“All right,” said Tony, going into his room and banging the door behind him.
His mother stood in the middle of the room for a minute, then she put out the light and sat in the dark, crying.
V
The little blonde check-girl helped Joe take off his big ulster, her hand lingering on his arm. He handed her a quarter.
“Don’t go on a bat with that two-bits,” he said.
“No, sir,” said the check-girl.
She watched him walk across the long dance-floor, pick his way among the crowded tables, bowing from time to time to one he had jostled, and disappear through the employees’ door at the back. Then she put checks on his coat and hat and hung them up.
“God, what a hot-looking man,” she said; “I don’t see how that little hunky got him.”
Olga Stassoff was just putting the finishing touches to her makeup. Joe came in softly and stood watching her. She began to sing. “If you’re singing for me,” said Joe, “you can stop any time.” Olga turned around.
“Well, what are you doing here? Broke?”
“Shut up,” said Joe.
Then he turned and walked out of the room. Olga jumped to her feet and ran after him. She caught him near the employees’ door. He pushed her away.
“Ain’t that a fine way to say hello to a guy!” he said. “Why, you must think you got me roped and hog-tied.”
“I was just kidding, Joe,” said Olga, “honest I didn’t mean it. I was just kidding.”
“Well, get this,” said Joe, “I’m goddamn sick of that line. What do you take me for? That goes big with some of your swell boyfriends who’ve got ugly wives and ain’t any too particular, but me! I don’t take that kind of talk from nobody.”
Olga put her arms around him, but he pushed her away.
“Listen, Joe,” she said, “I got good news for you, so get out of your fighting clothes and come to earth. Can’t you take a little kidding?”
Joe gave the manager a most ingratiating smile.
“What’s the big talk, Mr. DeVoss? Am I missing something?”
“You sure are,” said DeVoss. “The Stranskys broke their contract and I’m putting you on in their place.”
Joe leapt into the air and executed a twinkle. Olga burst out laughing.
“Well,” said Joe, “how much?”
“One hundred to start, Joe, then we’ll see.”
“Well,” said Joe, “I can’t buy no limousines with that, but I’ll take it.”
Joe and DeVoss shook hands.
“Now,” said the manager, “there’s a girl out here who’s just dying to dance with you, Joe.”
Joe shook his head.
“No, I don’t like that stuff. They always think they got to hand you something. What the hell! I don’t want no dame handing me nothing.”
Olga put her hand over her mouth.
“Don’t worry about that, Joe,” said DeVoss, “she already asked me about that and I told her you’d be insulted, so she gave me a ten.” DeVoss took a crumpled bill out of his pocket and handed it to Joe. “There, now get this. She’s an up and up girl and she means a lot of business to this place. Her old man’s got a couple of million bucks and she’s the real thing. All right, Joe?”
“Sure, sure,” said Joe, “always willing to oblige.”
DeVoss went through the swinging doors and stood waiting for Joe on the other side. Olga took Joe by the arm.
“Listen,” she said, “none of your funny business now. Just do your stuff and leave it at that. I’m on to these society women. I know what they want.”
Joe leapt into the air and executed another twinkle.
“Alley up!” he cried, “don’t you trust me, baby?”
Olga put her hands on her hips and began to laugh. How could you be sore at a guy like that?
VI
Rico was standing in front of his mirror, combing his hair with a little ivory pocket comb. Rico was vain of his hair. It was black and lustrous, combed straight back from his low forehead and arranged in three symmetrical waves.
Rico was a simple man. He loved but three things: himself, his hair and his gun. He took excellent care of all three.
Part II
I
“Hear me,” said Rico, his face twitching, “he’s turned yellow. He’s turned yellow. What the hell you expect from a choir boy!”
Otero said nothing but sat with his chair tipped back against the wall smoking a cigarette, his eyes closed. Sam Vettori stood in the middle of the room and stared at his watch.
“Keep your shirt on, Rico,” said Vettori, “you’re on edge.”
“Sure, Rico,” said Otero.
Carillo came in without knocking. Vettori put away his watch.
“Well!”
“OK, boss,” said Carillo, “Tony’s in the alley.”
Vettori took out his watch again.
“Rico, it’s eleven-thirty-five. What do you say?”
“Let’s get going.”
Otero got slowly to his feet, stamped out his cigarette, and taking the riot gun from the table in front of him, slipped it under his overcoat. Rico examined his big automatic.
Carillo went out, softly closing the door. Otero walked over and patted Rico on the shoulder.
“OK, now, eh, Rico?”
Rico smiled. Vettori’s face was covered with sweat and he pulled out a big white silk handkerchief to mop it.
“Rico,” he said, “from now on you boss the job. Only, get this: for the love of God, no gunwork. That’s all. I ain’t ripe for the rope.”
Rico said nothing. Otero shrugged.
Vettori, still mopping his face, opened a window and a gust of cold air rushed in.
Rico took out his little ivory pocket comb and mechanically combed his hair. Then he put on his hat and tilted it over his eyes.
“Well,” he said to Otero, “let’s go.”
Otero followed Rico out. Vettori called:
“Make it clean, Rico. Make it clean.”
They went down the back stairs. Carillo was waiting at the foot of the stairs and held the alley door open for them. The alleyway was dark and Otero stumbled.
“Caramba!”
“Watch that gun,” said Rico.
Tony was
