“Lord,” said Red, “so you’re Rico? Steve Gollancz told me you was a big fellow.”
“Steve never seen me,” said Rico.
Chiggi leaned forward eagerly.
“You gonna put in with us, Louis?”
Rico said:
“I’ll put in a third, but I got to boss the works or I won’t put in nothing.”
Chiggi looked at Red.
“That’s OK with me,” said Red.
Chiggi got to his feet and danced a few steps.
“Hurray for us,” he cried.
VI
Under Rico’s guidance Chiggi’s gang prospered. Chicago Red, impressed by Rico’s reputation, carried out his orders and never argued; Chiggi also. And Chiggi’s men were influenced by the attitude of their former bosses. Rico made decisions quickly, seldom asked for advice, and was nearly always right. Chiggi and Red were used to doing things on a small scale and hated to split with the authorities, but Rico had been in the game long enough to know that to make money you’ve got to spend money. Through Antonio Rizzio, one of Old Chiggi’s friends, now a minor politician, Rico got in touch with some of the high-ups and bought protection. Chiggi’s alcohol runners were no longer picked up, and in a little while Chiggi’s business had doubled. But, due to this increase in business, a new difficulty had risen: hijackers. They waylaid Chiggi’s men and robbed them of their cargoes. There was a well-organized gang of them around Monroe, Michigan, and they began to cut into Chiggi’s profits. Rico tried rerouting his runners and this was successful for a month or two, but the Monroe gang soon got on to it, and the trouble started over again. Rico took a chance. He ordered three sho-sho guns from a firm in Chicago. These small automatic rifles, as formidable as machine guns, were concealed in special cases under the seats of the trucks. Rico instructed his runners in the use of them, and after a few encounters the Monroe gang decided that it would be more lucrative and also safer to confine their hijacking to smaller bootleggers who were not equipped with artillery.
Rico was pleased with his success, but hardly satisfied. This was small stuff and, as he could take no active part in it, he had a good deal of time on his hands. Of course he was a pretty big guy for Toledo, and around Chiggi’s he was king, but, after all, Chiggi’s boys were a mighty poor lot, worse even than Little Arnie’s, and their adulation wasn’t worth much.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Rico knew that he had blundered badly in revealing his identity to Chiggi and Chicago Red. Neither of them was very dependable. Chiggi talked incessantly, contradicting himself, forgetting what he had said two minutes after he had said it; and all this talk was directed at one object: self-glorification. An association with Cesare Bandello, of Chicago, was something to brag about and Rico knew it. Chicago Red as a rule was not very talkative, but when he got drunk he would boast about his former connection with Steve Gollancz. Rico feared them both. Sometimes when the three of them were alone together he would caution them. There was only one thing that reassured Rico. Chiggi’s prosperity depended on him, and Rico knew that both Chicago Red and Chiggi were aware of it.
At about seven o’clock one night Rico went out for supper. He ate at the little Italian restaurant where he and Otero used to split a bowl of soup when things were bad. He always sat facing the front door at the table in the back of the place. In this position he could see everyone who came in and also he could keep an eye on the people at the tables. On his right and a couple of feet ahead of him was a little window which looked out on an alley. While Rico was finishing his coffee, be happened to glance at the window. When he did, a face which had been pressed against the windowpane was hastily withdrawn. Rico got up, put on his hat and paid his check.
“I’m going out the back way,” he said to the counterman.
“OK, boss.”
“If anybody comes in here and asks for Louis De Angelo take a good look at him.”
“All right, boss,” said the counterman.
Rico went out through the kitchen door, which opened onto a little cement court where the refuse from the restaurant was dumped. The big garbage cans along the wall were in the shadow and, as Rico stepped out, a man jumped up from behind one of the cans and put a gun against him. Rico threw himself to the ground, the gun exploded harmlessly, and the man made a break for the alley, stumbling over the cans. Rico fired from a prone position and missed. Then he jumped to his feet and ran out into the alley. The man had disappeared.
“God,” said Rico, “if that boy didn’t almost pull one on me.”
One of the cooks opened the back door and put his head out.
“What the hell!” he said.
“Damned if I know,” said Rico; “a couple of guys was popping at each other out here in the alley.”
“Some of them bootleggers,” said the cook.
Rico took a cab back to Chiggi’s. He was very much perturbed. Whoever that boy was he certainly meant business.
“Well,” said Rico, “somebody has sure spilled something.”
As soon as he came in, Chiggi rushed up to him and grabbed him by the arm.
“Louis,” he said, “Red’s drunk and we can’t do nothing with him.”
Rico stared at Chiggi.
“Where’s he been?”
“Why,” said Chiggi, “he’s been on a bat with some Chicago guys.”
“Hell,” cried Rico, “where is he?”
Chiggi led Rico back into one of the private rooms. Red was sitting at a table with a half empty quart of whiskey on the table beside him. When he saw Rico he cried:
“If it ain’t old Rico himself! By God, I been drinking all day. I can hardly see but nobody can
