Tony sat up in bed and looked out across the roofs outside his window. The sun was coming up and a cold, windy winter morning was dawning. Suddenly, he began to feel sick at his stomach. He lay down, but that didn’t help him, then he tossed from side to side.
Tony had to vomit. He jumped out of bed and ran for the bathroom. When he came out his mother was lighting the stove. She acted as if she didn’t see him. He went back to his room but stopped in the doorway.
“Hello, mom,” he said.
His mother paid no attention.
“Say,” said Tony, “what’s the matter?”
His mother turned and with her hands on her hips stared at him.
“Go back to bed, you loafer,” she said, “I am sick of you. You are no good on earth. Just like your father.”
“Aw, mom,” said Tony.
“Don’t try to salve me,” said Tony’s mother. “You go back to bed and get sober. You think I don’t know nothing, don’t you? Just like your father.”
“I’m not drunk,” said Tony, “I’m sick.”
His mother turned her back and went on with her cooking. Tony went into his room, slammed the door, and got back into bed. A deadly depression settled on him. The world looked black.
He heard his mother go out, then he got up, dressed and made himself some toast and coffee. Anyway, he wanted his split.
On the way to Vettori’s he met Father McConagha. The priest was a big man with a big, pale face. He walked with a rolling gait and there was something arrogant about him. Tony took off his hat.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, Antonio,” said Father McConagha. “Where have you been, my boy? I haven’t seen you for months.”
“I been working,” said Tony.
“What sort of work?” asked Father McConagha, putting his hand on Tony’s shoulder.
“I been driving a taxi.”
The priest nodded his head slowly.
“That is good work, Antonio.”
Tony couldn’t look at Father McConagha and kept twisting his hat in his hands and staring at it. Father McConagha talked to him for a minute or two about the rewards of honesty and the happiness to be derived from doing your work faithfully, then he said:
“Antonio, one day your father asked me to look out for you. Your father was a good man, but weak. Remember this, Antonio, if you are ever in any trouble I am the one to come to.”
Tony flushed and said:
“Thank you, Father.”
When Father McConagha had gone, Tony began to speculate. Did he know anything? Why, on this very morning, had he said something about being in trouble? Tony respected and admired Father McConagha. He felt that he could always turn to him.
Talking with the priest had made him feel stronger, but now that the priest had gone all the hopelessness of the night before rushed back on him. He took out a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands. “They’ll get us sure for this,” he said.
VI
Seal Skin couldn’t get Otero sober. She made him eat tomatoes and she gave him a cold bath, but nothing seemed to do him any good. He walked about the flat in his underclothes singing songs in Bastard Spanish and bragging about what a great brave man he was. Only one man in the world braver: Rico.
Seal Skin was dead for sleep, but she didn’t shut her eyes for fear Otero would do some crazy thing like shooting out the window at the street light (he had done this one night) or going out in his underclothes.
Otero sat at the table with his automatic beside him, singing at the top of his voice.
“Look,” he cried, “I am Ramón Otero, a great brave man. I ain’t afraid of nobody or nothing. I can drink any man in the world under the table and I can outshoot any man that walks on two legs. Only Rico; he is my friend. He is a great man like Pancho Villa and I love him with a great love. I would not shoot Rico if he shot me first. Rico is my friend and I love him with a great love.”
Then he got up and, snapping his fingers, began to dance, stamping with his heels, wiggling his hips, till Seal Skin nearly fell out of her chair laughing.
Towards morning he went to sleep with his head on the table. Seal Skin picked him up and carried him to bed (he weighed about a hundred and fifteen pounds), then, too tired to take off her clothes, she climbed in beside him.
VII
Rico bought all the papers he could find and went up to his room to read them. He sat at his table, his hat tilted over his eyes, with a pair of scissors in his hand, cutting from the papers all the articles dealing with the holdup and the killing of Police Captain Courtney. He arranged the clippings in a neat pile, then read them over and over.
One said:
… the thug who shot Police Captain Courtney was a small, pale foreigner, probably an Italian. He was dressed in a natty overcoat and a light felt hat.
Another:
… Courtney’s murderer was described by one eyewitness as a small, unhealthy-looking foreigner.
Rico tore up this clipping.
“Where do they get that unhealthy stuff!” he said. “I never been sick a day in my life.”
Part III
III
Sam Vettori’s heavy, dark face looked puffy and his eyes were swollen. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately and he had been drinking whisky. As wine was his usual drink, the whisky indicated a state of mind the reverse of calm. He sat chewing a cold stogie and from time to time pouring himself a shot from the bottle at his elbow. Rico was playing solitaire,
