“What do I care for liquor!” cried Otero. “I will sing for you.” Rico slapped Otero’s face.
“A hell of a crew I’m mixed up with,” he said.
Otero looked at him, startled.
“What is wrong with me?”
“You’re a dirty yellow bum.”
“I am not a yellow bum,” cried Otero, trying to sit up.
Rico struck him hard this time, knocking him back on the bed. Otero put his hand to his face and looked at Rico.
“If you got any more liquor here you better tell me where it is,” said Rico.
Otero reached under his pillow and pulled out a quart bottle over half full. Rico slipped it into his pocket.
Otero’s face grew red.
“Rico,” he said, “you give me back my liquor.”
He tried to sit up, but Rico hit him and he fell back. Seal Skin came in with a couple of pieces of ice wrapped in a towel.
“What the hell you want to beat him up for?” she said.
“I’m gonna get him sober and keep him that way.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re gonna have a full-time job.”
Rico took the ice, a piece in each hand, and began to rub it over Otero’s face and chest. He rubbed hard and it hurt Otero, who struggled.
“Rico,” he said, “what have I done to you? Rico, you are my friend. Why do you treat me this way?”
“He’ll be bawling next,” said Seal Skin.
Suddenly, Otero became very angry and struggled so fiercely that he threw Rico off and climbed out of bed. The ice clattered to the floor. Rico took one step towards him and set himself for a punch, but Seal Skin grabbed his arm.
“For God’s sake let up on him,” she cried, “ain’t he in bad enough shape?”
Rico was furious. He slapped Seal Skin across the face with his open hand.
“A fine bunch of yellow bellies and squealers I’m mixed up with,” he cried. “Listen, idiot, ain’t he a meal ticket? You want the black wagon to come and haul him away?”
Otero reeled across the room. Rico leapt after him and knocked him to the floor. Otero raised his head.
“Rico,” he said, “what have I done to you?”
Rico picked up the ice and kneeling down beside Otero began to rub him with it, harder than before. Otero gasped.
“Listen,” said Rico, “you got to get sober. I’m your friend, Otero, do you get what I’m saying? You got to sober up and stay that way.”
Tears ran down Otero’s cheeks.
“All right, Rico,” he said.
In half an hour, Rico had him sober. Seal Skin was sitting with her feet on the window sill, smoking one of Otero’s big cigars. Otero sat pale and shaken, looking at Rico.
“Well, big boy,” said Seal Skin, “I got to hand it to you. You done it.”
Rico smiled. Then he took out his billfold and handed Seal Skin a ten.
“There’s a little cush for you. You ain’t sore at me cause I socked you, are you? I got red hot mad, that’s all.”
“You didn’t sock me hard,” said Seal Skin, “but it was ten dollars’ worth.”
Otero didn’t have much to say. He sat looking at the floor, ashamed of himself.
“How do you feel?” asked Rico.
“Me, not so good,” said Otero.
“Want a little drink?”
Otero looked at Rico, not trusting him, then he nodded. Rico handed him the bottle.
“I said little drink,” cautioned Rico.
Otero took a swallow and handed back the bottle.
“Now,” said Rico, “get your clothes on and we’ll take a look at Tony.”
VII
There were many rumours in Little Italy about the passing of Sam Vettori. The full truth, of course, was only guessed at, but the simple facts were known. Sam Vettori’s star was setting, Rico’s was rising. Rico had always been right; there was never any question of that. Rico had always inspired fear. But now, as the probable head of a big minor gang whose activities were varied and whose yearly income was enormous, his potentialities were prodigiously increased and he was treated accordingly.
When he entered Tony’s flat, several members of the Vettori gang, sitting near the door, got up and offered him their chairs. He merely shook his head and walked across to where Sam Vettori was sitting. Otero, who had entered a little behind Rico, stopped to talk with Blackie Avezzano.
Carillo brought a chair for Rico and Rico sat down beside Sam Vettori.
“We’re going to plant the kid right,” said Vettori, “that’ll look good.”
Rico stared across the room at a large horseshoe wreath which bore the single word: Tony. That was his contribution.
“Sure,” said Rico.
He was a little uneasy. Not that he felt any remorse. What he had done was merely an act of policy. A man in this game must be a man. If he gets yellow, why, there’s only one remedy for it.
“They sure fix ’em up good now,” said Vettori, nodding in the direction of the coffin; “he don’t look dead. He looks like he was asleep.”
“Yeah?” said Rico.
“It beats me how they do it,” said Vettori. Carillo came across the room and whispered to Rico and Vettori.
“Two bulls in the hallway.”
“They coming in?” asked Rico.
“No, just standing there.”
“All right.”
There was a movement at the door. Mrs. Passalacqua came in between two of her friends. She had been at St. Dominick’s for over an hour. Rico got up and offered her his chair. One of the women helped her off with her hat. She sat down. Her grey hair was parted in the middle and drawn tightly down; her face was a dead white.
Rico walked over to look at Tony. At the head of the coffin were two big candles, one of them leaning a little and dripping tallow. Tony lay with his hands folded. Rico looked down. Somehow he had expected Tony to be changed. He was not. Here lay the same Tony who used to play poker with such fury. The same Tony, yes, only dead.
Carillo put his hand on Rico’s shoulder.
“Bulls want to see you, boss.” Rico nodded.
“They want you to come out in the hall.”
“All right,” said Rico, turning away
