Silently they walked around the little, roped-off dance floor. Rico told one of the waiters to get him a cab, then, to pass the time, he started putting nickels in a slot machine. After the third nickel, the bell rang and Rico won fifty cents; on the sixth nickel he won again.
“Ain’t that good!” said Rico.
He called the man behind the counter.
“Say,” he said, “have you seen anybody fooling with this machine?”
The man nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I seen Ottavio doing something to it.”
Rico laughed.
“Can you beat that petty crook! He’ll be robbing blind men next. Say, tell Sam to get all the machines overhauled. What the hell! He might as well hand out nickels over the counter.”
Blondy laughed, glad of this opportunity to put on a change of front.
“Boy, you don’t miss anything,” she said.
“Well,” said Rico, serious, “what’s the use of letting somebody gyp you?”
The waiter they had sent for the cab came to tell them that it was outside.
Blondy put her hand on Rico’s arm.
“Listen, wise boy,” she said, “you got the right dope about that Little Arnie business. Run him out, that’s OK, but do it up brown.”
“You watch,” said Rico.
He put her in the cab.
“Gonna give me a ring tonight, Rico?” she asked.
“Can’t say.”
“Well, don’t let me ketch you with any more dark hairs on your coat.”
“Can that!” said Rico.
Blondy slammed the cab door. Rico stood and watched the cab till it disappeared. Blondy was just like any other woman. Now she had got to the grand rush stage. Always beefing about something. Rico stood looking down the street.
Contrary to custom, he decided to walk down to the newsstand and get a paper. Since his rise, he seldom went out unaccompanied; never at night. Otero, Killer Pepi and Bat Carillo had constituted themselves his bodyguard and one of them was always within calling distance. They were jealous of this privilege and sometimes quarrelled among themselves. But the night tempted Rico; the atmosphere of The Palermo was vile, and the lake breeze was fresh and cool.
He had gone scarcely half a block when a large touring-car with the curtains closed passed him. He saw the car, noticing especially the closed curtains and the fact that the driver was hugging the curb, and, fearing the worst, he looked about for a shelter, but, as the car passed him and went on, he paid no further attention to it. Stopping in front of a lighted drugstore window he took out his watch and looked at it. One o’clock! Kid Bean and the Killer ought to be back any minute now. Suddenly he looked up. The big touring car had turned and was coming back at full speed with its exhaust roaring. Rico cursed himself for his carelessness and reached under his armpit for his gun. But the car was abreast of him now and three guns blazed. Rico felt a searing pain in his shoulder and fell to the ground. His gun was stuck in its holster and he couldn’t get it out. One of the men leaned out of the car and emptied his gun at Rico, who, helpless on the ground, heard the bullets sing.
“A goddamn fine shot you are!” said Rico.
The big touring-car turned a corner and disappeared. Rico got to his feet and walked into the drugstore. The screen-door banged behind him and the clerk, who had been lying down behind the counter, got unsteadily to his feet.
“My God,” he stammered, “what was all the popping for?”
Then he noticed that there was a torn place on the shoulder of Rico’s coat.
“Was they after you, mister?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “I got brushed. Give me a roll of bandages.”
The clerk stood there with his mouth open. People began to come into the store. Some of them knew who Rico was and stood staring at him.
“They put a bullet through my window,” said the clerk.
“Listen,” said Rico, “go get me a package of bandages.”
The clerk finally came to himself and went for the bandages. A crowd had gathered in the street and now there were so many people in the drugstore that the people on the outside couldn’t get in. Rico stood with his back to the counter, watching. Blood had begun to drip from his coat sleeve. Before the clerk returned with the bandages, Jastrow, the famous Little Italy cop, pushed his way through the crowd, followed almost immediately by Joe Massara.
“Well,” said Jastrow, “somebody finally put one in you, did they, Rico?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Joe Massara came over and put his hand on Rico’s arm. Joe’s face was white.
“Hurt you much, boss?”
“No,” said Rico, “what the hell you doing way over here?”
“I got tipped off,” said Joe. “I couldn’t get you on the phone and I began to get nervous. We’d’ve made it only my cab driver got hooked for speeding.”
“Who gave you the tip?” Jastrow demanded.
“Go press the bricks,” said Rico, “this ain’t your funeral.”
Jastrow laughed.
“Rico,” he said, “don’t you know that the Old Man’s taken an awful interest in you?”
“Well, tell him the cops couldn’t get me no other way so they hired a couple of gunmen.”
Joe laughed. Jastrow laughed also and taking out his notebook began to write in it. The clerk came with the bandages. Joe took them from him and paid him. Before they could get started, Killer Pepi and Otero came shoving their way through the crowd.
“Hello, boys,” said Jastrow, looking up from his little book. “Your boss got nudged by a hunk of lead.”
“So they tell me,” said the Killer.
Rico said:
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Jastrow went in front, clearing the way, followed by Otero and Killer Pepi, who had Rico between them. Joe brought up the rear. People were lined to the car-tracks; lights blazed in all the houses along the street, and men hung from the lampposts. When they came out
