The Big Boy shook his head from side to side slowly.
“Not a chance, Sam,” he said, “I can’t do nothing for you. Why, you must be out of your mind. Listen, they’re after me hot and heavy. I got all I can do to take care of number one, see? Things was running too good for you, Sam. That’s your trouble. You thought I was God himself. But listen, I ain’t no miracle man. A stickup more or less, what’s that? But when it comes to plugging a bull like Courtney, that’s out! No, Sam. You’re on your own now. It ain’t gonna be none too healthy for none of us for a while. Just don’t lose your nerve, that’s the main thing. Just hang on and watch the guys that are in the know.”
“You leave that to me,” said Rico without looking up.
“OK,” said the Big Boy. “I think you’re the goods, Rico. But don’t get nervous with that gat of yours, or they’ll put a necktie on you. Get this. No more stickups. No more jobs. Just lay low, all of you. If you run out of jack, I’ll stake you. Now I got to beat it. Don’t call me up no more, Sam. Because I can’t do nothing for you and it might give the bulls an idea.”
The Big Boy got to his feet and stood leaning his huge hairy paws on the table.
“Why, you guys are lucky and don’t know it. Wood’s manager got so goddamn rattled he identified one of the plainclothes men as the guy that did the inside stand. Jesus, but it was rich! Spike Rieger was boiling. Pretty soon he pinned the manager down and the damn dummy said that the guys that did the job were Poles. So they went out and grabbed Steve Gollancz. Steve and his bunch had just tapped a bank and Steve thought they had the goods on him. It was funny as hell!”
The Big Boy put his head back and brayed. Sam Vettori drummed on the table irritably.
“All right, laugh,” said Sam.
“Sure, I’ll laugh,” said the Big Boy; “if you’d seen Steve’s face when he found out what it was all about, you’d split your pants laughing.”
“Steve’s the goods,” said Rico.
“You said a mouthful,” said the Big Boy, “he’s got them eating out of his hand. Well, I’m gonna beat it. You guys lay low and it might blow over. If things get hot, I’ll tip off Scabby and then you all better hit the rods. So long.”
The Big Boy went out slamming the door. They heard him go downstairs; he walked as heavily as a squad of police and banged each step with his heels.
Rico went on with his game of solitaire.
“Well,” said Vettori, “something just tells me we’re gonna get ours.”
“Oh, hell!” said Rico, pushing the cards away from him, “I’d like to get the guy that invented that game.”
Vettori swore softly to himself at Rico’s indifference, then, pouring himself another drink, he said:
“You think Joe’s safe, Rico.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “as long as they don’t nab him and put it to him. He can’t stand the gaff.”
“How about The Greek?”
Rico laughed.
“Safe as hell. Only thing with Otero, he gets lit and wants to raise hell. I had to knock him down a couple of times last night. He gets a little money and he goes nuts. That goddamn greaser never saw over five dollars all at once till I picked him up in Toledo. But he’s safe.”
“How about Tony?”
Rico didn’t say anything for a minute, but picked up his cards and began to shuffle them.
“I don’t know about Tony.”
Sam Vettori got up and walked back and forth, mopping his forehead at intervals with his big white silk handkerchief.
“Love of God, Rico, we can’t take no chances with him.”
Rico dealt out a couple of poker hands and began to play an imaginary game.
“You leave that to me, Sam,” he said.
Vettori put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“That’s the talk, Rico. We get a break, we may come clean.” Vettori dropped back into his chair and poured himself another drink, but Rico reached across the table and pushed the glass off onto the floor.
“Slow down on that stuff, Sam. You got to keep your head clear.”
Vettori looked at Rico in a fury, then he lowered his eyes.
“You got the right dope, Rico. That stuff don’t do nobody no good.”
Vettori took the whisky bottle and locked it up in a cupboard.
II
About nine o’clock Carillo put his head in the door. Downstairs the jazz band had just started to play.
“Well?” demanded Vettori, getting to his feet.
“Blackie wants to see you,” said Carillo.
“All right.”
Carillo went out.
“What you suppose he wants?” said Vettori.
Rico, who was sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall reading a magazine, shook his head without looking up or answering. He was deep in the reading of a story about a rich society girl who fell in love with a bootlegger. Rico read everything he could find that had anything to do with society. He was fascinated by a stratum of existence which seemed so remote and unreal to him.
Blackie Avezzano, who managed Sam’s garage, came in and shut the door behind him. He was small and bowlegged, and he was so dark that he had been taken for a mulatto many times.
Vettori impatiently exclaimed:
“Well, what’s on your mind, Blackie?”
Rico went on reading his magazine. Blackie sat down at the table and seemed to be making an effort to collect his thoughts.
“All right, spit it out,” said Vettori.
Blackie couldn’t speak very good English, but as Rico didn’t know a word of Italian and Vettori preferred to speak English, he did the best he could.
“Tony, he took sick. Listen, I tell
