Rico got a room at a bachelor’s hotel on the waterfront, and went to bed. It was about five o’clock in the evening when he woke up. He doused his face at the washstand, put on his overcoat, and went out.
He ate at a little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split a bowl of soup when things were going bad. But the place had changed. New management, new waiters, new everything. Toledo seemed small and dingy and quiet to Rico. He was a little bit puzzled.
“Didn’t used to be like this,” he said.
As soon as he finished his meal he walked over to Chiggi’s, which was about two blocks away. But the place was dark, and when Rico went up to the door to peer in he saw that it had been padlocked by the Federal Authorities.
“Ain’t that a break?” he said.
He had no place to go.
There was a fruit store next to Chiggi’s and Rico went in. A little Italian girl came to wait on him.
“Listen, sister,” said Rico, “you know where Chiggi is now?”
“I get my grandfather,” she said.
She went into the back of the store and returned with an old Italian who had crinkly grey hair and wore earrings.
“Listen, mister,” said Rico, “could you tell me where Chiggi is now?”
The old man just looked at him. Rico felt a little uneasy.
“No speak English?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the old man, “I speak good English. What do you want with Chiggi?”
“Well,” said Rico, “Chiggi used to be a pal of mine, but I been away for three or four years and now I don’t know where to find him.”
“Chiggi has had trouble,” said the old man; “he is in the prison.”
“Yeah?” said Rico. “Atlanta, hunh?”
“Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi is in Atlanta. It is too bad. Chiggi was good to the poor. When my wife was sick and my business was not going good, Chiggi gave me money.”
“Yeah,” said Rico. “Chiggi staked me too.”
Rico took out a cigar and gave it to the old man.
“Listen,” he went on, “do you know where any of Chiggi’s old bunch is?”
“Yes,” said the old man, “Chiggi’s boy has got a place a couple of blocks from here.”
The old man wrote down the address for Rico.
Young Chiggi was a dressed-up wop and thought he was a lot better than his father. He wouldn’t even wait on a customer, but sat all day in the back of his joint reading the Police Gazette or playing solitaire. Things were breaking good for Young Chiggi and he was thinking about selling out and going to Chicago or Detroit.
He had been in the beer and alcohol racket for over three years, first with his father, then by himself, and now with Bill Hackett, known as Chicago Red. He bought diamonds and automobiles and he kept his woman in a big apartment.
When Rico was shown into his office by one of his bartenders, he didn’t even look up but went on with his game of solitaire. The bartender went out and Rico sat down across from Young Chiggi. “Chiggi,” said Rico, “I want to talk to you a minute.”
Chiggi didn’t look up.
“All right,” he said.
“Listen,” said Rico, “put them cards down. I want to talk business.”
Chiggi looked up and stared at Rico.
“Say,” he said, “where the hell do you get that stuff! I don’t know you.”
“Your old man was a pal of mine,” said Rico.
“Well, Buddy,” said Chiggi, “that don’t help you none with me, ’cause me and the old man had a split-up. He thought he was so damn wise, see, but they got him behind the bars and I’m running loose.”
“Yeah?” said Rico, “well, that’s a tough break for the old man. You see, your old man staked me once and I thought I’d look him up and get even. I’m pretty well heeled right now and I’m looking for a place to lay in.”
Chiggi looked at Rico with interest.
“Looking for a place to lay in, huh? Bulls after you?”
“Yeah,” said Rico.
Chiggi put his cards away. Then he took out a couple of cigars and offered Rico one. They sat smoking.
“Well,” said Chiggi, “maybe I can take care of you.”
“That’s the talk,” said Rico; “got some rooms up above?”
“No,” said Chiggi, “but a friend of mine’s got a boarding house next door that’s OK. Now about that jack the old man staked you to, you can give it to me, ’cause he owes me plenty.”
Rico said nothing, but took out his fold and counted out a hundred and fifty dollars. He knew he had to buy his way in.
Rico selected his room carefully. It was on the side of the house and could not be reached from the outside as there were no porches near it. It had two doors, one opening into the front hall, one into the back hall. The doors themselves were heavy and could be barred from the inside. It was a good hideout.
Rico’s plans were vague. He had plenty of money, and if he went easy with it he would be able to live a year or more in comparative comfort. But Rico could not bear the thought of a year of inactivity. What would he do with himself? He had no vices. He couldn’t amuse himself by getting drunk, or taking dope, or playing faro. He didn’t mind losing a couple hundred dollars gambling occasionally, but you can’t put in a whole year gambling. He thought if things went right that maybe he’d move on to New York, but that would be risky and one slip and he was gone. No, he didn’t see much ahead of him.
Rico spent most of the day in his room, lying on the bed reading, or else going over and over in his mind the episodes leading to his rise and fall. The resentment he had been experiencing ever since he got to Hammond had
