Little Caesar

Little Caesar

By W. R. Burnett.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Dedication
4. Epigraph
5. Little Caesar
   1. Part I
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
      6. VI
   2. Part II
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
      6. VI
      7. VII
   3. Part III
      1. III
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
      6. VI
      7. VII
   4. Part IV
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
      6. VI
   5. Part V
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
   6. Part VI
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
      6. VI
      7. VII
   7. Part VII
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
      6. VI
6. Colophon
7. Uncopyright

Imprint

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This particular ebook is based on digital scans from the Internet Archive.

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For
my sons,
Jimmy and Bill
eight and seven
who
prefer King Kong

The first law of every being, is to preserve itself and live. You sow hemlock, and expect to see ears of corn ripen

Machiavelli

Little Caesar

Part I

I

Sam Vettori sat staring into Halsted Street. He was a big man, fat as a hog, with a dark, oily complexion, kinky black hair and a fat, aquiline face. In repose he had an air of lethargic good-nature, due entirely to his bulk; for in reality he was sullen, bad-tempered and cunning. From time to time he dragged out a huge gold watch and looked at it with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

Near him at a round table sat Otero, called The Greek, Tony Passa, and Sam Vettori’s lieutenant, Rico, playing stud for small stakes. Under the green-shaded lamp Otero’s dark face looked livid and cavernous. He sat immobile and said nothing, win or lose. Tony, robust and rosy, scarcely twenty years old, watched each turn of the cards intently, shouting with joy when his luck was good, cursing when it was bad, more out of excitement than interest in the stakes. Rico sat with his hat tilted over his eyes, his pale, thin face slightly drawn, his fingers tapping. Rico always played to win.

Vettori, puffing, pulled himself to his feet and began to walk up and down.

“Where you suppose he is?” he asked the ceiling. “I told him eight o’clock. It is half-past.”

“Joe never knows what time it is,” said Tony.

“Joe’s no good,” said Rico without taking his eyes off the cards, “he’s soft.”

“Well,” said Vettori, stopping to watch the game out of boredom, “maybe so. But we can’t do without him, Rico. I tell you, Rico, he can go anywhere. A front is what he’s got. Swell hotels? What does it mean to that boy? He says to the clerk, ‘I would like please a suite.’ A suite! You see, Rico. We can’t do without him.”

Rico tapped on the table, flushing slightly.

“All right, Sam,” he said, “some day he’ll turn yellow. Hear what I say. He’s not right. What’s all this dancing? A man don’t dance for money.”

Sam laughed.

“Oh, Rico! You don’t know Joe.”

Tony stared at Rico.

“Rico,” he said, “Joe’s right. I know what I’m saying. All that dancing is a front. He’s smart. Have they ever got him?”

Rico slammed down his cards. He hated Joe and he knew that Tony and Vettori knew it.

“All right,” he said, “hear what I say. He’ll turn yellow some day. A man don’t take money for dancing.”

“I win,” said Otero.

Rico pushed the money towards him and got to his feet.

“Well, if he don’t show up in ten minutes I’ll take the air,” said Rico.

“You stay where you are,” said Vettori, his face hardening.

Tony watched the two of them intently. Otero counted his money. One day, Vettori had said to Rico, “You are getting too big for us.” Tony remembered the look he had seen in Rico’s eyes. Lately they had all been talking about it. Rico was getting too big for them. Scabby, the informer, said: “Tony, mark what I say. It’s Rico or Sam. One or the other.”

“I’ll stay ten minutes,” said Rico.

Vettori sat down by the window and stared into Halsted Street.

“Two-fifty,” said Otero.

“I’ll match you for it,” said Tony.

“No,” said Otero.

Joe Massara opened the door and came in.

“Well,” said Vettori, “you call this eight o’clock?”

Joe got out of a big ulster. He was in evening clothes. His black hair was sleek and parted in the middle. He was vain of his resemblance to the late Mr. Rudolph Valentino.

“Sorry,” said Joe, “the bridge was up. Well, what’s the dirt?”

“Draw up a chair,” said Vettori, “all of you.”

They grouped themselves around the table under the green-shaded lamp. Joe put his hands on the table so they could see his well-manicured nails and the diamond ring the dancer, Olga Stassoff, had given him.

“Now,” said Vettori, “I’ll do the