“I want one too,” said Otero.
“All right,” said Rico, “help yourself.”
VI
DeVoss was standing in the lobby when Rico came in. DeVoss looked him over thoroughly, positive that he was out of his element in an atmosphere as exclusive as that of The Bronze Peacock. Not that Rico looked the least bit shabby. If anything, he was dressed more carefully than usual, from his modish derby to his fawn-coloured spats. The big ulster he was wearing hid the loud striped suit and a plain dark muffler hid the loud striped tie. No, sartorially Rico could pass at The Bronze Peacock. But there was something vulgar and predatory about him that did not escape DeVoss.
“That’s a bad one there,” he told himself.
Rico glanced about the lobby, taking everything in from habit. It was not a good plant but it could be worked. Not that he had any intention of working it, but you never know. He came up to DeVoss and said:
“Excuse me, but where’ll I find the manager of this place.”
DeVoss looked at him coldly.
“I’m the manager.”
Rico grinned.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we got a mutual friend. The Big Boy tells me you and him does business together.”
DeVoss’s manner changed abruptly.
“Oh, yes. You’re one of his friends, are you? What can I do for you?”
“I want to see Joe Massara.”
“That’s easy,” said DeVoss, “he’s back in his dressing-room. I’ll take you back.”
Rico followed DeVoss, and they went up a few steps at the end of the lobby and came out into the club proper. It was empty except for a couple of electricians who were working on the stage spotlights.
“So you’re one of the Big Boy’s friends,” said DeVoss, curious.
“I’m Rico.”
DeVoss looked at him, startled.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re Rico.”
All the way up the rear corridor DeVoss kept looking sideways at Rico. One of Little Arnie’s men had told him about the new Vettori gang chief. Dangerous as dynamite!
DeVoss knocked at Joe’s door. Someone called “come in.” DeVoss opened the door and Rico followed him into the room. Joe was sitting in his shirt sleeves, his vest off, displaying a pair of fancy suspenders. (Rico made a mental note of the suspenders. His taste ran more to fancy sleeve garters. But if men like Joe were wearing fancy suspenders, why, he’d have to get himself a pair.) Olga Stassoff, in a black, red and gold Japanese kimono was lying on a lounge, holding a Pekinese on her chest and rubbing its face against her own. A big man in evening clothes was standing with his back to the door. When Joe saw Rico he got to his feet in a hurry and stood smiling a little uneasily. The big man turned around.
“Mr. Rico wants to see you, Joe,” said DeVoss; then he put his hand on Rico’s arm and said: “When you get done with Joe, why, come up to the office and we’ll have a little drink.”
“Sorry,” said Rico, “I don’t use it. But thanks just the same.” DeVoss’s eyebrows rose.
“You mean you don’t drink!”
“Rico drinks milk,” said Joe, trying to be funny.
But Rico didn’t even smile.
“Yeah,” he said, “sometimes I drink milk.”
“Well, drop in anyway on your way out,” said DeVoss.
DeVoss closed the door. Rico noticed that the girl in the Japanese kimono was staring at him. She didn’t look like much to him; too skinny; all the same he insolently ran his eyes over her. The big man said:
“I guess there’s no use for us to offer you a drink.”
Joe took Rico by the arm.
“Olga, I want you to meet Rico. Rico, this is Olga Stassoff.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Rico.
Olga sat up and tried to smile, but it was no use. Rico was repulsive to her, principally because she was certain that he had killed Joe’s friend, Tony, but also because he stared at her insolently with his small, pale eyes.
“This boy here,” said Joe, taking the big man familiarly by the arm, “is Mr. Willoughby, the millionaire.”
“Why bring that up?” said Willoughby.
Rico had an instinctive respect for wealth. Money was power. He smiled affably, and offered his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
Willoughby shook hands strenuously, then he inquired:
“Have you got some private business with Joe?”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “but there ain’t no hurry about it.”
“That’s all right,” said Willoughby. “Olga and I’ll go over next door. Eh, Olga? When you get through, why, give us a rap and we’ll come back. Don’t suppose I could persuade you to join us in a little supper before the show?”
Rico was flattered.
“Well,” he said, “I might.”
“Good,” said Willoughby; then taking Olga by the hand he pulled her to her feet. But Olga hesitated and stood looking from Joe to Rico.
“Run along, baby,” said Joe.
“Well, don’t take all night about it,” said Olga.
“I won’t keep him long,” Rico put in.
When Olga and Willoughby had gone, Rico said:
“Flying pretty high, ain’t you, Joe?”
“Willoughby’s just one of Olga’s fish. He’s gonna back her in a big show.”
“Yeah? Well, if that bird’s got a million bucks you both better clamp on to him. Nice little Jane you got, Joe.”
“Olga’s OK,” said Joe.
Rico unbuttoned his ulster to display his finery. He had on one of his striped suits. It was dead black with a narrow pink stripe. The colour scheme was further complicated by a pale blue shirt and an orange and white striped tie adorned with the ruby pin.
Joe stared at him.
“All lit up, ain’t you, Rico?” he said.
Rico nodded, pleased.
“Yeah, I kind of got it into my head I ought to dress up now.”
“They tell me you crowded Sam out,” said Joe. Rico looked at him.
“Didn’t nobody tell you the boys was giving a banquet for me?”
“Yeah, they told me,” said Joe, hurriedly, “but it was on at the wrong time for me.”
Rico took out a cigar and bit off the end of it.
“I ain’t seen you since the big stand.”
“No,” said Joe looking at the floor. “I been laying low. They had me scared.”
Rico banged
