The manager opened the door of his office and with a dazed look hesitated for a moment, then, with a great sigh, put his back against the wall and raised his hands. He was a Czech with a swarthy complexion which gradually turned greenish.
Rico glared at the manager.
“Stay put, you!” he said.
“All right, all right,” said the Czech.
Joe Massara said:
“Jesus, my arm’s paralyzed.”
“Yeah,” shouted Rico, “well, don’t let it drop.”
“All set,” cried Tony.
Otero was busy at the door with a man in a top hat who had just come in. The man couldn’t believe his eyes and kept muttering:
“Good Lord! Good Lord!”
Otero backed him against the wall.
In the club proper, beyond the big arched doorways, the band was playing loudly, horns were tooting, people were shouting.
“All right,” said Rico, “get out your gat, Tony. I’ll tap the box inside.”
“God,” said Tony, “it’ll take too long.”
Rico looked at him. Tony, holding the sacks in one arm, pulled out his gun. Rico walked over to the manager.
“Listen,” he said, “I want action. Go in and open that box and slip me the jack. One funny move and I’ll blow your guts out.”
“Oh, my God!” cried the Czech.
They disappeared. There was a dead silence in the lobby. One of the check girls began to cry.
“Nice little holdup,” said Joe.
Nobody said anything.
“Yeah,” said Joe nonchalant, “fine little holdup.”
He smiled at the waiter, who looked hastily away and turned agonized eyes on Tony as if to say: “Look, I can’t help what that bird’s saying.”
Two more men came in the street door and were backed up against the wall by Otero. The seconds seemed like hours to Tony, who was slowly losing his nerve.
The manager reappeared, followed by Rico, who had his gun pressed against the manager’s back. Rico’s pockets bulged.
“Good Lord,” hissed Tony, “let’s go.”
Three men and two women came out into the lobby from the club proper. They stopped, petrified.
The strain was beginning to tell on Rico, whose face was ghastly. “Stick up your hands, you,” he cried, “and don’t move.”
Two of the men and both of the women put up their hands, but the third man, burly and red-faced, hesitated.
“Good God,” said Joe, “it’s Courtney, the bull.”
Joe’s mask of nonchalance slipped from him instantly; he dropped his hands and reached for his gun.
“Beat it,” cried Rico to Tony and Otero.
They made a break for the door. One of the women with Courtney fainted and fell hard, hitting her head.
“Don’t touch her,” cried Rico, “my finger’s itching.”
Joe followed the others, backing out with his gun in his hand. Courtney’s face was purple. He glanced at his wife, lying pale and unconscious on the floor, then, shouting “you dirty bums” reached for his gun. Rico fired. Courtney took two steps towards Rico, staring. Then he fell heavily, his arms spread.
At the door Rico collided with a drunken man, who was just entering. The man tried to hug him, but he knocked him down with a blow of his fist.
Rico jumped on the running-board and bellowed:
“Open her up, Tony. This ain’t no picnic.”
Tony was unnerved and tears were dripping down onto his hands. Joe and Otero sat silent in the back seat. Otero rolled a cigarette between his palms. Nobody said anything.
Tony took a corner, careening. The wind had died down a little and it had begun to snow again, a thin, cold, powdery snow. The whistles were still blowing, but fainter now, one leaving off, then another.
“Well,” said Rico, “I plugged him.”
“Yeah,” said Joe, “I seen him fall. Like a ton of bricks.”
“Well,” said Otero, “what can you do? The fool, pulling a gat!”
Tony said nothing, but sat with his eyes fixed.
“It’s our hips for this,” said Joe.
Otero shrugged and lit a cigarette.
“Losing your guts, Joe?” asked Rico.
“Me!” said Joe.
Tony turned into the alleyway back of The Palermo. Rico put the sacks under his coat and jumped out. Otero and Joe followed him.
“Tony,” said Rico, “ditch that can, then come back for your split. Hear what I say. Ditch it good and proper. We’ll wait.”
“Look,” said Joe, “I got to have my split now. I’m on at one-twenty. Boy, I can’t miss that turn.”
“OK,” said Rico.
Tony drove off down the alley. Rico knocked at the door and Carillo let them in.
II
When they came in Vettori was standing in the middle of the room mopping his forehead with his big white silk handkerchief. Beads of sweat stood out all over his swarthy, fat face.
Rico threw the sacks on the table and began to empty his pockets.
“There’s the dough,” said Rico, “looks like a good haul.”
Joe sat down at the table under the green-shaded lamp without taking off his hat or coat. Otero took the riot gun from under his coat and locked it up in a cupboard. Vettori knew there was something the matter. His eyes narrowed.
“Well,” he said again.
“Everything was OK,” said Rico, “only I had to plug a guy.”
Vettori fell down into a chair and stared out the window.
“Yeah,” said Joe, trying to smile, “and the guy was Courtney.”
Vettori put his head on the back of his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then he sat up suddenly and banged on the table with both fists.
“Goddamn!” he cried, “what did I tell you, Rico! What did I tell you! Love of God, didn’t I tell you no gunwork?”
Rico was white with rage.
“Listen, Sam, you think I’m gonna let a guy pull a gat on me. What the hell! Any more of them cracks and this is my last job.” Vettori made an elaborate, tragic gesture.
“Yeah, you bet this is your last job.”
Joe took of his derby and put it beside him on the table. His face was dead white.
“You said it,” said Joe. “They’ll get us sure for this.”
Vettori shook his big head slowly from side to side.
“They’ll get us dead sure for this.”
Rico began to comb his hair.
“Maybe
