In a few minutes the door opened and a hand motioned for Rico to come in. The hall was dark and Rico stumbled going up the stairs. The look-out took hold of his arm.
“The boss’s up in his room. I’ll take you up. Where you from, buddy?”
“Youngstown,” said Rico.
“Where’s that?”
“Over east.”
The look-out led Rico down a long, dark hallway and to a door at the end of it. Light showed over a transom. The look-out knocked three times and the door was opened. Rico went in.
“Well,” said Sansotta, locking the door, “here you are.”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Sansotta was a small, bowlegged Italian with a dark, scarred face. He had on a striped suit, brown and red, and a stiff collar the points of which were so high that his chin rested on them. There was a big diamond stud in his shirtfront.
“You must’ve got a break,” said Sansotta.
Rico explained how he had got away.
“Pretty nifty,” said Sansotta; “I got to hand it to you on that, Cesare.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “it was a good idea.”
Sansotta went over to a table, opened a drawer and took out a handbill which he gave to Rico. Rico smiled.
“Raised the ante, did they? Last I heard it was five grand.”
Rico read the handbill over and over and stared at the Bertillon pictures.65
“Them pictures don’t look like me,” he said.
Sansotta pursed his lips and scrutinized them.
“Not since you got the tickler off. No, and you look thinner in them pictures. How long ago was they taken?”
“About seven years ago.”
The handbill read:
Wanted for murder : Cesare Bandello, known as Rico. Age: 29. Height: 5 ft. 5 in. Weight: 125. Complexion: pale. Hair: black and wavy. Eyes: light, gray or blue. His face is thin and he walks with one foot slightly turned in. Does not take up with strangers. Solitary type, morose and dangerous. Reward: $5000, offered by management of Casa Alvarado. $2000, offered by City of Chicago, for capture dead or alive.
“Well,” said Sansotta, “where you headed for?”
“I’m gonna stick around here for a while,” said Rico.
“Yeah?” said Sansotta; “pretty close to trouble, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Rico, “they ain’t got any idea which way I went. I got a big stake and I don’t have to worry none.”
“You sure went up fast over in the big burg,” said Sansotta, looking at Rico with a sort of awe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and the hell of it was, I was just getting started. Everything was on the up and up when one of the gang turned softie. Ain’t that hell?”
Rico had been very much elated over his escape from Chicago, so elated in fact that he had forgotten all about his troubles; but, now that the excitement of the escape had passed, the thought of how much he had lost struck him full force. He felt resentful.
“Yeah,” said Sansotta, “that’s the way it goes. It’s a tough game. They picked up two of my men last night.”
“That so?” said Rico, paying no attention.
Sansotta got up.
“Well, Cesare,” he said, “I got business or I’d stick around and chin with you. Want to stay here with me till things blow over?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
III
Night after night Rico lay awake looking at the arc light outside his window. His mind was filled with resentment and he went over and over the incidents which had led to his fall. Now that it was too late, he saw the mistakes he had made. He should have plugged Gentleman Joe; that’s all. When a guy begins to turn softie, why there ain’t no’good in him. Yeah, he had been too easy. Another thing. He should have played Scabby up; that guy was in a position to do him all kinds of favors. But Scabby was a hard guy to get along with; he always thought somebody was trying to make a fool of him and he always had a chip on his shoulder.
Sometimes Rico would fall asleep for a little while, but his sleep was full of dreams and he would toss from side to side and wake up with a start. Then he would get up and smoke one cigarette after another and think about Montana and Little Arnie and the Big Boy. Often, in these short naps, he would see The Greek lying on his back in the alley, or the little Italian girl sweeping the hall, or Ma Magdalena helping him put the grease on his face. Then he would awake in confusion and stare at the unfamiliar arc light a long time before he could realize where he was.
In the day time it wasn’t so bad. He could play cards with Sansotta and some of his gang, or shoot crap on a pool table in the back room. Rico always played to win and while the game was in progress he forgot his troubles. But even this was but a partial alleviation. He was nobody. Just an unknown wop who seemed to have unlimited resources. Sansotta was the only one who knew who he was. He had taken his uncle’s name, Luigi De Angelo, and around Sansotta’s he was called Youngstown Louis, or usually plain Louis. No, he was nobody. When a card game got hot and one of the players thought he was getting gypped, a look from Rico did not quiet the tumult as it had done in Little Italy. A look from Rico meant nothing. He was cursed with the rest of them. Often the desire to show these two-bit wops who they were yelling at would make him writhe in his chair; and his hand would move toward his armpit, but he couldn’t risk it. He had his neck to think about, and there was Sansotta, a good guy, doing what he could for him. Rico kept saying to himself, you are nobody, nobody, but it was galling.
Sometimes he would go to his room early and just sit in the dark and think. He would imagine himself in the Big Boy’s wonderful apartment; he would see the big pictures of the old time guys in their gold frames, the one grand crockery, and the library full of books; or he would recall the night when Little Arnie’s Detroit toughs tried to bump him off and how when he came back to The Palermo the people stood on the chairs and shouted: “Rico! Rico!” God, it was hard to take!
The stories in the magazines about swell society people that he used to read with such eagerness failed to interest him now. After a paragraph or two he would fling the magazine aside and swear.
“Yeah,” he would say, “ain’t that great! The damn dressed-up softies. Got everything in the world and never had to turn a hand for it.”
Rico was filled with resentment and when he spoke, rarely now, it was to denounce or ridicule something. The wops around Sansotta’s, though they were obtuse enough, were not long in noticing this, and Rico began to be known as Crabby Louis.
They would say: “Well, Crabby Louis, it’s your shot;” or “All right, Crabby, deal the cards.”
The only thing that really interested Rico was the trial of Sam Vettori. Joe Massara, who had turned State’s evidence, had been sentenced to life. “Lord,” said Rico, when he read Joe’s sentence, “I never thought they’d give Gentleman Joe a jolt like that after he turned State’s. Them boys means business.” Sam’s trial had been rushed because of the hubbub raised by Mr. McClure and other influential men, and the outcome was never in doubt. Sam Vettori was sentenced to be hanged.
When Rico read the verdict he lay back in his chair and looked at the wall.
“Well, old Sam had a long whack at it,” he said; “never seen the inside of a prison in his life. A guy’s luck’s bound to turn.”
Then he went over in his mind the robbery of the Casa Alvarado and all the steps which had led to his own rise and fall.
“It made me and it broke me,” he said.
On New Year’s Eve Rico dressed up more than usual and went down into Sansotta’s cabaret. It was jammed and unable to get a seat he went into Sansotta’s office and had one of the waiters bring him a meal. He sat with the door open and watched the antics on the dance-floor. There was plenty of liquor about and the crowd was pretty rough. Rico saw a big blonde dancing with a fat Italian. She gave him a look and he motioned for her to come in the office. She nodded. Rico got up and closed the door. In a few minutes the Blonde came
in.
“Well, kid,” she said, “what’s on your mind?”
“I got a room upstairs,” said Rico, “that ain’t occupied.”
“The hell you have,” said the Blonde.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and I got a bank roll that ain’t got any strings on it.”
“Now you’re talking,” said the Blonde, putting her arm around Rico.
“Well,” said Rico, “let’s go.”
“Listen,” said the Blonde, “I’ll be back after while. I got a guy out here that’s plenty tough and I got to humor him.”
“Aw, hell,” said Rico, “I’ll take that toughness out of him. Stick around.”
The Blonde looked at Rico and laughed.
“Say,” she said, “you ain’t big enough to talk so big.”
“No,” said Rico, resentful, “I ain’t so big.”
“Listen, honey,” said the Blonde, “this boy would eat you alive.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
The fat Italian opened the door and came in.
“What’s the idea, Micky?” he said to the Blonde.
“Why, I just happened to bump into an old friend of mine,” said the Blonde, scared.
Rico got up and stood looking at the fat Italian.
“What’s it to you!” he said.
“Why, listen, kid,” said the fat Italian, “you better go get your big brother ’cause if you make any more cracks I’m gonna dust off the furniture with you.”
The Blonde took the fat Italian by the arm.
“Come on, Paul,” she said, “let’s go dance.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “take that bird away before something happens to him.”
The fat Italian pulled away from the Blonde and started toward Rico.
“That’s one crack too many,” he said.
But Rico, standing with his back against Sansotta’s desk, perfectly calm, reached under his armpit and pulled his gun. The fat Italian hesitated and looked bewildered.
“Well,” said Rico, “kind of lost your steam, didn’t you?”
The fat Italian turned and looked at the Blonde.
“That’s a nice boy friend you got,” he said.
The Blonde stood there with her mouth open.
“All right, big boy,” said Rico, “we can get along without you.”
Sansotta opened the door and stood looking from one to the other.
“What’s the matter, Paul?” he inquired.
The fat Italian pointed at Rico.
“That bird there tried to grab my girl, and when I told him about it he pulled a gat on me.”
Sansotta’s face darkened.
“Put that gun up, Louis,” he said, staring hard at Rico; “where you think you’re at? Listen, Paul, Louis’s a new guy here and he don’t know the ropes.”
“Well,” said the fat Italian, “he sure is quick with a gun.”
“That’s all right, Paul,” said the Blonde, laughing, “he needs a handicap.”
Rico, furious, put on his hat and started to go. But Sansotta said:
“Wait a minute, Louis, I want to see you.” Then turning to the fat Italian: “I’m sure sorry this happened, but you know how it is when a guy don’t know the ropes, he’ll butt in where it ain’t healthy to butt in, see? Louis’s all right, but he’s got a bad-temper.”
“Ain’t he!” said Paul. “Well, I guess we better be moving up town. I ain’t any too anxious to hang around where you’re liable to get bumped off.”
“Aw, stick around, Paul,” Sansotta implored; “you won’t have no more trouble.”
“No,” said Paul, “I’ll be moving. Come on, Micky. I seen about all of your boy friend that I want to see.”
Sansotta followed them out into the cabaret, trying to persuade them to remain, but Paul went over to the checkwindow and got their wraps. Rico sat down and went on with his meal. Sansotta came in and slammed the door after him.
“Goddam you, Cesare,” he cried, “why don’t you be more careful? That guy is Paolo, the political boss. He can close me up tomorrow if he wants to.”
“Take it easy,” said Rico; “how the hell did I know? You think I’m gonna let a guy take a bust at me?”
Sansotta took out a cigar and began to chew on it.
“Cesare,” he said, “you got to be moving. I can’t have you hanging around here no more. It’s too dangerous.”
Rico dropped his fork and stared at Sansotta.
“Giving me the go-by, hunh?”
“Yeah,” said Sansotta, “you got to be moving.”
Rico got to his feet and stood looking at Sansotta.
“Just on account of a small town ward-heeler,” he said; “why that guy couldn’t boss a section gang. You’re a hell of a guy, Sansotta. After all the jack I spent in this dump.”
“I can’t help that,” said Sansotta, “you got to be moving right away.”
Rico laughed.
“Don’t get funny,” he said.
“Don’t you get funny,” said Sansotta; “you ain’t in no shape to get funny.”
“Maybe you better call the bulls and turn me up,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Sansotta, “you got to be moving, that’s all.”
IV
Rico was acutely conscious of his position. A lonely Youngstown yegg in a hostile city without friends or influence. Yeah, funny! Just a no-account yap in a burg like Hammond and not four months ago he had been a big guy in a big burg.
He put on his ulster and went out. The wind was cold and it was snowing. He walked around for a while, keeping to the dark streets, then, chilled through, he went into a little Italian restaurant for a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
The waiter, an Italian boy with a handsome dark face, brought Rico his food. When he set it down on the table he grinned and said: “Well, happy New Year.”
Rico looked up in surprise.
“Yeah,” he said, “thanks.”
He felt better. This anonymous friendliness cheered him up. While he was eating, he watched the Italian boy, who was wiping off the counter and singing.
“Nice kid,” thought Rico.
When Rico had finished his coffee, he lit a cigarette and sat smoking. He felt comfortable. Looking around the restaurant, he saw that there was a mechanical piano up front. Like Pete’s!
“Say,” he called, “let’s have a little music.”
“Sure,” said the boy.
He put a slug in the piano. It played “Farewell To Thee” in tremolo. Rico felt sad. He called the boy back and gave him a dollar.
“Keep the change, kid,” he said.
The mechanical piano stopped on a discord, and Rico got to his feet. While he was putting on his coat two men came in the front door. One of them went up to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee, but the other stopped and stood staring at Rico.
Rico, noticing the man’s scrutiny, put his hand inside his coat and started out, but the man touched him on the shoulder and whispered:
“Things ain’t going so good, are they, Rico?”
Rico stared at the man and demanded: “Who the hell are you?”
Then he recognized him. It was Little Arnie’s doorman, Joseph Pavlovsky, one of the guys he had chased.
“I’m one of Arnie’s boys,” said Pavlovsky; “I been in Hammond ever since you gave us the rush.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“Straight,” said Pavlovsky. “I been in the beer racket over here and I cleaned up. I’m going back to the big burg next month.”
Rico envied him.
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“You sure pulled one on ’em, Rico,” said Pavlovsky; “you always was a smart boy, Rico.”
“Aw, can that,” said Rico, and, pulling away from Pavlovsky, he went out.
The wind was blowing hard now and it had stopped snowing. Rico turned up his coat collar and started toward Sansotta’s. But he hadn’t gone half a block when he realized that he was being followed. He turned just in time to s
ee two men pass under an arclight.
“It’s Little Arnie’s boy,” he said, “looking for seven grand.”
Rico took out his gun, got behind a telephone pole, and fired a warning shot. The two men ran for cover and Rico ducked down an alley, ran for two blocks, then turned up another alley and doubled back. He had lost them.
When the look-out let him in he said:
“Louis, the boss wants to see you.”
Rico went up to Sansotta’s room.
“Well?” he said to Sansotta.
“Cesare,” said Sansotta, “a friend of mine is pulling out for Toledo tomorrow night. He’ll take you for fifty bucks.”
“What’s his game?”
“Running dope.”
“It’s O.K. with me,” said Rico.
Rico went up to his room, took off his overcoat, and flung himself down on the bed. He’d have to pull out now whether he wanted to or not.
V
The dope-runner dropped Rico at the edge of town. It was about five o’clock in the morning and still dark. A heavy fog had come in from Lake Erie and a damp, cold wind was blowing. Rico walked up and down to keep warm while waiting for a car. He felt pretty low.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “right back where I started from.”
The headlight on the street-car cut through the fog. The motorman didn’t see Rico and ran past him.
“Ain’t that a break?” said Rico.
There wouldn’t be another car for half an hour. Rico decided to walk. He turned up his coat collar against the damp wind and lit a cigar. His mind was full of resentment. Yeah, by God, a lousy street-car wouldn’t even stop for him.
Rico got a room at a bachelors’ hotel66 on the waterfront, and went to bed. It was about five o’clock in the evening when he woke up. He doused his face at the washstand, put on his overcoat, and went out.
He ate at a little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split a bowl of soup when things were going bad. But the place had changed. New management, new waiters, new everything. Toledo seemed small and dingy and quiet to Rico. He was a little bit puzzled.
“Didn’t used to be like this,” he said.
As soon as he finished his meal he walked over to Chiggi’s, which was about two block away. But the place was dark and when Rico went up to the door to peer in he saw that it had been padlocked by the Federal Authorities.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 109