Carmella Commands
“Not by a damn sight! No spika nix but American for mine. But listen, old man. Listen to me now. Barrington. Get that? Mucha builda house. Get that? Mucha digga cellar. Get that? Helluva hustle! You don’t get that, but you ought to. Listen! Money! Get that? Lotta money for lotta hustle. You spika Barrington, you digga cellar, you getta money, mucha de mon. Get that?”
Tommaso nodded doubtfully. Still, in a way, he got the idea. Dixon was beginning to ask more about Carmella when Mr. Barrington puffed heavily toward the machine.
“To Greendale, quick!” he commanded, as Dixon opened the rear door of the sedan.
“Here’s Mr. Coletta wants to speak to you, sir,” said the chauffeur. “He’s the man you bought those Greendale lots from at a hold-up, through his kid. He’s a contractor, sir. He can hustle. Great reputation in Little It.”
“No time for nonsense,” said Mr. Barrington, jumping into the car and settling into the corner. His hand was shaking as he drew a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “Strike down the line. Damn wops raising hell. Get me to Greendale quick!”
“Yes, sir! Break the record, sir! But if you’ve got a strike, Mr. Barrington, this man here might be good. He’s non-union, and he works with his men. He was on his way to see you when I flagged him. He’ll turn you out cellars clean and quick. He’s sure-fire!”
[143]
