“Yeah, I had the wrong steer,” said Ritz.
Montana turned back to Rico.
“Yeah,” he said, “some wise guys was giving Ritz a lot of bull. Ritz said you was trying to muscle in on my territory.”
Rico thought he was dreaming. So this was the great Pete Montana. A guy that couldn’t turn over in bed without getting plastered all over the front page. All that softie stuff was a front. Pete Montana was scared.
“No,” said Rico, “them guys don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Montana smiled blandly.
“Maybe we can team up on a job or two, Rico. I like your work. The Big Boy’s no fool and he thinks you’re the goods. Yeah, maybe we can team up, but I ain’t making no promises. Only this. I ain’t looking for no split on Arnie’s layout. She’s yours.”
“Don’t forget the hideout chief,” said Ritz.
Montana smiled again.
“By God, I sure enough did forget it. Yeah, Rico, some of Ritz’s boys had got a hideout a half a block from Arnie’s joint. That’s OK, ain’t it?”
Rico’s manner changed. He lost his affability and his face became serious.
“Well,” he said, “as long as there ain’t no cutting in. I won’t stand for no cutting in.”
Montana looked at Ritz. Ritz said:
“Hell, there won’t be no cutting in.”
“What do you say, Pete?” asked Rico.
Montana meditated, pulling at one of his thick lips. Otero sat watching Rico. Caramba! Here was little Rico telling the big Pete Montana where to get off. Otero never took his eyes off Rico’s face.
“Well,” said Montana, “they’re my men and I’m behind them. If there’s any cutting in, why, I’ll settle with you, Rico. Christ, no use for us to fight over a little thing like that. Anyway, if we get along, I’ll put you in on the alcohol racket.”
“All right,” said Rico, “you and me can do business, Pete.” Montana got up and offered Rico his hand. They pumped arms briefly. Then Pete said:
“Well, I guess we’ll saunter. But let me give you a tip, Rico. You’re getting too much notice, get the idea? You got the bulls watching you. I know a new guy has always got to expect that, but take it easy for a while. They’ll go to sleep; they always do.”
Rico admired Montana’s shiftiness, but he wasn’t fooled. Pete was trying to tie him up, make him leery.
“Much obliged,” said Rico; “a new guy has got a lot to learn.”
Montana smiled blandly, certain he had scored.
“Well,” said Montana, “so long. Maybe I’ll drop down to your new joint and give it the once over some night.”
“All right,” said Rico, “just let me know.”
Otero unbarred the door. Montana started out; Ritz offered his hand to Rico, then followed his chief. Otero barred the door.
Rico stood in the middle of the room, staring into space. Otero said: “He ain’t so much.”
Rico laughed out loud.
“Otero,” he cried, “you said a mouthful.”
Part VI
I
Rico felt small and unimportant in the Big Boy’s apartment. He was intensely self-centred and as a rule surroundings made no impression on him. But he had never seen anything like this before. He sat in the big, panelled dining-room, eating cautiously, dropping his fork from nervousness, and looking furtively about him.
Joe Sansone had dressed him so that he would look presentable. It had taken a good deal of management and tact, but Joe Sansone was a stickler for clothes and persevered with Rico, who swore at him at first and wouldn’t listen.
“Look, boss,” he said, “you’re getting up in the world. Ain’t none of us ever been asked to eat with the Big Boy at this dump. Hear what I’m telling you. Nobody’s ever crashed the gates before but Pete Montana. See what I mean? You don’t want the Big Boy to think you ain’t got no class.”
Joe had his own dress suit cleaned and pressed, and punctually at five he presented himself at Rico’s door with the outfit under his arm. Rico had resisted from the beginning; first, he balked at the suspenders, then the starched shirt. Joe, labouring with the studs, the buttoned shoes, the invincible collar, cursed and sweated. Rico resisted. But Joe won.
As Joe was ten pounds heavier than Rico, the dress suit was not precisely a perfect fit, but as Joe said “men are wearing their clothes a lot looser now.” To which Rico sardonically replied: “Yeah? Say, they rig you up better than this in stir.”
Finally Joe got Rico into his harness. Rico stamped about declaring that he’d be goddamned if he’d go out looking like that. Why, the Big Boy would think he was off his nut.
“You look fine, boss,” said Joe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “all I need is a napkin over my arm.”
But Joe moved Rico’s bureau out from its corner and tipped the mirror so Rico could get a full length view of himself. He was won over immediately. Why, honest to God, he looked like one of them rich clubmen he read about in the magazines. The enormous white shirt front, the black silk coat lapels, the neatly-tied white tie dazzled him.
“I guess I don’t look so bad,” he said to Joe; “we got plenty of time, let’s go down to Sam’s place for a while.”
Rico played with his dessert and looked about the room. The Big Boy ate with gusto, smacking his lips. The magnificence of the Big Boy’s apartment crushed Rico. He stared at the big pictures of old time guys in their gold frames; at the silver and glass ware on the serving table; at the high, carved chairs. Lord, why, it was like a hop dream.
He shook his head slowly.
“Some dump you got here,” he said.
“Yeah,” said the Big Boy, glancing negligently about him, “and I sure paid for it. See that picture over there?” He pointed to an imitation Velasquez. “That baby set me back one hundred and fifty berries.”
Rico stared.
“Jesus, one hundred and fifty berries for a picture!”
“Yeah,” said the
