Everybody laughed. Ottavio was the recognized wit of the Vettori gang. All that he had to do to get a laugh was to open his mouth.
Sam Vettori took one of the quarts from the table and sent it round the room. It came back empty.
“What the hell you suppose is keeping Rico?” asked Carillo.
“Keep your shirt on,” said Pepi.
“I go see,” said Otero.
As he went out, the Big Boy came in. He had on a big racoon coat and his derby was on the side of his head. Sam Vettori rushed over and shook hands with him.
“What the hell you doing here?” he demanded.
“Me, I came to see the fun. Things are looking up, Sam. Things sure to God are looking up. I think we got ’em whipped.”
Sam Vettori smiled broadly and poured the Big Boy a drink. Well, well! If the Courtney business blew over he was sitting pretty. All things considered, he hadn’t done so bad. Time after time he had seen old gang leaders go down before younger men. But here he was hanging on, getting a 50-50 split, and taking no chances. Rico was the goods. Goddam him and all his kind, but he was the goods.
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, “you got the Old Man on the run and Flaherty’s about ready to do the Dutch Act.40 It’s gonna blow over, Sam. You heard me speak. It’s gonna blow over. I want to see Rico.”
“He ain’t showed yet,” said Sam.
“Damn smart boy,” said the Big Boy.
Sam smiled.
“Yeah,” he said, pouring the Big Boy another drink, “damn smart kid. He’s young yet, but I can show him the ropes.”
The Big Boy didn’t say anything. He just looked at Vettori.
Otero came running in, followed by two waiters, one of whom was carrying a big ulster and a derby; the other was carrying a woman’s fur coat.
“Here he comes,” cried Otero.
Kid Bean, who had collected a crowd in the middle of the room, and was walking on his hands to amuse them (he had once been an acrobat), jumped hastily to his feet and backed up against the wall. The crowd followed him. Killer Pepi said:
“All right now. Everybody yell like hell when he comes in.”
Rico came in slowly, talking to Blondy Belle, the swellest woman in Little Italy. She was a handsome Italian, bold and aquiline. Her complexion and eyes were dark, but her hair, naturally black, was blondined,41 and this gave her an incongruous and a somewhat formidable appearance.
Rico was greeted by an uproar, pierced by Killer Pepi’s shrill whistle. The Big Boy went to meet Rico and shook hands with him. Sam Vettori smiled and nodded, very affable, then went out to get things started. The Big Boy said to Blondy Belle:
“Got yourself a regular man, did you?”
Blondy took hold of Rico’s arm.
“Surest thing you know.”
The Big Boy laughed.
“What’d you do with Little Arnie?”
Rico took out a cigar and bit off the end.
“She ditched him,” he said.
The Big Boy meditated. Blondy Belle had been Little Arnie’s woman for a long time. Little Arnie ran the biggest gambling joint on the North Side, but he had been slipping for a year or more. He wasn’t right; nobody could trust him.
“How did Little Arnie take it?” asked the Big Boy.
“He took it standing up,” said Blondy Belle.
“Well, what could he do?” said Rico.
Killer Pepi, Ottavio Vettori and Joe Sansone, as the most important men in the gang next to Sam Vettori, came over to shake hands with Rico.
“A million dollars ain’t in it with you,” said Pepi, looking his boss over.
Rico was wearing a loud striped suit and a purple tie. He still had on his gloves, yellow kid, of which he was very proud, and his diamond horseshoe pin had been replaced by a big ruby surrounded by little diamonds. Ottavio envied him his gloves. But Joe Sansone was not impressed; he knew better.
“Yes sir, boss, you sure are lit up,” said Ottavio.
“Here’s the half-pint,” said Killer Pepi, pushing Joe Sansone forward.
Joe shook hands with Rico.
“Yes sir,” said Ottavio, “the half-pint’s a good boy, but he and Gentleman Joe’re too swell for us.”
Rico looked around the room.
“Joe Massara here?”
“Ain’t seen him,” said Pepi.
“He won’t be here,” said Joe Sansone; “he’s busy.”
Rico didn’t say anything. Blondy took hold of his arm.
“I want a drink.”
Rico looked at Pepi.
“Get her a drink,” he said.
The Big Boy took Rico aside and said:
“I want to see you a minute, Rico.”
Rico said:
“Listen, if you see Joe Massara tomorrow you tell him to look me up. I got something to say to that bird.”
“I’ll be seeing him maybe,” said the Big Boy. “I got a date with his boss tomorrow morning. There’s a square guy, Rico. DeVoss is a square guy all right. Never have to nudge him for dough.”
Rico seemed in a bad humor.
“They tell me you lined up something good,” said the Big Boy.
Rico nodded.
“Yeah, it’s gonna be a money maker. Little Arnie wised me up. I’m gonna give him a split. That’s the game now. Sam never had sense enough to get in on it.”
“Little Arnie, eh? That guy’d double-cross his grandmother.”
“He’ll only double-cross me once,” said Rico.
“I believe you,” said the Big Boy; then, putting his hand on Rico’s shoulder, he went on: “Funny for you to split with Arnie. How about Blondy?”
“Arnie don’t give a damn. He’s all shot to pieces. He can’t do a woman no good.”
“No wonder,” said the Big Boy, “with a woman like that.”
Rico grinned.
“Ain’t she a bearcat!” he said; then his face clouded. “Wonder what the hell Joe Massara’s game is?”
The Big Boy looked at Rico for a moment.
“That little hunky dancer over at DeVoss’s has got him down. They tell me he’s going straight.”
Rico laughed unpleasantly.
“Yeah? Well, I’ll have to go over and give that bird an earful.”
“Better stay out of that end of town, Rico.”
“To hell with that.”
Sam Vettori came in, followed by three waiters bringing the soup.
“All right,” said Sam, “we’re all set.”
Rico took his place at the head of the table. The Big Boy sat on his right and Blondy Belle on his left. The gunmen and their women arranged themselves according to rank. Blackie Avezzano sat at the foot of the table.
III
When the meal was over the Big Boy asked Rico to make a speech. There was a prolonged clamor. Rico got up.
“All right,” he said, “if you birds want me to make a speech, here you are: I want to thank you guys for this banquet. It sure is swell. The liquor is good, so they tell me, I don’t drink it myself, and the food don’t leave nothing to be desired. I guess we all had a swell time and it sure is good to see all you guys gathered together. Well, I guess that’s about all. Only I wish you guys wouldn’t get drunk and raise hell, as that’s the way a lot of birds get bumped off.”
Rico sat down. The applause lasted for over a minute. Then Ottavio got up with a bottle in his hand.
“Here’s to Rico and Blondy and the Big Boy.”
Everybody shouted and made a grab for bottles and glasses. Blackie Avezzano fell under the table and stayed there, lying on his face. After the toast was drunk, Killer Pepi and Kid Bean began to quarrel. The Kid picked up a plate and struck at Pepi, who threw a bottle at the Kid, missing him by a fraction of an inch.
Rico banged on the table.
“Cut it out, you guys. Ain’t that a hell of a way to act?”
Pepi and the Kid shook hands and another toast was drunk.
A waiter came in the door and went over to Ric
o.
“Couple of newspaper guys, boss. They want to take a flashlight.”
“What’s the idea?” the Big Boy inquired.
“Send ’em up,” said Rico.
“We’re gonna get our mugs shot,” cried Blondy Belle.
“Maybe we are,” said Rico.
“What’s the idea?” the Big Boy reiterated.
“We ain’t got nothing to hide,” said Rico.
The waiter returned, followed by two newspaper men, one of whom was carrying a big camera. Rico motioned them over.
“Who sent you?” he asked.
Sam Vettori came in and went over to Rico.
“They’re O.K., Rico,” he said, “they been here before.”
“Sure, we’re O.K.,” said the photographer, a little intimidated by Rico’s manner.
“Well, spill it,” said Rico, “what’s the idea of the flashlight?”
“Well, we got a section in the Sunday paper about how different classes of people live in Chicago. See? Last week we featured Lake Forest. Had some pictures of the swells, see, and the dumps where they lived. This Sunday we want Little Italy. We just heard about the banquet they was giving you, Mr. Rico, so we kinda thought . . .”
“O.K.,” said Rico, “but make it snappy.”
“I’m out of this picture,” said the Big Boy, rising and walking over to the doorway. Sam Vettori took his place.
After maneuvering about for a few minutes the photographer got the correct slant. He put the powder on the little tray.
“Now!” he cried.
Rico sat with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, looking very stern. There was a blinding flash. Ottavio Vettori leapt into the air and crying “My God, I’m shot” fell face down across the table. Everybody laughed.
When the newspaper men had gone the Big Boy came over and put his hand on Rico’s arm.
“They may pick you up on that.”
“Who the hell’s gonna see it?”
“You don’t know who’s gonna see it. That was a bad play, Rico.”
Rico laughed.
“If they pick me up, I’ll alibi them to death.”
When the banquet was over Rico had Otero call him a cab. Blondy Belle was a little drunk and Rico had to support her as they went down the stairs. As she weighed about twenty pounds more than he did, this was not an easy job. As they were going out the side-entrance, Flaherty left his table in the club and came over to them.
He put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Getting up in the world ain’t you, Rico?”
Rico looked at him.
“Don’t you know your old pal, Jim Flaherty?”
“Sure I know you. What’s the big idea?”
“Go chase yourself around the block, flat-foot,” said Blondy Belle; “if I ain’t getting sick of seeing bulls.”
“Hello, Blondy,” said Flaherty, “you and Rico hitting it off, eh? That’s the old ticket. Rico’s a good boy, but he’s young. If they don’t put him behind the bars, he’ll be a man yet.”
“What’s the idea, Flaherty?” asked Rico.
“Why, I don’t want you to forget that I’m your friend,” said Flaherty. “I got my eyes on you, Rico. I like to see a young guy getting up in the world.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
The cab was waiting at the curb and one of the waiters went out and opened the door for them. Rico boosted Blondy Belle into the cab. Flaherty stood in the doorway and watched them drive off.
“The nerve of that Irish bastard,” said Blondy.
But Rico had forgotten Flaherty. He sat thinking about Joe Massara. Gentleman Joe was getting too good for them, eh? He was going to turn softie.
“Well, I guess not,” said Rico.
IV
The sound of the pianola42 woke Rico. He sat up and looked at his wrist watch. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon. He had slept twelve hours.
Rico lived at a tension. His nervous system was geared up to such a pitch that he was never sleepy, never felt the desire to relax, was always keenly alive. He did not average over five hours sleep a night and as soon as he opened his eyes he was awake. When he sat in a chair he never thrust out his feet and lolled, but sat rigid and alert. He walked, ate, took his pleasures in the same manner. What distinguished him from his associates was his inability to live in the present. He was like a man on a long train journey to a promised land. To him the present was but a dingy way-station; he had his eyes on the end of the journey. This is the mental attitude of a man destined for success. But the resultant tension had its drawbacks. He was subject to periodic slumps. His energy would suddenly disappear; he would lose interest in everything and for several days would sleep twelve to fifteen hours at a stretch. This was a dangerous weakness, and Rico was aware of it and feared it.
Rico leapt out of bed and hastily put on his clothes.
“Twelve hours, boy,” he said to his reflection in the mirror, as he stood combing his hair, “that’ll never do.”
He had been seeing too much of Blondy Belle; that was the trouble. Rico had very little to do with women. He regarded them with a sort of contempt; they seemed so silly, reckless and purposeless, also mendacious and extremely undependable. Not that Rico trusted men, far from it. He was temperamentally suspicious. But in the course of his life he had discovered a few men he could trust, but no women. What he feared most in women, though, was not their treachery, that could be guarded against, but their ability to relax a man, to make him soft and slack, like Joe Massara. Rico had never been deeply involved with a woman. Incapable of tender sentiments, he had escaped the commoner kind of pitfalls. He was given to short bursts of lust, and, this lust once satisfied, he looked at women impersonally for a while, as one looks at inanimate objects. But at times this lust, usually the result of an inner need and not the outcome of exterior stimulus, would be aroused by the sight of some particular woman. This had been the case with Blondy Belle; she was big, healthy and lascivious. This exactly suited Rico’s tastes; she excited him, and for that very reason he was on guard against her.
“Yeah,” he said, “I got to lay off Blondy for a while.”
She wanted him to come and live with her, but he refused. The offer tickled his vanity, though, for Pepi or Joe Sansone would have jumped at the chance. But not Rico. He fought shy of any kind of ties. A slight relaxing of this principle and you are tangled up before you know it. The strong travel light.
He went out into the living room. Blondy, in a cerise kimono, was pedaling the pianola and singing loudly. The room was in disorder. Stockings hung from the backs of chairs, the dress Blondy had worn the night before was suspended from the chandelier on a coat-hanger, and there was a pile of clothes in the middle of the room.
Blondy turned around and smiled at him, pedaling the piano at the same time.
“What the hell kind of a piece is that?” asked Rico.
“That’s an Eyetalian piece,” said Blondy. “Ain’t it swell?”
“No,” said Rico, “I like jazz better.”
Blondy stopped the pianola and backpedaled the roll.
“I got it yesterday because I thought you’d like it,” she said.
“Hell, quit kidding,” said Rico.
“I sure did. It’s from an Opera.”
“Yeah? Say, what’s wrong with you?”
Blondy looked at him. She had pretensions. Ten years ago she had been a lady’s maid and she felt that she was somewhat cultured. One summer she had even made Little Arnie take her to Ravinia Park43 to hear the Opera. The soprano impressed her by her loud singing; the tenor by his beautiful legs.
“You’d think I was a regular wop to hear you talk,” said Rico; “say, I was born in Youngstown and I can’t even speak the lingo.”
“Well, I guess I wasn’t born in the old country either,” said Blondy.
She put a new roll on the pianola and Rico sat smoking while she played it. Rico had no ear for music; he couldn’t even whistle, or distinguish one tun
e from another. But he liked rhythm. There was something straightforward and primitive about jazz rhythms that impressed him.
“That’s a good one,” he said, when the roll was played through.
“Want to hear some more?”
“No,” said Rico, “I got to go.”
He rose and went over to the closet for his overcoat, but Blondy said: “Listen, Rico. I want to see you a minute before you go.”
“What about?”
“About Little Arnie.”
Rico stared at her.
“What’s the idea? To hell with Little Arnie. As long as he’s straight with me I ain’t got no interest in him at all.”
“He ain’t straight with nobody.”
Rico just looked at her.
Little Arnie had played his hand badly. At first he hadn’t minded losing Blondy Belle in the least; she cost him a good deal of money and she bored and irritated him. But he had been kidded unmercifully. As he had no sense of humor whatever and was very touchy in a personal matter, this eventually angered him. In revenge, he talked. He told all who would listen that Blondy Belle was a liar, a crook, and had certain unnatural appetites. Killer Pepi was one of the auditors and he immediately repeated Little Arnie’s assertions to his woman, Blue Jay, who ran at once to Blondy Belle. Yes, Little Arnie, who was fifty percent fool, had played his hand badly.
Blondy lit a cigarette and lay down on the davenport.
“Come over here and sit down,” she said; “I’ll give you an earful.”
“I ain’t got no time,” said Rico.
Blondy blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Arnie’s double-crossing you right now!” said Blondy.
“What you got on your mind?” said Rico; “spill it.”
“All right,” said Blondy. “Arnie’s giving you a split on the house, ain’t he? What’s the split?”
“Thirty percent.”
“How do you know you’re getting thirty?”
“I look at the books.”
Blondy laughed.
“Them books is crooked.”
“Straight dope?” asked Rico, his face hardening.
“Sure,” said Blondy. “I wasn’t gonna say nothing. It wasn’t none of my business, but Arnie’s been peddling a lot of loose talk about me and I don’t take that.”
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 101