Rico walked over to look at Tony. At the head of the coffin were two big candles, one of them leaning a little and dripping tallow. Tony lay with his hands folded. Rico looked down. Somehow he had expected Tony to be changed. He was not. Here lay the same Tony who used to play poker with such fury. The same Tony, yes, only dead. Rico saw the rigidity of the face, the parchment skin. He stood there, looking.
Carillo put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Bulls want to see you, boss.”
Rico nodded.
“They want you to come out in the hall.”
“All right,” said Rico, turning away from the coffin, “tell Otero.”
Otero came over beside Rico and stood looking at Tony.
“Listen,” said Rico, “this may be a pinch. I don’t know. If it is, I’ll go with them. They ain’t got nothing on me. But if there’s any trouble, Scabby’ll keep you posted. Ma’s got my jack, see?”
“All right,” said Otero.
Rico started across the room and Otero followed him. Before Rico reached the door Tony’s mother suddenly put her hands to her face and began to sob wildly.
“Oh, Tony, Tony!” she cried.
The women who had come in with her tried to quiet her, but she pushed them away, and, rising, walked over to the coffin and stood looking down at Tony. Then, still sobbing, she let the women lead her into the next room.
“That’s a woman for you,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Otero, shrugging, “Tony was her son.”
The hallway was lined with poor Italians who, not knowing the Passalacquas, had come out of curiosity. They stood in silent groups, trying to peep in through the open door. Women in disreputable housedresses carrying dirty children ; pregnant women; old men with crinkly gray hair and seamed brown faces; young girls trying to look up-to-date and American. When Rico came out they all stared at him.
Flaherty took hold of his arm.
“Rico,” he said, “come down to the end of the hall. I want to see you a minute.”
“Is this a pinch?” asked Rico.
Flaherty laughed.
“Got a bad conscience, have you? Well, you ought to have.”
Rico noticed that the other detective, whom he had never seen before, kept staring at him. Rico planted his feet firmly and stared back.
“What’s the big idea, Flaherty?” he asked.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “just to put your mind at rest I’ll tell you, this ain’t a pinch. It ought to be, but it ain’t. Now will you take a walk . . . ?”
“Sure,” said Rico.
Otero came out into the hallway and stood watching them. Rico went down to the end of the hall with the two plain-clothes men. Some of the poor Italians followed them and stood staring. But Flaherty motioned them off as if he were shooing chickens.
“Beat it,” he said; “go tend to your own business.”
They moved away slowly, looking back.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s have it.”
Flaherty took out a big cigar and began chewing on it. The other man kept staring. Rico was puzzled and wondered what the game was; then he noticed that the light at their end of the hall was good, much better than any other place in the hall. The once-over? Well, what then?
“Listen, Rico,” said Flaherty, “I like you and I’m going to give you a tip. It’s going to be tough on you birds from now on. The Old Man’s got his back up. Now get this. If you got anything on your mind, you better spill it.” Flaherty paused to light his cigar. The other detective watched Rico intently. “Because it’s going to be easy for the bird that spilled it first. But God help the rest of them.”
Rico smiled slightly.
“Quit stalling,” he said.
Flaherty glanced at the man with him, but the man shook his head. Flaherty said:
“Well, I’m giving you a friendly tip.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “you bulls always was friendly as hell. I spent two years once just thinking how friendly you was. Listen, I ain’t got nothing to spill. What the hell’s wrong with you, Flaherty? Did I ever do any spilling?”
Flaherty laughed.
“Well,” he said, “there’s a first time for everything. All right, Rico, you can go.”
The two plain-clothes men pushed their way through the crowd and went down the stairs. Rico went back into Tony’s flat. Sam Vettori and Otero were waiting for him. Vettori was mopping his face with his big white silk hankerchief.
“Well?” he demanded.
Rico shrugged.
“Just stalling.”
“What’s the game?”
“You got me. I guess Flaherty wanted this other bird to give me the once-over.”
“Things getting pretty hot, Rico.”
“Don’t beef, Sam. We’re gonna come through.”
Otero said:
“The old lady sure is taking it hard.”
They could hear Tony’s mother sobbing loudly in the next room.
27 Gerald Peary, in “Rico Rising: Little Caesar Takes Over the Screen,” suggests that the parvenu Big Boy is based on Al Capone (p. 287).
28 “The goods” in this context means evidence to support an arrest or conviction. Note that four paragraphs later, “the goods” is used to mean “the real deal,” quality, excellence. See note 7.
29 From “roads,” a slang expression meaning “hit the roads”—that is, move on, get out of town.
30 Slang, meaning to bear up under hardship, criticism, punishment, or in this case, interrogation.
31 Inebriated; drunk.
32 An historically wealthy area of Chicago, bounded approximately by North Avenue, Lake Shore Drive, Oak Street, and Clark Street. In 2011, it was ranked as the seventh wealthiest urban neighborhood in the United States.
Lake Shore Drive, aerial view, in the 1920s.
33 “The office” is slang for a warning, a tip off, or an instruction. See Morton, James, Gangster Speak: A Dictionary of Criminal and Sexual Slang (London: Virgin Books Ltd., 2002).
34 St. Dominic’s Catholic Church was originally built in 1905, at the corner of Locust and Sedgwick, in the area formerly known as Little Sicily or Little Hell. Little Sicily was an historically Italian-centric community on the Near North Side distinct from Little Italy, home to more than 20,000 Italians at the time of publication of Little Caesar. The neighborhood disappeared with the construction of the Cabrini-Green public housing projects; those too have now been largely replaced with condominiums. St. Dominic’s served the Near North Side for more than seventy-five years. In 2015, the church—vacant for twenty-five years—was torn down to build a condominium tower.
Gerald Peary, in “Rico Rising: Little Caesar Takes Over the Screen,” points out that in 1926, Hymie Weiss, “rosary around his neck,” had been executed in similar circumstances by Capone’s henchmen in front of the Holy Name Cathedral in Chicago (p. 290).
St. Dominic’s Church in 1913.
35 Savings, something to fall back on—a cushion.
PART IV
I
For three or four years Bat Carillo, once a third-rate lightheavyweight, had been the leader of one of Vettori’s gangs of hooligans. The members of this gang specialized in strong arm stuff and intimidation; they threw bombs; they smashed up barrooms and vicejoints operated by rival gangs. They were, in other words, Vettori’s shock troops. Carillo was an excellent lieutenant, as he always carried out orders to the letter and was congenitally incapable of imagining himself as chief in his own right. A good honest subordinate without ambition. Vettori trusted him.
In Carillo’s attitude since the killing of Courtney, therefore, Vettori saw the most unmistakable symptom of his own passing. Carillo had attached himself to Rico and called him “boss.” Carillo was not careless with the word “boss”; it was not a conventional expression; when he said “boss” he meant it. Aroused, Vettori saw similar manifestations all around him; in Blackie Avezzano, in Killer Pepi, in a dozen others.
V
ettori had always disliked Rico. Now he hated him. If Carillo or Killer Pepi had remained faithful he would have had one of them kill him and damn the consequences. But there was no question of that now. He knew that he was whipped and he saw the necessity of a compromise. Hanging was just over the horizon and Rico’s gun promised an even more certain death. Vettori had never split with anyone. He had always taken with both hands and given as little as possible. But it was split now or die and Vettori could not contemplate the prospect of dying with any degree of complacency. He sent for Rico.
A new Rico appeared, followed by Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi. Rico was wearing a big ulster like Joe’s and a derby also like Joe’s. He had on fawncolored spats drawn over pointed patent-leather shoes; and a diamond horseshoe pin sparkled in a red, green and white striped necktie.
The gang has a tense discussion with gang leader Sam Vettori (Stanley Fields) in a scene from the 1931 film of Little Caesar.
Vettori looked him over and winked at Killer Pepi, but Killer Pepi’s face was stony. Carillo got a chair for Rico.
“What’s on your mind, Sam?” said Rico, sitting down, throwing back his ulster and pulling up his trousers to preserve the crease.
Vettori hesitated.
“I want to see you alone,” he said.
“No,” said Rico, “I think I know your game, Sam, and I want the boys to get an earful. Go ahead and spill it.”
Vettori began to sweat. Killer Pepi said
“Yeah, we know.”
“You know a hell of a lot, don’t you?” said Vettori.
“We know, all right,” said Pepi.
Nobody said anything. Rico took off his hat and began to comb his hair. Vettori got out his cards and began to lay out a game of solitaire.
Pepi said:
“We know you went yellow, Sam, when Tony blew his top and started after Come-To-Jesus McConagha. We know all right.”
Vettori looked up at him.
“What the hell I got you guys for anyway! Who hands out the cush?”
Rico paused in the combing of his hair.
“Don’t get rough, Sam.”
Killer Pepi went over and stood with his back against the door. Otero sat down opposite Vettori.
“Well,” said Rico, “if you want to see me, spill it quick because I ain’t got all night.”
Vettori sighed profoundly, then he put down his cards and looked at the men around him. He saw four hostile faces.
“All right,” said Vettori, “but why the strong arm stuff, Rico? Sit down, you guys, and I’ll have some drinks sent up.”
The three men looked at Rico.
“All right,” he said, “go bring up some drinks, Bat.”
Carillo went out. Nobody said anything. Outside, a winter dusk settled and the big electric sign on a level with the windows was switched on. They sat looking at the sign.
CLUB
P
A
L
E
R
M
O
DANCING
Carillo brought in the drinks and they all sat around the table under the green-shaded lamp. Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi drank whiskey; Vettori wine; Rico pop.
Vettori put down his glass.
“Well, Rico,” he said, “I got a proposition to make you.”
“All right,” said Rico, “spring it.”
“Listen,” said Vettori, “I’m getting old. I’ll never see forty-five again and when a guy’s that old he ain’t worth much.”36
“You ain’t getting old, Sam, you’re losing your guts,” said Rico.
Killer Pepi laughed out loud and banged his fist on the table. But Vettori swallowed this insult.
“All right, Rico,” he said, “that’s your story. Well, here’s how it is. I need a partner. You’re young, Rico, and you got the guts. All the guys like you and they’ll do what you say. I got the lay-out and you’re looking for a chance to be a big guy. Well, here’s your chance.” Vettori thought for a moment, then he said: “I’ll split the works with you.”
Carillo and Pepi exchanged a look. Otero began to hum to himself. But Rico said:
“I’ll think it over.”
Vettori began to sweat again. Was Rico going to get rid of him?
“Well,” he said, putting on a front, “you can take it or leave it. I like you, Rico, and I’m doing you a favor. Who’s got the money? Who’s got the pull? What the hell would you guys do if you didn’t have the Big Boy to pull you through?”
“I’m O.K. with the Big Boy,” said Rico; “he was up to see me this morning.”
“Yeah,” said Pepi, “I brung him.”
Vettori laid out a new game of solitaire.
“Here’s the thing,” said Rico: “you’re trying to hang on, Sam. You must think we’re dumb as hell. You want me to do the work so you can take it easy. And you call that an even split. Hear what I say! That ain’t my idea of a split.”
“Well, I ain’t handing out charity,” said Vettori, losing his temper.
Rico got to his feet and buttoned up his ulster.
“All right, Sam.”
Vettori slammed down his cards.
“What do you guys think?” he demanded of Carillo, Pepi and Otero.
They just looked at him.
“Ain’t that a fair split?”
“No,” said Rico, “I guess we can’t do no business.”
Rico put on his hat and walked toward the door. The other three got up and followed him. Vettori stood up.
“Well,” he said, “you gonna try to run me out, Rico?”
Vettori was panicky. Rico stood at the door and looked at him.
“I was just figuring I’d open a joint across the street,” he said.
Vettori knew what that meant. He had been through half a dozen gang wars, but that was long ago when there were at least five separate gangs in the neighborhood. Things had been comparatively quiet for over three years. Vettori regretted the past bitterly. He regretted having taken up with Rico, an unknown Youngstown wop.
“Well,” he said, “Rico, you’re young and you ain’t got any too much sense. What the hell! With things the way they are, we wouldn’t none of us last a month. Listen, Rico, what’s your idea of a split?”
Rico took off his hat and scratched his head, but carefully so that his hair wouldn’t be disarranged.
“I’ll hand you this, Sam,” said Rico, “you got the layout. The split’s good that way. But you got sense enough to know that no two guys can run things. The layout split is O.K. with me, but I got to have the say, get that!”
Vettori looked at the others.
“What do you guys say?”
“We’re in with Rico,” said Killer Pepi.
Otero and Carillo nodded. Vettori brought his hand down on the table with a smack.
“O.K.,” he said.
II
The gang gave a banquet for Rico in one of Sam Vettori’s big back rooms. The table was fifteen feet long and was covered by a fine white cloth. Red, green and white streamers hung from the chandeliers and Italian and American flags were crossed at intervals along the walls. At eleven o’clock the notables began to arrive. Killer Pepi in a blue suit and a brown derby, with his woman, Blue Jay, on his arm. Joe Sansone, gunman and ex-lightweight, in a Tuxedo,37 followed by his shadow Kid Bean, a Sicilian, dark as a negro. Then Ottavio Vettori, Sam’s cousin, not yet twenty-one, already famous as a gunman and spoken of as a potential gang chief. Then Otero, Blackie Avezzano and Bat Carillo, all with their women. They stood about stiffly, a little uncomfortable in their fine clothes, and tried to make conversation. The men, like all specialists, talked shop. Ottavio Vettori declared that the police were a bunch of bums. Killer Pepi agreed that they were. Joe Sansone said that the Federal men were just as bad, only smarter and crookeder. Killer Pepi agreed that they were. Ottavio Vettori didn’t agree. He said that the Federal men were dumber and harder to fix. This brought on an argument.
Wh
en Sam Vettori came in the men were all shouting.
“What the hell!” said Sam, “ain’t this a fine way to act at a banquet? You act like a bunch of gashouse38 micks. Cut the chatter.”
Ottavio made a noise like a goat.
“Baa! Baa!”
Everybody laughed. Otero took out a quart bottle of whiskey, drank from it and passed it to Seal Skin; she drank and passed it to Ottavio. The bottle circled the room and returned empty.
“You sure came prepared, you birds,” said Sam. “Did any of you guys bring a lunch?”
“Baa! Baa!” bellowed Ottavio.
“My God, ain’t that cute!” said Killer Pepi’s girl.
“Hell, that ain’t nothing,” said Pepi, “listen.” Pepi put three fingers in his mouth and blew a blast that made their eardrums ring.
“Lord,” said Ottavio, “the cops! Baa! Baa!”
Three waiters came in, each carrying two quarts of whiskey. They put the bottles on the table and went out.
“That’s an appetizer,” said Sam.
“Apéritif,” Joe Sansone corrected.
Ottavio slapped him on the back.
“What’s that, little Joe? What the hell lingo is that?”
Joe pushed him away.
“You dumb birds don’t know nothing. Swell people don’t say appetizer; they say apéritif.”
“The hell they do! Well, I expect you know all about it. You used to be a bellboy at the Blackstone.”39
Everybody laughed. Killer Pepi blew a blast on his fingers. His girl looked at him admiringly.
“How the hell you ever learn to do that?”
“Aw, that ain’t nothing.”
“Say, Sam,” said Carillo, “when do we eat?”
“When the boss gets here,” said Pepi.
“Well, he better step on it because I’m so hungry I could eat dynamite,” said Ottavio.
“Keep your shirt on,” said Pepi.
“Haven’t got an old soup sandwich in your pocket, have you?” asked Ottavio.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 100