“Well, here we are.”
Rico said nothing, but got into the front seat with Tony. Otero got into the back seat. Carillo stood looking at them for a moment, then closed the door. Tony stepped on the starter.
“All right,” said Rico, “let’s go, but take it easy. We got lots of time.”
They took it easy. Tony drove along as leisurely as though they were going to a New Year’s party. Rico leaned back and smoked, watching all the passing cars. Otero, who had removed the riot gun and had it on the seat beside him, was sitting bolt upright, his hands on his knees. He could never get used to riding in an automobile. Rico turned and saw the gun.
“Put that rod on the floor,” he said.
Otero obeyed.
It had got colder. The snow was no longer falling and a chilly wind was blowing up in gusts from the lake. The streets were nearly deserted. Over west a whistle began to blow, discordant and shrill.
“Well,” said Tony, nodding in the direction of the whistle, “it won’t be long now.”
But Rico leaned over and hissed in his ear.
“Police car!”
A big Packard with a hooded machine-gun in the back seat passed them. There were two plainclothes men in the front and two in the back.
“What’ll I do?” asked Tony.
One of the men leaned out and stared back at them.
“Jesus,” said Tony, “he’s looking at us.”
“Keep your shirt on,” said Rico, putting his hand on Tony’s arm.
Otero took a cigarette from his pack and rolled it between his palms.
The police car slowed up. Rico’s fingers closed on Tony’s arm.
“Here’s an alley,” said Rico, “duck!”
Tony took the turn on two wheels, just missing a parked car. Otero was thrown from one end of his seat to the other, losing his cigarette. The Cadillac’s exhaust roared in the narrow alleyway. There was nothing but darkness ahead of them.
“It’s a blind,” said Tony.
“No,” said Rico, “I know this place like a book. Turn to your right at the end.”
Rico leaned out and stared back. Then he laughed.
“Ain’t that like the damn dummies! Nothing in sight.”
They came back to Michigan Boulevard by a wide detour. Here the wind blew fiercely, raising little whirlwinds of snow. Now there were whistles blowing in all parts of town. Rico looked at his wrist watch.
“Five of twelve. All right, Tony. Step on it.”
“What time, Rico?” asked Otero.
Rico told him.
“Fine, fine,” said Otero, “eh, Rico?”
Half a block down the street they saw the huge electric sign of the Casa Alvarado. The street was deserted except for the parked cars. They drove along slowly now.
Rico leaned out.
“That’s a break,” he said, pointing to a parking place where they couldn’t be hemmed in. “Listen, Tony, this ain’t going to be no cinch, so you better give us a lift.”
Tony pretended to be preoccupied with parking.
“Get me?”
Tony was pale and his lips were twitching.
“That ain’t my stand, Rico,” he said.
Rico looked at him. Tony sat silent for a moment, then, pulling at the visor of his cap, said:
“But you’re the boss, Rico.”
“OK,” said Rico, smiling. “Now, Otero, get this. I go first. You follow me with the big rod. I stick up the cashier. Tony swings the sacks. Got it?” Rico took three small neatly-folded canvas sacks out of his pocket and handed them to Tony. “Otero, you watch the door. If you see anybody coming in, let ’em come in, then back ’em up against the wall. If things go right, I’ll tap the box. Got it?”
Rico looked at his watch. It was three minutes past twelve.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Otero got out lazily, hiding the riot gun under his coat. Rico got out, followed by Tony.
“Got your rod, Tony?” asked Rico.
Tony nodded.
“All right, keep it in your pocket. Maybe you won’t need it right away. If anybody gets funny, why, pull it.”
“OK,” said Tony, “but for God’s sake, Rico, no gunwork.”
Otero said:
“You leave Rico alone. He does what is right.”
Whistles were blowing all over town. They walked up the carpet which was laid across the pavement under the canvas marquee. Inside there was a blaze of lights and they could hear the music. The lobby was deserted except for two check-girls, one waiter, a cigar clerk, and the cashier, a pale woman with a green eyeshade, who was perched on a stool. Joe Massara, in a big ulster and a derby hat, was standing at the cigar counter, kidding the clerk. He saw them out of the corner of his eye and nodded twice.
They came in quickly, Rico in front with his big automatic at ready, Otero slightly behind him and to the left, carrying the sawed-off shotgun hip-high, Tony in the rear, his hand in his overcoat pocket.
Before Rico could say anything, Joe Massara faced them, put his back up against the counter and raised his hands.
“My God,” he cried, “it’s a holdup.”
One of the check girls screamed piercingly. The waiter’s knees buckled and he almost fell. The others stood petrified.
“You’re goddamn right it’s a holdup!” shouted Rico, trying to intimidate them, “and it ain’t gonna be no picnic. Get that, all of you birds. I got lead in this here rod and my finger’s itching. One crack out of any of you and they’ll pat you with a spade. All right, Tony.”
Tony, white as chalk, took the sacks out of his pocket and walked over to the cashier’s desk. The cashier was standing behind the register, hands raised. When Tony came up she said:
“Take anything you want, only for God’s sake don’t touch me.”
“OK,” said Tony, “clean out the box but don’t get funny.”
Tony held the sacks while the cashier scooped the money into them. Tony saw pack after pack of wrapped greenbacks drop into the sacks. He began to feel a little better.
Rico left the cashier to Tony, but looked at each of the others in turn, his eyes, under his tilted hat, intimidating them as successfully as
