“Aw, lay off of us,” said one of the Detroit toughs.
Joe Sansone stared at him.
“Say, Gyp-the-Blood, I bet they think you’re a pretty hard bird where you live, don’t they?”
Arnie turned to Joe Peeper.
“Well, Joe,” he said, “you sure put the skids under me.”
“Sure I did,” said Joe Peeper; “you thought you could bat me around and make me like it.”
Pepi laughed.
“Arnie,” he said, “you better go back to Detroit with your boyfriends.”
When Rico and his men left Arnie’s joint, Joe Peeper followed them. As soon as they reached the pavement, Joe walked up to Rico and said:
“You sore at me, Rico?”
All Rico’s men stopped and stood staring at Joe, wondering what his game was.
“You guys get in the car,” said Rico.
They all got in except Pepi, who stood with his back against the car, his right hand in his pocket. Pepi didn’t trust anybody who had ever been mixed up with Little Arnie.
“What’s on your mind, Joe?” Rico demanded.
“I thought you acted like you was sore at me,” said Joe Peeper; “honest to God, Rico, I didn’t know nothing about them Detroit bums. I didn’t know what Arnie was up to. Lord, you know I wouldn’t double-cross you after all you done for me.”
“Well, who said you did?”
“Nobody,” said Joe, “only it looked funny, and I thought maybe you guys had got a wrong notion. I’d be a sap to pull anything like that.”
Rico laughed.
“Forget it,” he said.
Rico started to get into the automobile, but Joe took hold of his arm.
“How about me, Rico?” he said. “If I stick around here they’ll bump me off sure.”
“Yeah?” said Rico; “say, them guys wouldn’t bump nobody off now. But get in. I can use you, Joe.”
Joe got in the back seat with Otero and Ottavio Vettori. He talked to them all the way back to The Palermo, trying to get in good with them, but they said nothing.
IV
The next day in the society column of one of the Chicago papers there appeared a small item, which read:
“Mr. Arnold Worch, of the North Side, has just left for Detroit where he intends to spend the summer. He was accompanied by two of his Detroit friends, who have been in Chicago for a short stay.”
This was the work of Ottavio Vettori. The underworld was convulsed and thousands of extra copies of the paper were sold. The clipping was to be found pasted up in all the barrooms, gambling joints, and dance-halls. Rico and Ottavio Vettori had become famous overnight.
Little Arnie wasn’t the only one who left town. Several of Little Arnie’s henchmen, who had been closely connected with the attempted killing, followed him into exile. Joseph Pavlovsky, the doorman, who had driven the car, went to Hammond, where, on the money Arnie had given him, he opened a speakeasy. Pippy Coke, who with the two Detroit gunmen had done the shooting went with Pavlovsky, and they were followed by two croupiers, who had shadowed Rico.
Arnie’s gang was smashed and the Little Italians took over a territory they hadn’t controlled since the days of Monk De Angelo.
Arnie had come to Chicago from New York about five years ago. His reputation had got so bad in New York that no one would do business with him. He came west with a small stake and was lucky enough to arrive at just the right time. Kips Berger, also formerly of New York and once one of Arnie’s pals, had gone broke and was willing to sell out his big gambling joint for practically nothing. Arnie bought it and prospered. This gambling joint was in a neutral zone, touching Little Italy on the south and the vast territory that Pete Montana controlled on the north. Arnie was cute enough to see his advantage. He worked hard at his job and in a little while had consolidated his territory. But he was not a good chief: first, because he was a coward, second, because his closest associate couldn’t trust him, third, because he was inclined to lose his head in an emergency. His lieutenant, Jew Mike, was a tougher and more violent replica of his chief. Between them they bossed the territory, but under them the gang never prospered and their hold was at best precarious. They held on only because there was little or no opposition. Their gangsters were a poor lot and were content to take small splits. On the south, Sam Vettori was slipping and his lethargy prevented him interfering; on the north the great Pete Montana was magnificently indifferent.
Arnie had been slipping for the last year or so, and Rico’s sudden rise had accelerated his decline. Arnie, fearing the worst, committed blunder after blunder; first, he made advances to Rico, then, getting Rico’s protection for a thirty percent split, things looked too easy and he began to double-cross him. Lastly, although he should have known better, he made the tactical error of trying to get Rico killed. If he had succeeded, his position would not have been improved; he would have been worse off, because the Vettori gang would have made short work of him.
Arnie’s fall was the signal for a series of minor tumbles. Jew Mike, whose joint Bat Carillo and his gang had demolished, fled to the South Side, where he opened a couple of vice-joints. Kid Burg moved to Cicero, and Squint Maschke, after a short exile, offered his services to Rico, who gave him twenty-four hours to make a second disappearance. With the fall of Arnie’s three lieutenants, the last vestiges of his rule vanished.
V
Otero helped Rico out of his coat, then, while Rico doused his face at the washstand, he sat down, tipped back his chair and rolled himself a cigarette.
“You better lay down, Rico, and get some rest,” said Otero; “you ain’t looking so good.”
“I’m OK,” said Rico.
But this was bravado. He had slept only
