“Blackie’s no good,” said Rico.
“No,” said Blackie, “I no good.”
Carillo put his head in the door.
“Reilley’s downstairs, boss.”
“Take Carillo,” said Vettori.
Carillo stared at them suspiciously. Rico leapt across the room and grabbed him by the arm.
“Listen, Bat, can you drive a can?”
“Sure.”
“Will you let her out when I office you?”
“Sure.”
“All right, let’s go.”
“Take that black roadster, Carillo,” said Vettori, “but for God’s sake don’t smash it up.”
Carillo ran out leaving the door open. Rico walked over and closed the door, then he said:
“Sam, you ain’t got any more guts than Tony. Now listen, get down there and talk turkey to Reilley. Get that! By God, I guess I got to boss this job myself.”
Vettori looked at Rico with hatred. But he said:
“All right, Rico, you’re the boss now.”
Rico went out. Blackie said:
“Goodbye Tony!”
Carillo was waiting with the black roadster in the alleyway. Rico jumped in and the roadster leapt away. Carillo took a turn on two wheels.
“It’s a cinch he went the shortest cut,” said Rico.
“Sure,” said Carillo, “I know what I’m doing.”
“All right,” said Rico, “do it.”
The wind had risen and it began to snow, big, heavy flakes which sailed past the street lights. In a few minutes the ground was covered.
Carillo took the shortest cut and Rico, holding his big automatic on the seat beside him, sat straining his eyes. But there was no sign of Tony.
“If we miss him, I’ll kick hell out of Blackie,” said Rico.
“Keep your shirt on, boss,” said Carillo.
The tall spires of St. Dominick’s rose before them at the end of the block. The street was deserted. Carillo drove slowly now, hugging the curb. In a moment he pointed:
“There’s a guy.”
Rico leaned forward.
“Take it easy, Bat,” he said, “I think it’s Tony.”
“Tony,” called Rico.
“Yeah?” came Tony’s voice. “Who is it?”
Rico fired. A long spur of flame shot out in the darkness. Rico emptied his gun. Tony fell without a sound.
“All right now, Bat,” said Rico, “let her out.”
V
Joe and Olga were sitting in a quiet corner of a Gold Coast hotel dining-room. They were waiting for their dessert. Joe, comfortably full and inclined to be amiable, sat looking at Olga. She was the goods. Of course he stepped out with other broads occasionally when Olga was busy, but that didn’t count. Olga was the goods and she was his woman. Other men didn’t rate with her, that’s all. He studied her. There she sat with her round dark face, her high cheekbones, and her dark mascaraed eyes.
“Well,” said Olga, “take a good look.”
“Listen, baby,” said Joe, “you got it. I ain’t kidding. You got everything. There ain’t a woman in Chicago that’s got half your stuff. You make ’em all look silly.”
Olga reached across the table and patted his hand.
“I don’t believe it, but say it again. I like it.”
“No fooling.”
“What a line,” said Olga.
The waiter brought their dessert.
“I’ll tell you,” said Olga, looking at her wrist watch, “let’s go to a movie. I got time.”
Joe didn’t like movies very well; all that soppy love stuff! But now he wanted to please Olga.
“All right. Where’ll it be?”
Olga turned to the waiter.
“Bring us a paper, please.”
The waiter brought a paper and handed it to Joe. He unfolded it and started to turn to the theatrical page, but instead he read with absorption an article on the front page. Olga saw him swallow several times. When he glanced up at her there was a bewildered look in his eyes and his face begun to get pale.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“They got Tony,” said Joe.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Rico, I guess. He must have turned yellow.”
Joe ran his hand across his forehead, then he took out his gold cigarette case, but without ostentation this time and lit a cigarette. Olga took the paper from him. She read:
Another Gang Killing
Antonio Passalacqua, known as Tony Passa, reputed to be a member of the Vettori gang, was found dead near the steps of St. Dominick’s Cathedral … as far as the police can ascertain no one saw him killed … when questioned Sam Vettori denied all knowledge of the shooting and intimated that it was the work of a rival gang … police say that this is likely.
“Jesus!” said Joe.
Olga turned quickly to the theatrical page.
“Joe, honey,” she said, “there’s a good comedy at the Oriental. What do you say?”
Joe crumpled up his cigarette and put it in the ashtray.
“Boy, Rico didn’t waste no time with him.”
“Joe, don’t you want to see that comedy?”
“Sure,” said Joe, “let’s go see it.”
Joe sat silent in the taxi all the way to the theatre. As they were getting out, he said:
“Boy, that Rico is sure careless with a rod.”
“Forget it, honey,” said Olga.
VI
When Rico came in, Seal Skin was sitting in a chair by the window and Otero was lying on the bed without his shirt, singing loudly. Rico walked over and put his hand on Seal Skin’s shoulder.
“Listen,” he said, “I thought you told me you was gonna look after The Greek?”
“I can’t do nothing with him,” said Seal Skin.
Rico went over to the bed and looked at Otero.
“Señor Rico,” cried Otero, “listen, I will sing for you.” Rico turned.
“Seal,” he said, “that bird’s gonna spill something if you don’t keep him sober.”
“Listen,” said Seal Skin. “I ain’t no nurse. A guy ought to look out for himself. What the hell can I do, anyway? I can’t knock him cold.”
“You never did have much sense,” said Rico.
“All right, wise boy. Let’s see what you can do.”
Rico took off his overcoat.
“Got any ice?”
“Sure,” said Seal Skin without moving.
“Well, goddamn it, get on your feet and get it.”
Seal Skin was afraid of Rico but she didn’t want him to suspect it. She got to her feet leisurely, picked up one of Otero’s big cigars, lit it, and stood puffing. Then, having demonstrated her lack of fear, she went to the kitchen for the ice.
Rico went over to the bed.
“Otero,” he said, “have you got any liquor
