All the first-rank novels by Burnett were written before 1950. In addition to those cited above, others of note include Dark Hazard (1933), Nobody Lives Forever (1943), and two historicals: Saint Johnson (1930), the first substantive novel about Wyatt Earp and the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, and The Dark Command (1938). Such post-1950 novels as Vanity Row (1952), Round the Clock at Volari’s (1961), and Good-bye Chicago (1981), his last published fiction, are competent but undistinguished. Between 1931 and 1963, Burnett wrote numerous screenplays not only for A films such as High Sierra (1941), with John Huston, and This Gun for Hire (1941), with Albert Maltz, but also for lesser, B movies.
Burnett’s output of short stories was small, and all but one were penned early in his career. “Bound Trip,” which was first published in Harper’s in 1929, the same year Little Caesar appeared, is likewise a gangster story. Just as the novel does, this quiet little tale of Chicago enforcer George Barber (born Giovanni Pasquale Barbieri) and his eventful Toledo vacation tells it like it was in the days of Al Capone, Frank Nitti, and Rico Cesare Bandello.
B.P.
Round Trip
(1929)
It was about ten o’clock when the lookout let George in. The big play was usually between twelve and three, and now there were only a few people in the place. In one corner of the main room four men were playing bridge, and one of the center wheels was running.
“Hello, Mr. Barber,” the lookout said. “Little early tonight, ain’t you?”
“Yeah,” said George. “Boss in?”
“Yeah,” said the lookout, “and he wants to see you. He was grinning all over his face. But he didn’t say nothing to me.”
“Somebody kicked in,” said George.
“Yeah,” said the lookout, “that’s about it.”
Levin, one of the croupiers, came over to George.
“Mr. Barber,” he said, “The Spade just left. He and the Old Man had a session.”
George grinned and struck at one of his spats with his cane.
“The Spade was in, was he? Well, no wonder the Old Man was in a good humor.”
“How do you do it, Mr. Barber?” asked the croupier.
“Yeah, we been wondering,” put in the lookout.
“Well,” said George, “I just talk nice to ’em and they get ashamed of themselves and pay up.”
The croupier and the lookout laughed.
“Well,” said the croupier, “it’s a gift, that’s all.”
Somebody knocked at the entrance door, and the lookout went to see who it was. The croupier grinned at George and walked back to his chair. George knocked at Weinberg’s door, then pushed it open. As soon as he saw George, Weinberg began to grin and nod his head.
“The Spade was in,” he said.
George sat down and lighted a cigar.
“Yeah, so I hear.”
“He settled the whole business, George,” said Weinberg. “You could’ve knocked my eyes off with a ball bat.”
“Well,” said George, “I thought maybe he’d be in.”
“Did, eh? Listen, George, how did you ever pry The Spade loose from three grand?”
“It’s a business secret,” said George and laughed.
Weinberg sat tapping his desk with a pencil and staring at George. He never could dope him out. Pretty soon he said:
“George, better watch The Spade. He’s gonna try to make it tough for you.”
“He’ll try.”
“I told him he could play his I.O.U.’s again, but he said he’d never come in this place as long as you was around. So I told him goodbye.”
“Well,” said George, “he can play some then, because I’m leaving you.”
Weinberg just sat there tapping with his pencil.
“I’m fed up,” said George. “I’m going to take me a vacation. I’m sick of Chi. Same old dumps, same old mob.”
“How long you figure to be away?” asked Weinberg.
“About a month. I’m going over east. I got some friends in Toledo.”
“Well,” said Weinberg, “you’ll have a job when you get back.”
He got up, opened a little safe in the wall behind him, and took out a big, unsealed envelope.
“Here’s a present for you, George,” he said. “I’m giving you a cut on The Spade’s money besides your regular divvy. I know a right guy when I see one.”
“O.K.,” said George, putting the envelope in his pocket without looking at it.
“Matter of fact,” said Weinberg, “I never expected to see no more of The Spade’s money. He ain’t paying nobody. He’s blacklisted.”
George sat puffing at his cigar. Weinberg poured out a couple of drinks from the decanter on his desk. They drank.
“Don’t get sore now,” said Weinberg, “when I ask you this question, but listen, George, you ain’t going to Toledo to hide out, are you?”
George got red in the face.
“Say...” he said, and started to rise.
“All right! All right!” said Weinberg hurriedly, “I didn’t think so, George, I didn’t think so. I just wondered.”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” said George; “get your hat and I’ll take you down to The Spade’s restaurant for some lunch.”
Weinberg laughed but he didn’t feel like laughing.
“Never mind, George,” he said. “I just wondered.”
“All right,” said George. “But any time you get an idea in your head I’m afraid of a guy like The Spade, get it right out again, because you’re all wrong.”
“Sure,” said Weinberg.
After another drink they shook hands, and George went out into the main room. There was another table of bridge going now, and a faro game had opened up.
The lookout opened the door for George.
“I won’t be seeing you for a while,” said George.
“That so?” said the lookout. “Well, watch your step wherever you’re going.”
George got into Toledo late at night. He felt tired and bored, and he didn’t feel any better when the taxi-driver, who had taken him from the depot to the hotel, presented his bill.
“Brother,” said George, “you don’t need no gun.”
“What’s that!” exclaimed the taxi-driver, scowling.
“You heard me,” said George. “You don’t need no gun.”
“Well,” said the taxi-driver, “that’s our regular rate, Mister. Maybe you better take a street car.”
Then he climbed into his cab and drove off. George stood there staring at the cab till it turned a corner.
“Damn’ hick!” he said. “Talking to me like that!”
The doorman took his bags.
“You sure got some smart boys in this town,” said George.
The doorman merely put his head on one side and grinned.
There were three men ahead of George at the desk, and he had to wait. The clerk ignored him.
“Say,” said George, finally, “give me one of them cards. I can be filling it out.”
The clerk stared at him and then handed him a card. George screwed up his mouth and wrote very carefully:
Mr. Geo. P. Barber,
Chicago, Ill.