Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “Ain’t that a break?” he said.

  He had no place to go.

  There was a fruit store next to Chiggi’s and Rico went in. A little Italian girl came to wait on him.

  “Listen, sister,” said Rico, “you know where Chiggi is now?”

  “I get my grandfather,” she said.

  She went into the back of the store and returned with an old Italian who had crinkly gray hair and wore earrings.

  “Listen, mister,” said Rico, “could you tell me where Chiggi is now?”

  The old man just looked at him. Rico felt a little uneasy.

  “No speak English?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the old man, “I speak good English. What do you want with Chiggi?”

  “Well,” said Rico, “Chiggi used to be a pal of mine, but I been away for three or four years and now I don’t know where to find him.”

  “Chiggi has had trouble,” said the old man; “he is in the prison.”

  “Yeah?” said Rico. “Atlanta, hunh?”67

  “Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi is in Atlanta. It is too bad. Chiggi was good to the poor. When my wife was sick and my business was not going good, Chiggi gave me money.”

  “Yeah,” said Rico. “Chiggi staked me too.”

  Rico took out a cigar and gave it to the old man.

  “Listen,” he went on, “do you know where any of Chiggi’s old bunch is?”

  “Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi’s boy has got a place a couple of blocks from here.”

  The old man wrote down the address for Rico.

  Young Chiggi was a dressed-up wop and thought he was a lot better than his father. He wouldn’t even wait on a customer but sat all day in the back of his joint reading the Police Gazette or playing solitaire. Things were breaking good for Young Chiggi and he was thinking about selling out and going to Chicago or Detroit.

  He had been in the beer and alcohol racket for over three years, first with his father, then by himself, and now with Bill Hackett, known as Chicago Red. He bought diamonds and automobiles and he kept his woman in a big apartment.

  When Rico was shown into his office by one of his bartenders, he didn’t even look up but went on with his game of solitaire. The bartender went out and Rico sat down across from Young Chiggi.

  “Chiggi,” said Rico, “I want to talk to you a minute.”

  Chiggi didn’t look up.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Listen,” said Rico, “put them cards down. I want to talk business.”

  Chiggi looked up and stared at Rico.

  “Say,” he said, “where the hell do you get that stuff! I don’t know you.”

  “Your old man was a pal of mine,” said Rico.

  “Well, Buddy,” said Chiggi, “that don’t help you none with me, ’cause me and the old man had a split-up. He thought he was so damn wise, see, but they got him behind bars and I’m running loose.”

  “Yeah?” said Rico, “well, that’s a tough break for the old man. You see, your old man staked me once and I thought I’d look him up and get even. I’m pretty well heeled right now and I’m looking for a place to lay in.”

  Chiggi looked at Rico with interest.

  “Looking for a place to lay in, hunh? Bulls after you?”

  “Yeah,” said Rico.

  Chiggi put his cards away. Then he took out a couple of cigars and offered Rico one. They sat smoking.

  “Well,” said Chiggi, “maybe I can take care of you.”

  “That’s the talk,” said Rico; “got some rooms up above?”

  “No,” said Chiggi, “but a friend of mine’s got a boarding house next door that’s O.K. Now about that jack the old man staked you to, you can give it to me, ’cause he owes me plenty.”

  Rico said nothing, but took out his fold and counted out a hundred and fifty dollars. He knew he had to buy his way in.

  Rico selected his room carefully. It was on the side of the house and could not be reached from the outside as there were no porches near it. It had two doors, one opening into the front hall, one into the back hall. The doors themselves were heavy and could be barred from the inside. It was a good hide-out.

  Rico’s plans were vague. He had plenty of money and if he went easy with it he would be able to live a year or more in comparative comfort. But Rico could not bear the thought of a year of inactivity. What would he do with himself? He had no vices. He couldn’t amuse himself by getting drunk, or taking dope, or playing faro. He didn’t mind losing a couple hundred dollars gambling occasionally, but you can’t put in a whole year gambling. He thought if things went right that maybe he’d move on to New York, but that would be risky and one slip and he was gone. No, he didn’t see much ahead of him.

  Rico spent most of the day in his room, lying on the bed reading, or else going over and over in his mind the episodes leading to his rise and fall. The resentment he had been experiencing ever since he got to Hammond had grown till it had become almost an obsession. He was never in a good humor. When he was not reading or thinking about Chicago he would pace up and down his room and wait for night. He got so, finally, that he could sleep twelve hours every day and this helped some.

  At night he would go down to Chiggi’s and play pool or shoot crap. Sometimes there would be a big poker game and he would sit in. He was known as Youngstown Louis and nobody in the place had the slightest idea who he really was.

  Everything was against Rico. The very virtues that had been responsible for his rise were liabilities in his present situation. He had no outlet for his energy; the self-discipline which had marked him out from his fellows was of no use to him here; and the tenacity of purpose that had kept him at high tension while he was the Vettori gang chief had no object to expend itself on.

  “I am nobody, nobody,” Rico would say.

  Sometimes at night he would go to one of the call-houses on a nearby street and spend a couple of hours with one of the women. But he got very little pleasure from these infrequent debauches. He used to wonder what had happened to the blonde he had spent old Chiggi’s stake on, and was positive that if he could find her it would do him a lot of good, but she had disappeared and nobody had any idea where she had gone.

  Rico tried to buy his way in. Chiggi was agreeable but Chicago Red was not. Chicago Red had taken a dislike to Rico from the first and never missed an opportunity of bullying him. Chicago Red had left Chicago under a cloud. There was a rumor that he had got in bad with a South Side gang over there and had left to keep from getting bumped off. Red was over six feet tall and weighed about two hundred pounds; he had muscles like a wrestler, a bull neck, and enormous hairy hands.

  Rico kept away from him as much as possible to avoid trouble. But Red seemed to take a delight in worrying Rico, probably because, despite the fact that Rico never argued with him, always let him have his way, he felt that Rico was not impressed.

  One night there was a big poker game going on in Chiggi’s back room. Rico was winning. About midnight Red came in and wanted to sit in, but there was no place for him.

  “Louis,” he said, “get the hell off that chair and let a man get in the game.”

  “Not a chance,” said Rico.

  “Listen, Dago . . .” said Red.

  “Don’t call me Dago,” said Rico, looking hard at Red.

  “Get off that chair or I’ll throw you off,” said Red starting toward Rico.

  But Chiggi grabbed Red from behind and pulled him into the next room.

  When the game broke up, Chiggi came in and said to Rico:

  “When you get settled up, come in the office.”

  After the other players had gone Rico went into Chiggi’s office. Red was sitting with his feet on the desk and Chiggi was walking up and down.

  “Well, Dago,” said Red, “did you clean ’em?”

  “Yeah,” said Rico.

  “Sit down, Louis,” said Chiggi; “we want to talk to you.”

  Rico sat down.

  “L
ouis,” said Chiggi, “I don’t know whether you’re wised up or not, but we been hitting the rocks. The bulls got two of our men and a big load of alcohol, and a couple of days ago another one of our carts got hijacked at Monroe. See, so we’re pretty low.”

  “Yeah?” said Rico.

  “Well,” said Chiggi, “we want a stake, don’t we, Red?”

  “Yeah,” said Red, “and we ain’t any too particular where we get it.”

  “Well,” said Rico, getting up, “you got a lot of guys around here. Ask them.”

  “Listen, Red,” said Chiggi, “you keep your goddam lip out of this.”

  Red got to his feet suddenly and stood glaring at Chiggi.

  “Why, you lousy small-time wop, I guess you don’t know who you’re talking to, do you?” He raised his arm and pointed at Rico. “You see that guy there, he thinks he’s the best there is, got it? He thinks he’s the biggest dago outside of Italy, and here you go honeying after him like we couldn’t get a stake no place else. But I ain’t begging no goddam dago to stake me.”

  Chiggi looked helplessly at Rico.

  “Yeah,” said Red, “and while we’re talking, I’m getting sick of the way that bird there sits around and don’t say nothing and acts like he was God-only-knows-who. Yeah, I’m getting good and sick of it, Chiggi.”

  “Well,” said Chiggi, “when you get real sick of it, why beat it.”

  Red laughed.

  “Gonna stick to your dago buddy, are you? Well, he’s got the jack. But what’re you gonna do when you need a guy that’s got the guts?”

  This was too much for Rico. He said:

  “What do you know about guts? I guess you ain’t so tough or they wouldn’t’ve run you out of Chi.”

  “Will you listen to that!” said Red; “all right, buddy, you said your piece and you sure spoke out of turn. Why, Dago, where I come from you wouldn’t live five minutes. Now I’m gonna show you how they treat smart dagos in Chi.”

  Red made a motion toward his coat pocket, but Rico beat him to it. He pulled his gun from the holster under his armpit and covered Red.

  “Red,” he said, “in Chicago I wouldn’t let you rob filling-stations for me.”

  Red stood with his hands up, looking from Rico to Chiggi.

  “Don’t bump him off, Louis,” said Chiggi.

  “I wouldn’t waste a bullet on him,” said Rico; then glaring at Red he went on: “You been getting away with this rough stuff too long, Red. I’m Cesare Bandello!”

  Red’s mouth fell open and he stood staring at Rico. Chiggi took Rico by the arm.

  “Are you Rico?” he cried.

  Rico nodded and put up his gun. Red dropped his hands, sank into a chair and wiped the sweat from his face.

  “You sit down, Chiggi,” said Rico, “and I’ll do the talking.”

  Chiggi sat down.

  “Lord,” said Red, “so you’re Rico? Steve Gollancz told me you was a big fellow.”

  “Steve never seen me,” said Rico.

  Chiggi leaned forward eagerly.

  “You gonna put in with us, Louis?”

  Rico said:

  “I’ll put in a third, but I got to boss the works or I won’t put in nothing.”

  Chiggi looked at Red.

  “That’s O.K. with me,” said Red.

  Chiggi got to his feet and danced a few steps.

  “Hurray for us,” he cried.

  VI

  Under Rico’s guidance Chiggi’s gang prospered. Chicago Red, impressed by Rico’s reputation, carried out his orders and never argued; Chiggi also. And Chiggi’s men were influenced by the attitude of their former bosses. Rico made decisions quickly, seldom asked for advice, and was nearly always right. Chiggi and Red were used to doing things on a small scale and hated to split with the authorities, but Rico had been in the game long enough to know that to make money you’ve got to spend money. Through Antonio Rizzio, one of Old Chiggi’s friends, now a minor politician, Rico got in touch with some of the high-ups and bought protection. Chiggi’s alcohol runners were no longer picked up and in a little while Chiggi’s business had doubled. But, due to this increase in business, a new difficulty had risen: hijackers. They waylaid Chiggi’s men and robbed them of their cargoes. There was a well-organized gang of them around Monroe, Michigan, and they began to cut into Chiggi’s profits. Rico tried rerouting his runners and this was successful for a month or two, but the Monroe gang soon got on to it, and the trouble started over again. Rico took a chance. He ordered three sho-sho guns68 from a firm in Chicago. These small automatic rifles, as formidable as machine guns, were concealed in special cases under the seats of the trucks. Rico instructed his runners in the use of them and after a few encounters the Monroe gang decided that it would be more lucrative and also safer to confine their hijacking to smaller bootleggers who were not equipped with artillery.

  Rico was pleased with his success, but hardly satisfied. This was small stuff and, as he could take no active part in it, he had a good deal of time on his hands. Of course he was a pretty big guy for Toledo and around Chiggi’s he was king, but, after all, Chiggi’s boys were a mighty poor lot, worse even than Little Arnie’s, and their adulation wasn’t worth much.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Rico knew that he had blundered badly in revealing his identity to Chiggi and Chicago Red. Neither of them was very dependable. Chiggi talked incessantly, contradicting himself, forgetting what he had said two minutes after he had said it; and all this talk was directed at one object: self-glorification. An association with Cesare Bandello, of Chicago, was something to brag about and Rico knew it. Chicago Red as a rule was not very talkative, but when he got drunk he would boast about his former connection with Steve Gollancz. Rico feared them both. Sometimes when the three of them were alone together he would caution them. There was only one thing that reassured Rico. Chiggi’s prosperity depended on him, and Rico knew that both Chicago Red and Chiggi were aware of it.

  At about seven o’clock one night Rico went out for supper. He ate at the little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split a bowl of soup when things were bad. He always sat facing the front door at a table in the back of the place. In this position he could see everyone who came in and also he could keep an eye on the people at the tables. On his right and a couple of feet ahead of him was a little window which looked out on an alley. While Rico was finishing his coffee he happened to glance at the window. When he did, a face which had been pressed against the windowpane was hastily withdrawn. Rico got up, put on his hat and paid his check.

  “I’m going out the back way,” he said to the counterman.

  “O.K., boss.”

  “If anybody comes in here and asks for Louis De Angelo take a good look at him.”

  “All right, boss,” said the counterman.

  Rico went out through the kitchen door, which opened onto a little cement court where the refuse from the restaurant was dumped. The big garbage cans along the wall were in the shadow and, as Rico stepped out, a man jumped up from behind one of the cans and put a gun against him. Rico threw himself to the ground, the gun exploded harmlessly, and the man made a break for the alley, stumbling over the cans. Rico fired from a prone position and missed. Then he jumped to his feet and ran out into the alley. The man had disappeared.

  “God,” said Rico, “if that boy didn’t almost pull one on me.”

  One of the cooks opened the back door and put his head out.

  “What the hell!” he said.

  “Damned if I know,” said Rico; “a couple of guys was popping at each other out here in the alley.”

  “Some of them bootleggers,” said the cook.

  Rico took a cab back to Chiggi’s. He was very much perturbed. Whoever that boy was he certainly meant business.

  “Well,” said Rico, “somebody has sure spilled something.”

  As soon as he came in Chiggi rushed up to him and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Louis,” he said, “Red’s drunk a
nd we can’t do nothing with him.”

  Rico stared at Chiggi.

  “Where’s he been?”

  “Why,” said Chiggi, “he’s been on a bat with some Chicago guys.”

  “Hell,” cried Rico, “where is he?”

  Chiggi led Rico back into one of the private rooms. Red was sitting at a table with a half empty quart of whiskey on the table beside him. When he saw Rico he cried:

  “If it ain’t old Rico himself! By God, I been drinking all day. I can hardly see but nobody can put me under the table, ain’t that so, boss? Yes sir, I’d like to see the bastard that could drink Rico’s buddy under the table.”

  Rico turned to Chiggi.

  “A guy tried to pop me over at Frank’s. This bird has spilled something. I got to be moving.”

  Chiggi’s eyes got big.

  “You gonna pull out, Louis?”

  “I got to,” said Rico; “somebody’s looking for that seven grand.”

  “Jesus, Louis,” said Chiggi, “what we gonna do without you?”

  “Best you can,” said Rico. “Go get me a cab, Chiggi, I’m moving right now.”

  Chiggi went out of the room. Rico took Red by the shoulders and shook him. Red blinked his eyes.

  “Red,” said Rico, “was you on a bat with some Chicago guys?”

  “Was I?” cried Red; “spent a hundred bucks on them birds.”

  “Any of them know me?”

  Red rolled his head from side to side, and sang, then he smashed his fists down on the table.

  “Rico,” he said, “old Red’s going back to the big burg, yes sir, old Red’s tired of this tank town. Old Red’s got a good stake now and he’s moving. They run me out once but I ain’t scairt of them no more. I’m going back and show ’em who Red Hackett is. Yeah bo!”

  Rico shook him.

  “Listen, Red,” he said, “did any of them birds know me?”

  Red lolled his head, trying to focus his eyes on Rico.

  “One of them guys was a personal friend of yours,” said Red; “fact, he asked me if you wasn’t laying up here, see, he knew all right; wasn’t no harm in telling him nothing.”