“Listen,” said Rico, “this may be a pinch. I don’t know. If it is, I’ll go with them. They ain’t got nothing on me. But if there’s any trouble, Scabby’ll keep you posted. Ma’s got my jack, see?”
“All right,” said Otero.
Rico started across the room and Otero followed him. Before Rico reached the door, Tony’s mother suddenly put her hands to her face and began to sob wildly.
“Oh, Tony, Tony!” she cried.
The women who had come in with her tried to quieten her, but she pushed them away, and, rising, walked over to the coffin and stood looking down at Tony. Then, still sobbing, she let the women lead her into the next room.
“That’s a woman for you,” said Rico.
“Well,” said Otero, shrugging. “Tony was her son.”
The hallway was lined with poor Italians who, not knowing the Passalacquas, had come out of curiosity. They stood in silent groups, trying to peep in through the open door. Women in disreputable housedresses carrying dirty children; pregnant women; old men with crinkly grey hair and seamed brown faces; young girls trying to look up-to-date and American. When Rico came out they all stared at him.
Flaherty took hold of his arm.
“Rico,” he said, “come down to the end of the hall. I want to see you a minute.”
“Is this a pinch?” asked Rico. Flaherty laughed.
“Got a bad conscience, have you? Well, you ought to have.” Rico noticed that the other detective, whom he had never seen before, kept staring at him. Rico planted his feet firmly and stared back.
“What’s the big idea, Flaherty?” he asked.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “just to put your mind at rest. I’ll tell you, this ain’t a pinch. It ought to be, but it ain’t. Now will you take a walk … ?”
“Sure,” said Rico.
Otero came out into the hallway and stood watching them. Rico went down to the end of the hall with the two plainclothes men. Some of the poor Italians followed them and stood staring. But Flaherty motioned them off as if he were shooing chickens.
“Beat it,” he said; “go tend to your own business.”
They moved away slowly, looking back.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s have it.”
Flaherty took out a big cigar and began chewing on it. The other man kept staring. Rico was puzzled and wondered what the game was; then he noticed that the light at their end of the hall was good, much better than any other place in the hall. The once-over? Well, what then?
“Listen, Rico,” said Flaherty, “I like you and I’m going to give you a tip. It’s going to be tough on you birds from now on. The Old Man’s got his back up. Now get this. If you got anything on your mind, you better spill it.” Flaherty paused to light his cigar. The other detective watched Rico intently. “Because it’s going to be easy for the bird that spilled it first. But God help the rest of them.”
Rico smiled slightly.
“Quit stalling,” he said.
Flaherty glanced at the man with him, but the man shook his head. Flaherty said:
“Well, I’m giving you a friendly tip.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “you bulls always was friendly as hell. I spent two years once just thinking how friendly you was. Listen, I ain’t got nothing to spill. What the hell’s wrong with you, Flaherty? Did I ever do any spilling?”
Flaherty laughed.
“Well,” he said, “there’s a first time for everything. All right, Rico, you can go.”
The two plainclothes men pushed their way through the crowd and went down the stairs. Rico went back into Tony’s flat. Sam Vettori and Otero were waiting for him. Vettori was mopping his face with his big, white silk handkerchief.
“Well?” he demanded. Rico shrugged.
“Just stalling.”
“What’s the name?”
“You got me. I guess Flaherty wanted this other bird to give me the once-over.”
“Things getting pretty hot, Rico.”
“Don’t beef, Sam. We’re gonna come through.”
Otero said:
“The old lady sure is taking it hard.”
They could hear Tony’s mother sobbing loudly in the next room.
Part IV
I
For three or four years Bat Carillo, once a third-rate light-heavyweight, had been the leader of one of Vettori’s gangs of hooligans. The members of this gang specialized in strong arm stuff and intimidation; they threw bombs; they smashed up barrooms and vice-joints operated by rival gangs. They were, in other words, Vettori’s shock troops. Carillo was an excellent lieutenant, as he always carried out orders to the letter; and was congenitally incapable of imagining himself as chief in his own right. A good, honest subordinate without ambition. Vettori trusted him.
In Carillo’s attitude since the killing of Courtney, therefore, Vettori saw the most unmistakable symptom of his own passing. Carillo had attached himself to Rico and called him “boss.” Carillo was not careless with the word “boss”; it was not a conventional expression; when he said “boss” he meant it. Aroused, Vettori saw similar manifestations all around him; in Blackie Avezzano, in Killer Pepi, in a dozen others.
Vettori had always disliked Rico. Now he hated him. If Carillo or Killer Pepi had remained faithful, he would have had one of them kill him and damn the consequences. But there was no question of that now. He knew that he was whipped and he saw the necessity of a compromise. Hanging was just over the horizon, and Rico’s gun promised an even more certain death. Vettori had never split with anyone. He had always taken with both hands and given as little as possible. But it was split now or die, and Vettori could not contemplate the prospect of dying with any degree of complacency. He sent for Rico.
A new Rico appeared, followed by Otero, Carillo, and Killer Pepi. Rico was wearing a big ulster like Joe’s and a derby also like Joe’s. He had on fawn-coloured spats drawn over pointed patent-leather shoes; and a diamond horseshoe pin sparkled in a red, green and white striped necktie.
Vettori looked him over and winked at
