The Peddler Page 6

  chapter five

  Almost “two months after the fight, Tony was having lunch with Leo in the Domino Club. The conversation had been mostly about the houses, a few troubles, talk about Leo’s women.

  Then Leo said suddenly, “Well, Tony, looks like maybe you get a try.”

  “How you mean?”

  “Alterie’s spot. That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?”

  “You mean it? This straight?”

  Leo chewed on his lip. “I dunno for sure. But Shark says you’re to see him tomorrow. Nine in the A.M.” He shook his head. “Don’t see nothing else it can be. Alterie ain’t been the same since—that trouble. He’s no good to Shark no more. He’s on the needle good now. He’s letting everything go straight to hell, too. He’s out. Maybe you get in.”

  Tony took a deep breath and grinned tightly. “Damn,” he said. “How about that. Damn, that’s fine, man. I hope you’re right, pal.”

  Tony paused in front of the tall building on Market Street, craned his neck to look up to its top. This Angelo must be some guy. He’d heard it noised around that he owned this building in which he had his office. Angelo. Louis Angelo. The Top.

  The interview with Sharkey had been short and hadn’t told Tony much. Sharkey had simply said that they’d been keeping an eye on him. He was to see Angelo at this address. It was almost ten in the morning, the hour when Tony was to see Angelo. He went inside.

  At the tenth floor he got out of the elevator and walked down to the door lettered “National Investment Counsellors,” opened it and walked inside. There were chairs along the left wall and a girl sat behind a brown desk at his right. She was typing something, but looked up and smiled pleasantly when he came in.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m Tony Romero. I got an appointment with Mr. Angelo.”

  She looked at him appraisingly for another second, then pressed a switch on a little box at the right edge of her desk, leaned forward and spoke softly into it. Then she said to Tony, “You may go in now, Mr. Romero. Through that door.” She nodded toward a door in the wall.

  It was a plain, heavy wooden door, with no lettering on it. Tony ran his tongue over his lips, then opened the door and walked in, shut the door behind him.

  So this guy was Angelo? There was only one other person in the room. He was a small guy sitting behind a brown desk like the one out front, and as Tony came in he leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at him. Sitting down, he looked like he couldn’t be much more than five and a half feet tall, and he was a skinny egg, Tony thought. He was over forty years old, and his dark hair was graying.

  Tony walked across the carpet and stopped in front of the desk. There was something funny-looking about Angelo, he thought. The guy was thin, actually skinny, with the skin tight over his face, but he still looked flabby. That was the only way Tony could describe it to himself, as if maybe the bones inside him were flabby, like he didn’t have any muscles to hold him firmly and solidly together. That was nuts, though, the guy looked like any other little skinny guy; it was just a screwy impression. Angelo’s eyes were a strange pale brown, almost yellow.

  He said, “You’re Tony Romero?” The guy had a silky voice, soft and quiet.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sit down, Tony.”

  Tony sat down. “I’m Angelo,” the man said. He opened a desk drawer and took out a cigar, clipped off the end and stuck the cigar in his mouth. Angelo’s mouth was even too small for that Utde face, Tony thought. Just a small, puckered ring, like rubbery lips squeezing together all the time. There was hardly room for the big black cigar. Angelo didn’t look much Uke the Top, sitting there with that big cigar drooping out of his mouth.

  Tony sat without speaking while Angelo got his cigar going and puffed on it a couple times, looking at it. Tony leaned back and crossed his legs, then Angelo said abruptly, “You’re taking over Frank Alterie’s district. I know everything you’ve done the last four months; I wouldn’t be surprised if I know half the things you’ve thought. You’ll be working for me.” He looked away from his cigar for the first time and fixed the odd, yellowish eyes on Tony. “That means you never question anything I tell you, or anything Mr. Sharkey tells you for me. Understood?”

  Tony hesitated only a moment but Angelo said sharply, “Well?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s understood.”

  “Be sure it is. If it isn’t, you won’t work for me.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. What you say goes. All the way.”

  Angelo puffed a couple times on his cigar. He said, “You’re very fortunate, you know. You’re young to be starting with me—and in Alterie’s district. You were bom there, weren’t you, Tony?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “You’re a liar. Never lie to me again about anything. How old are you, Tony?”

  “I’m twenty.”

  “You might do well, if you’re a better man than Alterie. Are you?”

  “Why, yes, sir.”

  “Because you beat him up, ruined his face? Because you’re stronger than he is? Does that make you a better man than he is?”

  Tony swallowed. This Angelo made him uncomfortable. He talked like a loony. Tony wondered if the guy had all his marbles.

  Angelo went on without pausing, speaking softly, looking at the tip of the cigar in his small hand. “Frank Alterie forgot some of the things I told him. He forgot to conduct himself exactly as I wished. You won’t do that. You’ll do exactly what I wish. Right?”

  “Why … sure. Yes, sir.”

  “I tell you to jump out the window, you jump. Right?”

  Tony licked his lips. What was the bastard trying to do? The bastard was like one of them hypnotists. He got you saying yes, yes, yes, till you couldn’t stop, hardly. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Angelo puffed on his cigar. “Fine, Tony. Just don’t forget. All right, that’s all. You can go. Anything you want to askf”

  “Well … Alterie know I’m taking over?”

  “No.”

  “You want me to start tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  Tony stood up. “All right. And thanks very much, Mr, Angelo, for the chance.”

  Frank Alterie lived in the Gordon Hotel on Stockton. Tony knocked and waited as footsteps came closer, then the door was opened and Alterie stood facing him, three feet away. When he saw Tony, he frowned. That was all; he didn’t speak or move. Tony walked inside, brushing past Alterie and waited till Frank shut the door and turned around.

  The guy really looked sad, Tony thought. He was thinner and his skin had a pale, sickly tint. He looked almost ten years older than he had three months ago.

  Alterie leaned back against the door, still not speaking, his eyes hard and full of hate, fixed on Tony. He was wearing slacks and a white shirt, and Tony could see he wasn’t wearing a gun.

  Finally he spoke. “Well, what you want, Romero?”

  “You don’t need to work tonight, Alterie. Take a vacation. From now on.”

  Alterie smiled slightly, lip curling alongside the red scar. “That’s it, huh?”

  “That’s it. You’re washed up.”

  Alterie walked away from the door and slumped in a chair. Tony didn’t take his eyes off the man. Still smiling strangely Alterie asked, “Who’d be taking over, Romero? Couldn’t be you, could it?”

  “Could and is. I don’t figure you’ll give me no trouble.”

  Frank shrugged and leaned his head back against the cushion behind him. “Not likely, is it?” He laughed. “I might work up nerve enough to kill you one of these days, but otherwise I won’t give you no trouble.” He laughed again.

  Tony walked across the room and slapped the other man twice across the face. “That tongue of yours got you in a hospital sack once already. It could happen again.”

  Alterie didn’t say anything. He pressed his palms together and squeezed his fingers around them. He looked at Tony,
then looked away.

  Tony said, “You got it straight, Alterie? I just had a talk with Angelo, in case you might be wondering a little. You’re out. And take it from me, I don’t even want to see you around. Might be a good idea for you to blow Frisco.”

  Alterie didn’t answer, closed his eyes. Tony turned and went out. Well, that was that, he thought. By God, he was in now. For no good reason he didn’t feel as swell about it as he’d expected to. The hell with it, it was that dumb talk with Angelo, and the screwy way Alterie had acted. Well, to hell with Alterie—and Angeto. To hell with them all. He’d got in, got the start he’d been after. It hadn’t been too tough. Sharkey, though, was going to be tougher. You couldn’t just walk in and slap a guy like him around. Yeah, he’d have to spend a lot of time on the Shark.

  chapter six

  The next twelve months of Tony Romero’s life went by faster than any others he had known. At first he worked harder and longer than he ever had, then the work became routine and easier. He learned that there was more to the job than just going around picking up the cash every night. He was responsible for everything in his district; any squabble that had to be solved, any trouble that came up, any pressure for extra payoffs from the beat cops or an occasional vice-squad cop, were strictly Tony Romero’s responsibility.

  He was making fifteen-hundred dollars a month and he had a new wardrobe, a new convertible Buick sedan, and he was living in a $250 a month flat in an apartment hotel three blocks from Sharkey’s place. Maria Casino wasn’t working now; she was living with Tony.

  After a year Tony knew the business as well as any of the others. He knew that he’d be warned in advance of any raids—and another part of his job was to see that the houses were “respectable” when the raids came off. By now he knew all about the one-to-one-hundred chance he had of ever doing time for breaking the law, because he was now part of the world of professional crime, and the fix was in. He knew about bonds and habeas corpus, bribed and intimidated witnesses, bribed police and grafting politicians; he knew that just one bribed juryman could cause a hung jury, and that professional perjurers were cheap. He knew the .sickening story of “Justice,” particularly in some local courts, and he was already friendly with a “right” judge, who laughed with him about the 12 ignorant “peers” who generally sat in judgment in the jury box. He knew about copping pleas; probation; parole; the laughable “life” sentences even for such crimes as murder; delays and continuances and appeals and reversals; and the hundred other weapons in the hands of the professional criminal.

  He still occasionally saw Leo, too, although Leo wasn’t quite as friendly as he’d once been. And now Tony figured it was time to start working on Sharkey.

  There’d never be a better chance; Sharkey didn’t interfere with the three men under him, but at the same time he never did anything to help them. He just sat in his luxurious apartment, transmitting orders from Angelo, and drank his bonded whiskey. He was drinking too much of that whiskey, and Tony heard continuing rumbles—like those he’d heard even before he met Angelo—that Sharkey was losing favor. Anyway, Tony had waited a year, and a year was a big slice out of a man’s life. He was ready to start.

  Tony started by building up his own district, putting into operation some of the ideas he’d had in the last year and a half. Each house already had a card file on all the girls they employed, but Tony, without consulting Angelo or anyone else, had early begun developing his own file listing name, complete description, age or approximate age, and any other intimate detail he thought would later be of benefit to him.

  In a telephone conversation with Angelo he asked for and received a little more freedom in switching around the girls in his district and working on the houses. Angelo was agreeable—as long as it didn’t cost him any money. Tony assured him the reverse would probably be true—and hinted, subtly, that he’d had to go ahead on his own because Sharkey … well, Sharkey didn’t seem much interested. Tony got the O.K. At his own expense he hired a capable photographer who needed the money badly enough to give Tony a ridiculously low price, and he had photographs taken of all the prostitutes in his houses in two poses: in evening clothes or street clothes, and nude. Four-by-five glossy prints went into his own file, and others went into cheap albums containing pictures of the girls in each particular house.

  Tony started this in only three houses at first. In two of them there hadn’t been liquor. He arranged for drinks to be made available. He put in dimmer lights—blue mostly— in the parlors and rooms, bought cheap record players that played soft music. In those three houses he instructed the girls to be more “ladylike,” in his own words: “Don’t waltz up and grab the guy, see?” Two copies of the albums were displayed in the parlor. A man could come in, talk to the girls if he wanted to, or be left alone while he had a highball and pored over the album. Tony had a hunch that some of the customers damn near got their kicks simply from the pictures. A man could select from the photos any girl he wanted and get her immediately if she was unoccupied, in a few minutes if she was busy. Naturally this cost a little more.

  Business, instead of falling off, picked up. Tony figured it was much like buying a suit in this respect: a lot of guys, when confronted with identical suits, one at fifty dollars and one at a hundred, would figure the hundred-dollar suit must be better, and pay an extra fifty bucks for it even though it had exactly the same texture, fit, feel and appearance.

  Naturally the girls changed from one house to another and one district to another, and new girls were coming in all the time, but at the end of a year Tony had an active file of over a thousand girls, complete with detailed written information and photos.

  He still heard occasional rumbles about Sharkey and from Ginny he learned Sharkey himself was nervous and worried for the first time, and now Tony managed to see Swan again. There wasn’t anything unusual about that; Tony managed to see him every time the guy got into town. This afternoon they had a late lunch at The Blue Fox, in an alley across from the City Morgue.

  After their usual conversation over coffee and a highball, Tony said, “Looks kind of like Shark’s goin’ to pieces, huh?”

  Swan lit a cigarette before answering. “What makes you say that, Tony?”

  “Christ, it’s no secret. He’s a lush, anyway; you know that yourself.”

  “He likes the stuff, all right. That’s what you meant?”

  “Partly. But hell. Swan, you know he’s no goddamn good to Angelo. He sits on his fat up there in the Arlington, throws a brawl once in a while. I’ll bet he don’t know what’s goin’ on ten feet from his butt. Let me ask you something, Swan. Angelo’s about fed up with him, isn’t he?”

  Swan slowly grinned. “Tony, I see through you like you were glass. I always have.”

  Tony grinned back. “So O.K. I never tried to be no mystery man. But I’m right.”

  “Maybe, but what if you are?”

  “Sharkey can’t last forever. I’m the best man Angelo’s got.”

  “Kid, you been in this racket a little over a year. There’s guys been with Angelo five, ten years. Look at Castiglio, for instance. He’s had the same job xmder Sharkey for five years now.”

  “Yeah, and he’s just the type to stay right where he is another fifty. He’s got no ambition. No initiative. Christ, no brainl The last three months I’ve jumped the gross in my district ten percent.”

  Swan showed interest, then he frowned. “That’s funny. Angelo didn’t mention—” he stopped. Then he said, “How’d you manage that, kid?”

  Tony told him briefly about what he’d done. Swan pursed his lips and nodded. “Good enough, Tony. You didn’t do it for love of the girls, now, did you?”

  “You know why I did it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You can help me, Swan. You’re closer to Angelo than anybody else.”

  Swan thought for a few seconds, then he said slowly, “I did help you once, Tony. I helped you get started. But you’ve only been working for Angelo a ye
ar or so. Hell, kid, you’re still only—^what is it, twenty-two?”

  “Couple months I’ll be twenty-two.”

  “Remember what I told you last time? About going too fast?”

  “Remember what I told you then, Swan?”

  “I’m still right, kid. And something else: you don’t deserve anything more yet. You—”

  Tony broke in almost angrily, “Don’t give me that. Do you deserve to be a State Senator?”

  Swan flushed and Tony went on rapidly, “I don’t mean nothing personal. Swan; you know that. But don’t give me this noise about I don’t deserve nothin’ because I only been working a year or so. You know I got more on the ball than these other slobs. You might as well try to tell me the guy that’s been in the Army longest oughta be Chief of Staff, or the guy’s been in politics longest oughta be President, or the guy’s been goin’ to church longest oughta be Pope. Hell, I seen guys could make doughnuts all their life and never learn where the holes go. What the hell does how long you been doin’ a thing got to do with how good you do it? Don’t give me no ‘seniority’ bull, neither—”

  Swan interrupted, waving his hand. “Whoa, kid. Don’t go through the roof. I’ll be damned, a speech. I don’t often get to see you so wound up.” Then his face sobered. “I’ll tell you something, kid. Tell you why I don’t think you’re right for Sharkey’s job yet—and that’s what we’re talking about.” He frowned. “Tony, you’re a hell of a likable kid; I’ve always liked seeing you around, talking to you. If I didn’t, I’d kick your teeth in. Because the truth is, you’re a bastard. You’re a self-centered, individualistic, smart, cocky bastard. I think you’d blow up the world if you thought it’d do you some good. You’d pimp for your wife—if you had one, which I doubt you ever will—or your mother, if there was enough money in it. Look, kid. Shark and Angelo have a lot of power, whether you realize it or not; neither of them abuse it. I’m afraid you would once you got a real taste, a real feel of it.”