Rico got on a streetcar.
“Well, how’s things?” he said to the conductor.
“All right,” said the conductor; “getting cooler, ain’t it? Reckon we’ll have winter before we know it.”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
II
Rico went up the alley at the side of Sansotta’s place and knocked at the back door. It was a long time before somebody came and took a look at him through the shutter. A voice with a marked Italian accent said:
“Who are you?”
“Where’s Sansotta?” asked Rico.
“What do you care?”
“Listen, buddy,” said Rico, “don’t get all het up. I’m right. Go tell Sansotta that Cesare wants him.”
In a few minutes the door opened and a hand motioned for Rico to come in. The hall was dark and Rico stumbled going up the stairs. The lookout took hold of his arm.
“The boss’s up in his room. I’ll take you up. Where you from, buddy?”
“Youngstown,” said Rico.
“Where’s that?”
“Over east.”
The lookout led Rico down a long, dark hallway and to a door at the end of it. Lights showed over a transom. The lookout knocked three times and the door was opened. Rico went in.
“Well,” said Sansotta, locking the door, “here you are.”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Sansotta was a small, bowlegged Italian with a dark, scarred face. He had on a striped suit, brown and red, and a stiff collar the points of which were so high that his chin rested on them. There was a big diamond stud in his shirtfront.
“You must’ve got a break,” said Sansotta.
Rico explained how he had got away.
“Pretty nifty,” said Sansotta; “I got to hand it to you on that, Cesare.”
“Yeah,” said Rico, “it was a good idea.”
Sansotta went over to a table, opened a drawer and took out a handbill which he gave to Rico. Rico smiled.
“Raised the ante, did they? Last I heard it was five grand.”
Rico read the handbill over and over and stared at the Bertillon pictures.
“Them pictures don’t look like me,” he said.
Sansotta pursed his lips and scrutinized them.
“Not since you got the tickler off. No, and you look thinner in them pictures. How long ago was they taken?”
“About seven years ago.”
The handbill read:
Wanted for murder: Cesare Bandello, known as Rico, Age: 29. Height: 5 ft. 5 in. Weight: 125. Complexion: pale. Hair: black and wavy. Eyes: light, grey or blue. His face is thin and he walks with one foot slightly turned in. Does not take up with strangers. Solitary type, morose and dangerous. Reward: $5,000, offered by management of Casa Alvarado. $2,000, offered by City of Chicago, for capture dead or alive.
“Well,” said Sansotta, “where you headed for?”
“I’m gonna stick around here for a while,” said Rico.
“Yeah?” said Sansotta; “pretty close to trouble, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Rico, “they ain’t got any idea which way I went. I got a big stake and I don’t have to worry none.”
“You sure went up fast over in the big burg,” said Sansotta, looking at Rico with a sort of awe.
“Yeah,” said Rico, “and the hell of it was, I was just getting started. Everything was on the up and up when one of the gang turned softie. Ain’t that hell?”
Rico had been very much elated over his escape from Chicago, so elated in fact that he had forgotten all about his troubles; but, now that the excitement of the escape had passed, the thought of how much he had lost struck him full force. He felt resentful.
“Yeah,” said Sansotta, “that’s the way it goes. It’s a tough game. They picked up two of my men last night.”
“That so?” said Rico, paying no attention.
Sansotta got up.
“Well, Cesare,” he said, “I got business or I’d stick around and chin with you. Want to stay here with me till things blow over?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
III
Night after night Rico lay awake looking at the arc light outside his window. His mind was filled with resentment and he went over and over the incidents which had led to his fall. Now it was too late, he saw the mistakes he had made. He should have plugged Gentleman Joe; that’s all. When a guy begins to turn softie, why there ain’t no good in him. Yeah, he had been too easy. Another thing. He should have played Scabby up; that guy was in a position to do him all kinds of favours, but Scabby was a hard guy to get along with; he always thought somebody was trying to make a fool of him and he always had a chip on his shoulder.
Sometimes Rico would fall asleep for a little while, but his sleep was full of dreams and he would toss from side to side and wake up with a start. Then he would get up and smoke one cigarette after another and think about Montana and Little Arnie and the Big Boy. Often, in these short naps, he would see The Greek lying on his back in the alley, or the little Italian girl sweeping the hall, or Ma Magdalena helping him put the grease on his face. Then he would awake in confusion and stare at the unfamiliar arc light a long time before he could realize where he was.
In the day time it wasn’t so bad. He could play cards with Sansotta and some of his gang, or shoot crap on a pool table in the back room. Rico always played to win, and while the game was in progress he forgot his troubles. But even this was but a partial alleviation. He was nobody. Just an unknown wop who seemed to have unlimited resources. Sansotta was the only one who knew who he was. He had taken his uncle’s name, Luigi De Angelo, and around Sansotta’s he was called Youngstown Louis, or usually plain Louis. No, he was nobody. When a card game got hot and one of the players thought he was getting gypped, a look from Rico did not quieten the
