# Scarface/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII
It was after midnight. He saw no one on his way out. He had seen no one on his way in. He felt sure he was safe from identifying witnesses.
Two blocks away he hailed a taxi and gave the driver the name of one of the best hotels in town. The police, even if they were looking for Tony Guarino, would never think of looking for him at a hotel like that.
There were many uniforms on the streets and even in the lobby of the rather expensive hotel to which he went. It was not a conspicuous costume. He registered as J. H. Stevens, Denver, Colo., and was shown to a handsome room with private bath.
He removed his tunic and stretched out in an easy chair to smoke and think. He had killed Vyvyan and her new lover. There was no doubt of that; three or four shots from a Luger aimed with his skill would finish anybody. And he did not regret his act. Vyvyan never had loved him; he could see it now. In fact, he felt a sense of relief that her mouth was shut forever. She could have ​turned him up for that Spingola killing any time she liked, and she was just the type to do it if something made her jealous or mad. Yes, he could breathe easier now that she was gone.
So he had been reported killed, eh? He won­dered if Vyvyan had been lying about that, if she had only used it as a subterfuge to try to justify her conduct. He must know; for the answer to that question would have a large part in shaping his future course of action.
He reached for the telephone at his elbow and called Klondike O'Hara's saloon.
"Lemme talk to Klondike," he said in a hoarse, disguised voice.
"Klondike was bumped off about six months ago," answered a strange voice.
"That's too bad. I been away for some time and I hadn't heard about it. What I wanted was to find out where I could reach a Wop kid that used to work for Klondike—Tony Guarino, his name was."
"Him? Aw, he got patriotic and joined the army right after war was declared. And he was killed in France just a week or so before the Armistice."
"How do you know he was?"
​"It was in the papers—in a list of killed and wounded. Say, who are you, anyway?"
But Tony had hung up. And in his eyes flamed a great elation. So it was true. Everybody here at home thought he was dead. No longer would the police or the Spingola mob be looking for Tony Guarino. That his appearance was changed even more than he realized was proven by the fact that even Vyvyan had not recognized him at first. His old identity was dead; he would let it stay dead and go on his way as a new man. That course would cause his family no suffering; they already had done, of course, the same grieving as if he really had been killed. He laughed aloud. What a break!
He arose late, after a good sleep, and went down to a large store adjoining the hotel, where he pur­chased a complete outfit of civilian clothes. Leav­ing instructions to have the packages delivered to his hotel room immediately, he returned to the hotel lobby, purchased the morning papers and ascended to his room.
He found the killing of Vyvyan and her lover featured prominently in all the papers. And it was played up as a deep mystery. He discovered from the articles that the man in the case was "Frog" ​Merlin, owner of a North Side gambling house and reputed bootlegger. The death weapon had not been found and there were no known clews to the perpetrator of the crime. Detective Sergeant Ben Guarino was in charge of the case.
Tony read that last line three times then laughed uproariously. So Ben was a detective sergeant now. Well! Well! Wouldn't it be funny if they met some time? Then Tony's face hardened. Perhaps it wouldn't be so funny.
When the packages arrived, Tony donned his new outfit, then descended to the street. After a hearty breakfast he went out to the old neighbor­hood. It was an almost irresistible temptation to rush to the little grocery store and see the family but he steeled himself and turned in the opposite direction. He saw many people that he knew but he gave no sign of recognition, and none of them even gave him a second glance.
He spent the day in various illicit bar-rooms, lis­tening to everything he could hear, asking as many and as detailed questions as he dared. He found the situation about as he had expected. The booze traffic was making the gangsters wealthy, and already the competition over the enormous profits ​was beginning to become acrimonious. Killings were liable to commence any time.
One man had held complete control of the situa­tion for some little time after Prohibition came in. Then he was killed by being thrown from his horse on the Lincoln Park bridle path—what a horribly prosaic death for a gangster, for a man who had lived violently and who had every right to expect to die the same way. All of his lieutenants had tried to succeed him but none had been strong enough to gain the support of a majority of the gang. So they had split, each taking those loyal to him, and now there were half a dozen main gangs spread over the city, each holding sover­eignty over a certain section and daring the others to trespass.
Tony could see that the big profits ultimately would go to the man with a well-oiled organiza­tion which was run as any other business enter­prise. For he knew that the average gangster—even the leaders—had no more executive ability than the revolver with which he ruled. The only thing he knew was the old law of the survival of the fittest—might made right and the devil took the hindmost. But when you fought him with brains as well as strength, you had him licked.
​Tony's inquiries showed him that the best ex­ecutive of the lot was Johnny Lovo, who had his headquarters in Cicero, a rather large but some­what frowsy suburb which joined the city on the west. Though the stranger could not discern where the city left off and the suburb began, Cicero was a separate entity with its own government and the city police had no right to meddle there. It im­pressed Tony as an ideal place from which to oper­ate and that night he went out to see Johnny Lovo.
Those were the days before the present great secrecy as to gang leaders' movements and where­abouts was necessary and Tony had no difficulty in locating his man at his headquarters on an upper floor of a hotel whose appearance was far better than its reputation.
Lovo was a short, squat, dark man of perhaps thirty-five, with fine clothes, a large diamond ring and stickpin, and a ready smile on his not unhand­some face, who constantly chewed a long black cigar. He had been prominent in Cicero for some years as an operator of vice and gambling dens. Prohibition had merely placed in his hands another weapon with which to continue his pursuit of enor­mous wealth.
Tony liked him instantly. Here was a man who ​not only could act and give orders but who could plan.
"I just got out of the army two days ago," ex­plained Tony without preliminaries. "And I want to get in this racket. I'd like to join up with you."
"Yes?" Who are you?" asked Lovo with the nat­ural suspicion of his kind.
"Tony—Camonte." His former identity was dead; he intended to let it remain so.
"Ever been with any mob before?" Lovo's keen eyes were examining him thoroughly.
"Yes, sir. I was Klondike O'Hara's main lieutenant before the war. But of course I don't want that known now; I want to forget it."
"Don't blame you. That was small time stuff."
"Not so small," defended Tony quickly. "My end used to run around three hundred a week."
"Really?" Lovo was viewing him with height­ened interest. "You must have been clever."
"I was," admitted Tony frankly, then added proudly: "And I never pulled any rough stuff either, no second-story jobs or stick-ups or any­thing like that."
"I understand," smiled Lovo. Already his quick mind had seen the picture of Tony's former activi­ties. "And I think you may be very valuable to ​me in time. But you'll have to start at the bottom, of course, and I'll have to test you awhile first. I'll give you a job driving a truck at a hundred dollars a week."
Tony's heart sank. Driving a truck—he who had never been a roustabout but always a white collar gangster, who had never done any but the smoother and more gentlemanly types of gangster activity, and who had been somewhat of a figure in that small-time pre-war gangland. But then these were different times and this was a much bigger game that he wanted to sit in.
"All right, sir," he assented. "But I don't want to do that any longer than I have to; there's plenty of common hoods that can be hired for jobs like that."
"You can shoot?" queried Lovo softly.
"Yes; I have."
"In the army, you mean?"
"Yes. And before I went into it."
"Interesting. No, I don't think you'll be driv­ing a truck very long. . . . Got a gat now?"
"No, sir."
"We'll furnish you one. . . . You broke?"
"No, sir. I got about six grand of my own."
"Good. But don't let anybody else know it. ​Rent a safety deposit box to-morrow at that bank across the street and put it away. Never carry a lot of money around with you; it isn't healthy. Be here at noon to-morrow."
And Tony became a real modern gangster, a member of a big, powerful, wealthy organization that collected more than a third of all the profits that came from liquor, gambling and vice in Amer­ica's second largest city and a considerable terri­tory around it.
Tony spent most of his time driving alcohol from the innumerable stills that were being operated for Lovo in all the western suburbs to the big plant in Cicero where the whisky was manufactured. He was never molested by officers; they were all being paid by Lovo. His only concern was hi-jackers, who were beginning to become active. But he al­ways carried two guns—a six-shooter and an auto­matic—in the truck and his lips tightened when he thought of hi-jackers.
At last an idea came to Tony. Why not have all the trucks equipped with enclosed cabs of steel and bullet-proof glass so that an attacked driver could defend himself and his employer's goods with impunity? He went to Lovo and presented his idea.
​"Great!" approved the gang leader. "I'll have it carried out at once. Here's a little bonus." From a thick roll he peeled off a hundred dollar bill and tossed it across the desk. "I think you've driven a truck long enough, Tony. Be here at nine to-night; I've got a little job I want you to handle for me."
Tony returned to Lovo's office promptly at the appointed hour, feeling considerably elated. He had been promoted; he was going to get somewhere in this racket yet.
"The North Side gang's been cutting into my territory," explained Lovo, and his dark eyes glit­tered with a hard, vindictive light that Tony had never seen in them before. "I don't want to open up a big battle with them if I can help it. But I do want to throw a good scare into the saloonkeep­ers and hold them in line so they won't buy from anybody else. Now, here's what you're to do."
Tony listened carefully to his instructions, then hurried out with both his hip pockets very heavy. Fifteen minutes later he walked slowly into a large corner saloon in a rather ratty district. Lounging against the bar, he ordered a drink and paid for it. Then he walked nonchalantly down the room until he finally stood at the end of the bar, a position ​from which his eyes and guns would command the situation without possibility of upset.
In addition to himself and the owner, who was acting as his own bartender, there were perhaps forty men in the place, the loud, rough, mixed crowd that one would expect to find in a frowsy saloon in a cheap neighborhood. Deliberately Tony lit a cigarette, then with an incredibly quick movement he pulled his two guns. One he pointed down the bar, while the muzzle of the other roved about.
"Step right up, boys, and have a drink," he com­manded quietly. "It's all on me."
They stared at him in amazement. But the guns looked ominous and, though obviously puzzled by the whole proceeding, the men flocked to the bar. The surprised owner nervously began serving, his glance often wandering to that revolver pointing fixedly at him.
After that first drink, Tony quietly commanded them to have another, and another and another. Whisky, gin, wine, beer—it was all swilled down until not another drink was left in the house. Then, with one of the guns, Tony motioned the owner to him.
"Don't buy any more stuff from that North Side ​outfit," he commanded in a low tone. "Stick with Lovo, where you started. If you don't, the next time I drop in one of these pets of mine is liable to go off. Good-night!"
He backed out of the door, ran half a block, and dodged through an alley to the next street, where he hailed a taxi.