’s saying.”

  Two more men came in the street door and were backed up against the wall by Otero. The seconds seemed like hours to Tony, who was slowly losing his nerve.

  The manager reappeared, followed by Rico, who had his gun pressed against the manager’s back. Rico’s pockets bulged.

  “Good Lord,” hissed Tony, “let’s go.”

  Three men and two women came out into the lobby from the club proper. They stopped, petrified.

  The strain was beginning to tell on Rico, whose face was ghastly.

  “Stick up your hands, you,” he cried, “and don’t move.”

  Two of the men and both of the women put up their hands, but the third man, burly and red-faced, hesitated.

  “Good God,” said Joe, “it’s Courtney, the bull.”

  Joe’s mask of nonchalance slipped from him instantly; he dropped his hands and reached for his gun.

  “Beat it,” cried Rico to Tony and Otero.

  They made a break for the door. One of the women with Courtney fainted and fell hard, hitting her head.