“I’ll get that swell-headed Dago if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
36 Life expectancy of the average American white male in 1925 was around fifty-eight years—that is, if he wasn’t a gangster!
37 The Tuxedo, usually capitalized until the 1930s, was a tailless evening jacket substituted for the tailcoat long worn to formal affairs. It was popularized in England in the 1880s and then moved to America, where it was frequently worn by the younger men attending social functions. Tuxedo Park was a village in upstate New York, named from a Native American word for “crooked river,” that became an enclave for the smart set, and it is likely that the name became associated with the jacket there. Mark Twain resided in Tuxedo Park for a few years around 1907.
38 Low-class Irish.
39 A glamorous hotel in Chicago, still in operation.
40 Suicide. The first published usage of this slang expression is 1904.
41 Bleached.
42 A player-piano, powered by pneumatic or electrical-mechanical devices. Sales peaked in the mid-1920s; the growth of radio broadcasts and the phonograph record made the device superfluous.
Inside a pianola (photo by Tim Walker, CCA-2.0 license).
43 Located in Highland Park, Illinois, this outdoor music festival has been in operation since 1905, when it hosted the New York Philharmonic. According to the official Ravinia website, “opera was added to the concert programs in 1912, and by the end of the decade, Ravinia earned a reputation as America’s summer opera capital. During Ravinia’s ‘Golden Age’ of opera, 1919 to 1931, Ravinia audiences heard the greatest singers in the world, including such luminaries as Edward Johnson, Giovanni Martinelli, Claudia Muzio, Rosa Raisa and Tito Schipa,” https://www.ravinia.org/Page/History.
The Casino building at Ravinia, now demolished.
44 State’s evidence—that is, a witness for the government.
45 Information—the truth.
PART V
I
There were quite a few wise boys in Little Italy who thought that Rico’s sensational rise was a fluke. The matter was talked about a good deal and he was unfavorably compared with Nig Po and Monk de Angelo, former leaders,46 and there were even those who considered him inferior to Killer Pepi, Ottavio Vettori, and Joe Sansone. This confusion arose because Rico was not understood. He had none of the outward signs of greatness. Neither the great strength and hairiness of Pepi, nor the dash and effrontery of Ottavio Vettori, nor the maniacal temper of Joe Sansone. He was small, pale and quiet. In spite of his new finery he wasn’t much to look at. He did not swagger, he seldom raised his voice, he never bragged. In other words, the general run of Little Italians could find nothing in him to exaggerate; they could not make a legendary figure of him because the qualities he possessed were qualities they could not comprehend. The only thing that redeemed him in their eyes was his reputation as a killer.
Rico was brave enough, but he did not flaunt his bravery like Kid Bean. Rico was cunning enough, but cunning was not an obsession with him as it was with Sam Vettori. Rico was capable of sudden audacity, but even his audacity had a sort of precision and was entirely without the dash of Ottavio’s.
Rico, while he was small and pale, was capable of great endurance, but this endurance of his was nothing compared to Killer Pepi’s inhuman vitality. Rico’s great strength lay in his singlemindedness, his energy and his self-discipline. The Little Italians could not appreciate qualities so abstract.
The men that were considered his rivals were really not to be compared with him. Killer Pepi was strong and courageous, but he was very erratic and a drug-addict. Ottavio Vettori was daring enough and cool in a tight place, he could shoot straight and he feared nothing, but he was light-minded, dissipated his energies on all sorts of follies, and ran after every woman that looked at him. Joe Sansone, though brave enough and dependable when it came to a sudden action, was a periodic drunkard, and, generally speaking, nervous and unreliable. Sam Vettori, a good man once, had let his congenital lethargy and his congenital love of trickery overcome him; he had become petty and had entirely lost the initiative which, years ago, had put him at the head of the gang. Now he was not even taken seriously by the men he had once led, and but for Rico’s authority, he would have sunken into obscurity.
The case of Sam Vettori was a strange one, without its parallel in gang annals. In Little Italy there is no such thing as abdication unless it is accompanied by flight. The old gang leader who is superseded has two alternatives: flight or death. Sam had escaped both. His growing inability to make decisions had lost him his power, but it had also saved his life. Rico did not consider him dangerous. But that was not all. Rico considered him useful. That saved him from flight. With the proper guidance, Sam Vettori was an asset to any gang. He was wise and he knew the ropes.
Sam was docile; not that his hatred for Rico had abated; but things were breaking good, money was rolling in, and Sam loved money above all things. The Vettori gang had never known such prosperity before. Sam was quick to see where his advantage lay. Rico could be killed. Scabby, who hated Rico for some fancied slight and who, for this reason, was faithful to Sam, would have done it. But what would have been the good of that? Sam knew that he was through as a gang leader. With Rico dead, there would be a mad scramble for leadership. Besides, Rico had the devil’s own luck, and Scabby might fail. If he failed, Scabby’s life and his own wouldn’t be worth a plugged dime. No, Sam Vettori accepted a somewhat odd situation philosophically and prospered.
II
Blondy Belle lolled back in her chair and put her fat hands on the table. Rico sat opposite her with his hat tilted over his eyes.
“Well,” said Blondy Belle, “I guess that’s it, ain’t it, Rico?”
Rico nodded.
“I told you not to give that bird a chance. He thinks you’re soft.”
Rico smiled and twisted his diamond ring round and round.
“He raised the split to fifty percent, and the books were straight.”
“Well,” said Blondy, “he couldn’t stand prosperity. Listen, you’re gonna let him have it, ain’t you?”
Blondy hated Little Arnie so that she couldn’t sleep at night. She couldn’t understand Rico’s lenience.
“No,” said Rico.
“Hell,” said Blondy, “you’re getting soft.”
“Aw, can that,” said Rico; “you want me to get my neck stretched over a dirty double-crosser that ain’t worth a good bullet? Listen, I’m gonna run that bird out of town.”
Blondy was disgusted. She started to get to her feet, but Rico reached across the table and pushed her back into her chair.
“Sit down,” he said, “and cut the funny stuff. If you women ain’t awful! Use your head, that’s what you got it for.”
Blondy sulked. Across the room the orchestra started up and couples crowded out into the ropedoff dance floor.
“Don’t they ever get sick of dancing?” said Blondy, in a bad-temper.
Rico got to his feet.
“Listen,” he said, “get yourself a cab and beat it. Go home and take some aspirin and hit the hay.47 If you’d lay off that bad liquor you wouldn’t always be beefing.”
Blondy looked at Rico for a moment, then she said:
“Aw, sit down, Rico. I’ll snap out of it.”
“No,” said Rico, “I got business to look after and I’m getting sick of this beefing. See, I’m getting sick. Any more of this kind of stuff and I’m gonna get me another woman. Hell, I might as well talk to Flaherty as you.”
Blondy got to her feet without speaking. Rico never kidded; he meant what he said. Blondy was not used to men like Rico. She often wondered why it was she couldn’t seem to get any hold on him.
Silently they walked around the little, roped-off dance floor. Rico told one of the waiters to get him a cab, then, to pass the time, he started putting nickels in a slot machine. After the third nickel, the bell rang and Rico won fifty cents; on the sixth nickel he won again.
He called the man behind the counter.
“Say,” he said, “have you seen anybody fooling with this machine?”
The man nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I seen Ottavio doing something to it.”
Rico laughed.
“Can you beat that petty crook! He’ll be robbing blind men next. Say, tell Sam to get all the machines overhauled. What the hell! He might as well hand out nickels over the counter.”
Blondy laughed, glad of this opportunity to put on a change of front.
“Boy, you don’t miss anything,” she said.
“Well,” said Rico, serious, “what’s the use of letting somebody gyp you?”
The waiter they had sent for the cab came to tell them that it was outside.
Blondy put her hand on Rico’s arm.
“Listen, wise boy,” she said, “you got the right dope about that Little Arnie business. Run him out, that’s O.K., but do it up brown.”
“You watch,” said Rico.
He put her in the cab.
“Gonna give me a ring tonight, Rico?” she asked.
“Can’t say.”
“Well, don’t let me ketch you with any more dark hairs on your coat.”
“Can that!” said Rico.
Blondy slammed the cab door. Rico stood and watched the cab till it disappeared. Blondy was just like any other woman. Now she had got to the grand rush stage. Always beefing about something. Rico stood looking down the street. It was hot and the city sweltered, but now and then you could feel a breath of lake wind. He looked up at the sky. Stars everywhere.
“It’s a swell night,” said Rico.
Contrary to custom, he decided to walk down to the newsstand and get a paper. Since his rise, he seldom went out unaccompanied; never at night. Otero, Killer Pepi and Bat Carillo had constituted themselves his body-guard and one of them was always within calling distance. They were jealous of this privilege and sometimes quarreled among themselves. But the night tempted Rico; the atmosphere of The Palermo was vile, and the lake breeze was fresh and cool.
He had gone scarcely half a block when a large touring-car with the curtains closed passed him. He saw the car, noticing especially the closed curtains and the fact that the driver was hugging the curb, and, fearing the worst, he looked about for a shelter, but, as the car passed him and went on, he paid no further attention to it. Stopping in front of a lighted drugstore window he took out his watch and looked at it. One o’clock! Kid Bean and the Killer ought to be back any minute now. Suddenly he looked up. The big touring-car had turned and was coming back at full speed with its exhaust roaring. Rico cursed himself for his carelessness and reached under his armpit for his gun. But the car was abreast of him now and three guns blazed. Rico felt a searing pain in his shoulder and fell to the ground. His gun was stuck in its holster and he couldn’t get it out. One of the men leaned out of the car and emptied his gun at Rico, who, helpless on the ground, heard the bullets sing.
“A goddam fine shot you are!” said Rico.
The big touring-car turned a corner and disappeared. Rico got to his feet and walked into the drugstore. The screen-door banged behind him and the clerk, who had been lying down behind the counter, got unsteadily to his feet.
“My God,” he stammered, “what was all the popping for?”
Then he noticed that there was a torn place on the shoulder of Rico’s coat.
“Was they after you, mister?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “I got brushed. Give me a roll of bandages.”
The clerk stood there with his mouth open. People began to come into the store. Some of them knew who Rico was and stood staring at him.
“They put a bullet through my window,” said the clerk.
“Listen,” said Rico, “go get me a package of bandages.”
The clerk finally came to himself and went for the bandages. A crowd had gathered in the street and now there were so many people in the drugstore that the people on the outside couldn’t get in. Rico stood with his back to the counter, watching. Blood had begun to drip from his coatsleeve. Before the clerk returned with the bandages, Jastrow, the famous Little Italy cop, pushed his way through the crowd, followed almost immediately by Joe Massara.
“Well,” said Jastrow, “somebody finally put one in you, did they, Rico?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Joe Massara came over and put his hand on Rico’s arm. Joe’s face was white.
“Hurt you much, boss?”
“No,” said Rico; “what the hell you doing way over here?”
“I got tipped off,” said Joe. “I couldn’t get you on the phone and I began to get nervous. We’d’ve made it only my cab driver got hooked for speeding.”
“Who gave you the tip?” Jastrow demanded.
“Go press the bricks,” said Rico, “this ain’t your funeral.”
Jastrow laughed.
“Rico,” he said, “don’t you know that the Old Man’s taken an awful interest in you?”
“Well, tell him the cops couldn’t get me no other way so they hired a couple of gunmen.”
Joe laughed. Jastrow laughed also and taking out his notebook began to write in it. The clerk came with the bandages. Joe took them from him and paid him. Before they could get started, Killer Pepi and Otero came shoving their way through the crowd.
“Hello, boys,” said Jastrow, looking up from his little book, “your boss got nudged by a hunk of lead.”
“So they tell me,” said the Killer.
Rico said:
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Jastrow went in front, clearing the way, followed by Otero and Killer Pepi, who had Rico between them. Joe brought up the rear. People were lined to the car-tracks; lights blazed in all the houses along the street, and men hung from the lamp-posts. When they came out of the store, the crowd was so thick that they were unable to get any farther. Jastrow took out his nightstick and flourished it, but the sight of it was enough, the crowd made a path.
As they walked along Joe came up close to Rico and whispered:
“Little Arnie.”
Rico nodded. Pepi heard Joe.
“Yeah,” he said, “and I’m gonna plug him tonight.”
“There won’t be no plugging,” said Rico.
“Aw, hell,” said Pepi.
Otero was excited.
“Yes, yes, Rico,” he cried.
“Shut up, you birds,” said Rico; “who the hell’s running this show?”
A crowd was waiting for them in front of The Palermo. Bat Carillo and Ottavio Vettori began to yell as soon as they saw that Rico was on his feet.
Jastrow turned around.
“Well, I guess I done my duty.”
“Sure,” said Rico, “come in and have a drink.”
“Nothing doing,” said Jastrow, then he shouted: “You birds quit your damn yelling and get in off the sidewalk.”
Everybody laughed. They all liked Jastrow, who had the reputation of being on the square. Rico went in escorted by a mob of Little Italians. In the club people were standing on the tables; the orchestra was playing loudly; and Sam Vettori, in the middle of the deserted dance-floor, was waving his arms wildly and bellowing.
When they saw Rico there was a tumult.
“Rico! Rico! Rico!”
Killer Pepi and Otero, intoxicated by the excitement, grabbed each other and began to dance. Joe waved the bandages. Rico took off his hat and smiled.
On the way up the stairs Rico turned to Joe and said:
“Go get The Sheeny.”48
Killer Pepi took Rico by the arm.
“He’s upstairs now, boss,” he said; “the Kid got plugged.”
“How’d you make out?” Rico inquired.
“O.K.,” said Killer Pepi; “we was making a get-away on the third stand when one of the guys plugged the Kid. He ain’t hurt much. Just skinned him.”
Kille
r Pepi and Kid Bean had robbed twenty-five filling-stations in the last two weeks.
“All right,” said Rico, “you guys have been on the up and up. Split the money two ways.”
“That’s the talk, boss,” said the Killer.
Otero knocked at the door. Joe Sansone’s face appeared at the grating, then the door swung open.
The Sheeny was working on Kid Bean. The Kid was lying on the card table, smoking a cigarette. His shirt was off and there was a smear of blood on his hairy chest. When he saw Rico he said:
“They damn near hit the target, boss.”
He pointed to a pierced heart tattooed on his chest. He was as proud of his tattooing as a Maori chief.
“The boss got plugged,” said Pepi.
“What!” yelled the Kid, sitting up; “go fix him up, Sheeny.” He gave The Sheeny a push. But Rico said: “Finish up the Kid first. I can wait.”
“Only jist got to bandage him yet,” said The Sheeny with his ingratiating smile.
The Sheeny was a graduate doctor, but he had been sent up for an illegal operation and his license had been revoked. He said his name was Lazarro, but nobody believed him and everybody referred to him simply as The Sheeny.
Rico took off his coat and shirt, and sat waiting. His wound had stopped bleeding.
Joe Massara came over and stood by his chair. Joe’s big cut for an inside job had pulled him back to the fold. He never talked any more about quitting the racket. The Courtney affair had blown over apparently, and he had regained his confidence.
“Joe,” said Rico, “how come they gave you the tip?”
“Well,” said Joe, “I ain’t sure, but I think it was an outsider that didn’t know nobody but me. He sure had the dope all right. He said the guys were gonna park at twelve. They didn’t expect you out till two or three.”
“A fine bunch of gunmen Arnie picked!”
“Yeah,” said Joe.
The Kid climbed off the table and stood feeling his chest.
“Boy, I thought I was plugged for sure.”
“They just bounce off of you,” said Pepi.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 103