CHAPTER XII
Steve Libati came in looking somewhat sullen and defiant. A gangster of a somewhat older school than Tony, of the sweater-and-checked-cap era, he had never quite accustomed himself to the smooth, suave, business-like methods of the modern, post-Prohibition gangsters. Though he now wore the best clothes and drove an expensive car, he still talked from one corner of his cruel mouth and, at times, revealed other distressing symptoms of having been a common street-corner thug.
"That North Side mob's at it again," said Tony, plunging immediately to the heart of the matter. "They hi-jacked one of our trucks of alky to-night and knocked off the driver. Kid named Charlie Martino. I took some of the boys and went out and got him a little bit ago. He's down the hall here now and Doc's workin' on him to try to keep him from croakin'. Happened between Maywood and Melrose Park. That's the first time that outfit has come that far into our territory and it's goin' to be the last."
"Think you can stop 'em?" asked Libati calmly, his head cocked on one side and his left eye closed against the smoke curling upward from his cigarette.
"I'm going to stop 'em." Tony punctuated the statement with a sharp blow on the desk with his clenched fist. "If I have to have every man in the mob bumped off. Things have been too quiet lately; from now on, they're goin' to see action that'll curl their hair. Johnny thought that Jerry Hoffman bein' bumped off would ruin that mob but they found this Schemer Bruno guy and he's turned out to be the best leader since Dean Martin, better than Jerry ever thought of bein'. From now on, the war's between that mob and this one; the others don't cut much ice.
"Now, Steve, bumpin' off small fry like Charlie is a nuisance but it don't really hurt a mob. You can always find plenty of kids who'll take a chance for the price. To ruin a mob, you gotta get the leaders, the brains of the outfit. And you can bet this Schemer guy knows that as well as we do. So it's just a matter of time till he takes a crack at me—or you. Well, I'm goin' to beat him to the draw and get him before he gets me. And I've picked you to do the job."
Steve tensed. His ugly features settled into an angry scowl.
"Why me?" he demanded.
"I gotta have somebody reliable that I can trust to handle it right."
"Why don't you do it yourself?" For a long moment Tony stared at his subordinate while fury gathered in his eyes. He strangled it with an obvious effort.
"Because I don't choose to. As head of the mob, I think my duty is to stay in the background and run things."
Libati laughed sarcastically. Tony's eyes blazed.
"I could get Bruno," he snapped furiously, "and do it within forty-eight hours. Don't think I wouldn't like to. And I will if necessary. But with my position now, I feel I shouldn't take chances like that if I don't have to. Just the same. I'll never ask a man in this mob to do anything that I can't or won't do myself. I got Jerry Hoffman and I got others. A good many times I proved I got guts enough for anything. But I never heard yet of you provin' that you had any. Now's your chance."
Libati paled at the insinuation and his cruel mouth set in a nasty snarl. For a moment it looked as though he was going to pull a gun, Tony hoped he would, for he himself was ready and that would settle his problem of what to do with Steve Libati. But the fellow had sense enough to regain his self control.
"You talk like you was the only big shot in this mob," he snarled, "What about me? Ain't I one of the leaders?"
"Yes," answered Tony quietly, "And I didn't ask you to do the job yourself. But I want you to handle it, to get the dope about where and when he can be put on a spot and then get him. You can work it your own way, have any of the boys you want to help you, but I want it done."
"And if I don't care to do it?" queried Steve impudently.
"You're through with this mob," retorted Tony coldly.
"After the orders Johnny left?"
"That don't cut any ice. There's nobody stays in this mob a minute that don't obey my orders. That goes for you as well as the truck drivers. And there's my authority!"
He whipped out his heavy, ugly automatic and slammed it down on the desk, Libati's glance riveted to the gun for a moment, then he looked up at Tony and his eyes shifted again. He rose.
"All right, I'll do it," he said, and walked out.
Tony smiled a little when the man had gone. Again he had won over the sullenly defiant Libati. He felt that he might yet master the fellow and make him a highly useful subordinate. Well, one thing certain; he'd either master him or make use of the "authority" he had exhibited to clinch his argument.
For half an hour Tony sat quietly smoking while he thought over the situation. It began to look as if this Schemer Bruno had come by his name rightfully, as if he were a worthy foe. And as an instrument with which to carry out his schemes he had as powerful a gang as was to be found in the United States. Its personnel was at least as strong as that of the Lovo mob and had proved itself to be equally resourceful and ruthless. And under the able leadership of this Schemer Bruno it seemed to have set out on the same sort of ambitious program of expansion that Tony himself now intended embarking upon with the aid of the Lovo gang.
Tony had heard, too, that the three most important gangs on the South Side were about to consolidate and, under a unified direction, attempt to extend their operations to the rest of the city. That meant three major organizations, each holding sovereignty over a certain section but struggling to gain the territory controlled by the others. It was going to be a grand fight, and a bloody one, with the big profits going to the gang that could shoot the straightest and whose leader could think the fastest. And Tony welcomed the coming battle, every wily, murderous phase of it.
He reached under the desk suddenly and, pressing a button there, summoned Al, the little, rat-faced gangster who acted as office boy and outer door-keeper.
"I want somebody to do something for me," he said. "See who's downstairs and let me know right away."
In five minutes Al was back, and recited a list of the gangsters who were loafing in the cigar store below. Tony considered a moment.
"Tell Mike Rinaldo to come up here," he ordered finally.
Mike proved to be a slender, dark young man, foppishly dressed in the latest fashion, and with a somewhat elegant manner. In evening clothes, he could have passed as a foreign nobleman at a Ritz reception. Yet he was chief of the Lovo gang's gunmen and personally was the most daring and resourceful gunman Tony had ever encountered.
"Sit down, Mike," said Tony. "I've got a little job for you."
Mike obeyed, carefully easing his pants over his knees so as not to spoil their razor-like creases. Then he lighted an imported, cork-tipped cigarette with an ornate silver and mother-of-pearl lighter, and looked up expectantly.
"Do you know any of the men in the North Side mob?" demanded Tony.
"A few—by sight," answered Rinaldo, cautiously; his eyes narrowed with suspicion at the unusual question.
"I want one of 'em. And you're to get him for me."
"I don't think I quite get you, chief."
"I want one of Schemer Bruno's men—the higher up in the gang he is, the better I'll like it—brought here to me. I don't care how you do it just so he's alive when you get him here. I want to find out some details about how that mob operates."
"But, good God, chief, none of them would talk."
"The hell they wouldn't!" snapped Tony. "Did you ever see that little room we've got down in the cellar here?"
"No," answered Rinaldo, suddenly pale. "But I've heard about it."
"Oh, he'll talk all right," said Tony with a grim smile. "All you have to do is get him here. And if you get me somebody that knows something, there'll be five ‘C’s’ in it for you."
The gunman departed, his close-set eyes sparkling at the thought of making five hundred dollars in one chunk.
It was now after one in the morning. Tony could think of no other important tasks which could be done that night and decided to go home.
Jane Conley, famous in the underworld of half a dozen cities as "The Gun Girl," was still waiting up for him in the luxurious living-room of the expensive apartment he had rented for the thirtyday period of unconventional trial marriage to which they had agreed. And he felt a quick surge of passion rush through him as his keen glance caught a suggestion of the alluring curves of her fine figure through the filmy folds of the flaming orange-and-black negligee which set off so brilliantly her vivid dark beauty.
A magazine lay open in her lap but her eyes looked red and strained, as if she might have been weeping.
"What's the matter, dear?" he asked after he had kissed her. "Unhappy already?"
She shook her head.
"I've been thinking. And I guess it kinda got me upset. You know, Tony, you ought to watch yourself more. Now that you're in Johnny Lovo's shoes, all these other mobs are going to try to bump you off. You ought to have bodyguards with you all the time."
"Yeah, I guess you're right, kid. I'll see about that to-morrow."
"And I think we ought to be better armed here."
"All right. I'll bring up a machine gun to-morrow night if you say so. Nobody knows we're here and if they did, they've got sense enough not to try to pull off anything in a place like this."
“You can't tell, Tony. All the mobs are getting too ambitious and from now it's going to be for blood.”
"What's the matter; losin' your nerve?"
Not by a damned sight!" flared Jane, her eyes snapping. "You know damn well I'm not yellow; I've proved it more than once. But I think it's foolish to take any more chances than you have to." She came to him impulsively and laid a hand on his arm. "I—I've got some things on my mind, Tony, and if anything ever happened to you, I could never forgive myself."
With the taciturnity and inarticulateness of his kind, Tony did not question her about that cryptic remark. But to himself he puzzled over it. And before long he was destined to puzzle over it a lot more.