Scarface/Chapter 21

A year passed rather uneventfully. Tony's power, undisputed save for sporadic, disorganized, short-lived outbreaks here and there, grew until it almost became burdensome. And his income had gone far beyond his wildest dreams. Always being written up and talked about but almost never seen, he had become a legendary figure, symbolical of underworld success.

Two items in the papers concerning his own family had interested him. His father had died and his brother had been promoted to a detective lieutenancy. Tony's answer to the first had been to arrange for one of his trusted attorneys to inform his mother of the death of some mysterious relative in the West and thereafter pay her $1,000 a month, supposedly from the deceased's estate. His answer to the second had been a long, loud, ironical laugh. He had heard through various reliable sources that his brother was not averse to graft and was quite a devil with the women, despite his wife and child. Tony grinned when he thought ​what a stir there would be if it were discovered that the brother of Detective Lieutenant Ben Gua­rino was the famous gang leader, Scarface Tony Camonte.

He and Jane were still together, constantly quarreling a bit more, but still together. They moved often, as often as the owners of the luxuri­ous apartment houses to which they confined their residence discovered their real identities. But they enjoyed the best of everything and waved wads of money in the envious faces of the stiff-backed “genteels” who snubbed them. Tony had no fault to find with the world so far. Success wasn't diffi­cult, if you weren't squeamish about how you achieved it. He surmised wisely that many another millionaire had discovered that fact early in his career.

But inactivity palled on Tony. He stretched and began looking around for new worlds to conquer. People said the East—New York—was the most lucrative liquor and racket section in the country. There were a lot of hoodlums in it, of course, but they weren't used to the ruthless Mid­dle West methods. Machine guns and bombs would give the more effete Easterners the surprise of their lives.

​At about that same time rumors that the Easterners were looking westward with avaricious eyes gained circulation and credence. It was said that the notorious Frankie Wales, most ruthless of the Eastern gang leaders, was planning an active campaign for the Middle West with the Middle West's own methods and weapons. But Tony only laughed contemptuously when his lieutenants came to him with such stories. He was too powerful, too well known even in New York for any other leader to even dream of wresting his power and wealth away from him. But the suggestion of another hot battle brought back the old sparkle to his eyes. If anybody tried to cut in on him, he'd show them a thing or two. He'd not only hold his territory but he'd capture theirs, wherever it might be and whoever it might be.

Tony didn't believe the reports of the Eastern invasion until one night when he was eating dinner in the main floor dining-room of his hotel head­quarters. The sudden crash of shattering glass and the vicious stuttering of a machine-gun in the street outside startled him from his complacent reverie. He ducked under the table and drew his automatic. That nasty rat-tat-tat was still going in the street, the big plate glass window up in front ​was still splintering. And he could hear whizzing bullets whining spitefully above his head. Then the machine guns hushed and he heard a powerful car roar away. There was no doubt as to whom they were after. Had he been a second later in dodging beneath the table, his well-tailored form would have been drilled by a score of bullets; the holes in the wall back of where he had been sitting proved that.

He remembered suddenly that the North Side mob had scared Johnny Lovo into leaving town by that same trick. Well, whoever had pulled it this time, would find he wasn't afraid of anything. If they wanted a war, they could have one. And he'd be glad to see that they got a good one.

That his unknown enemies meant business was proved by their activities the rest of the night. They bombed his biggest warehouse and killed two of his henchmen who were driving the sedan which he ordinarily used. Things were picking up. Tony smiled with keen anticipation.

Walking quickly into the lobby of the hotel the next night, following a tour of inspection and prep­ration at various outposts of his activities, Tony saw two people getting into the elevator. Mike Rinaldo, his prize gunman, and a girl. But the ​glimpse he got of the girl's face before the door clanged shut and the car shot upward made his eyes widen and his breath catch. Surely it must be—

He turned to a small group of his henchmen lounging nearby.

"That girl who just went up with Mike," he said slowly, coldly. "Do any of you know who she is?"

"Why that's one of the sweetest little propositions that's turned up around here in a long time. But particular—Jeez! Mike's the only guy in the mob that's been able to make her so far. Her name is—lemmesee—I think it's Rosie Guarino."

"God!" breathed Tony hoarsely.

"What's the matter, chief?"

"N-nothing," answered Tony breathlessly. But his face had gone deathly white.

His thoughts seemed to be trying to race fran­tically up a terribly steep hill. Rosie, his little sister Rosie, the one that had always been such a model little housekeeper while their mother tended to the store. He realized suddenly that she must be twenty-two or three now. And he had been thinking of her as a beautiful kid of sixteen. But here in this disreputable hotel, gone upstairs with Mike Rinaldo, the accomplished and unscrupulous ​heart-breaker who was the best gunman in the city. . . His sister. . . . No, it mustn't be. . . . If she hadn't sense enough herself, somebody else—

He walked over to the desk, his step a trifle un­steady, his eyes glazed in contemplation of a horror more terrible than any he had seen on French battlefields.

"What number did you give Mike Rinaldo?" he asked.

"Six-twelve," answered the clerk. "But a lady went up with him, Mr. Camonte. Wouldn't it be better to call?"

"Thanks. I—I'll call him later."

He walked over and entered the elevator, which had come back down.

"Six," he said dully and swayed a little from the sudden jerk as the car started upward.

He had killed for money, for vengeance, for lust, for almost every reason except a worthy one. His sister. . . . Upstairs. . . . In his own hotel. . . . With one of his own gunmen. . . . Of course, Mike was the straightest and most ruthless shot in the city. Tony realized he might be facing death, probably was. Mike was touchy about his heart affairs. But Tony had faced death before. He'd always won before. One of these days he was ​bound to lose—luck couldn't run the same way all the time. But whichever way things went, he would always be facing it.

The door clanged open and Tony stepped out into the hall, his right hand plunged deep into his side coat pocket, his lean fingers tensed about the cold butt of the heavy automatic there.