Studs Lonigan (36 page)

“My son . . . my son!” his mother muttered, trying to block his path at the front door.

“I'm going!”

“William, your father just lost his temper. Go in and tell him you're sorry and. . . .”

“I can take care of myself!” he said, viciously slamming the door.

“You don't know what you're doing to dad. Come back,” Fran begged, pursuing him in the hallway.

“Take your lousy hands off me!”

His parents called him from the window. He didn't look at them. At the corner, he turned, and saw his old man coming out of the building. He ran, ditching the old man by running through alleys and gangways.

With dew-soaked feet, Lonewolf Lonigan tramped across the ball field of Washington Park. He suddenly wheeled around, thinking that he had heard approaching footsteps. He looked in back of him; darkness. He gazed all around at the surrounding blackness, the extended shadows of bushes on the edge of the park suddenly losing themselves in an awfulness of night. To his right, and several blocks away, was the illumination of the park refectory. The lights of a passing automobile showed like fleeting electric pinpoints and vanished.

To get rid of the thoughts he was having about himself and the darkness, he whipped out his gat, and pulled the trigger, the hammer clicking.

How could he get bullets? Where did burglars go for their ammunition? He could see himself walking into a joint, looking tough, saying in a hard-boiled way:

Three rounds of cartridges for a forty-four!

Well, soon he would have a forty-four, instead of a twenty-two!

From Cottage Grove Avenue, he heard the muffled echoes of a street car. The air was cut with the inhuman shriek of ungreased automobile brakes that had been suddenly applied. The sounds faded deeply into all the surrounding silence. He heard many crickets.

Lonewolf Lonigan stopped, stricken with indecision. He could see himself captured, shot. . . killed.

If he hadn't gone off the handle! He could have gone to work for the old man and it mightn't have been half bad. Right after graduation, he'd wanted to. And the old man had been right in what he'd said. He had been wasting his time. But it was the way he'd said it, the bossy way, disregarding all of Studs' feeling, treating him the same way as if he was only thirteen or fourteen, that caused it all. If he was working though, the old man couldn't pull a stunt like that, because he'd be independent.

He couldn't remember ever having felt like he did now, with only his feeling of being alone, as if all the loneliness of the night and the sky were inside of him, crushing out everything else. It was a snaky feeling like maybe some one would have, or Robinson Crusoe might have had, being alone on a desert island. He had burned all his bridges, and gone from everything, and he was a man alone forced to fight by himself, an enemy of society, a burglar and robber—well he would be one after he pulled off his first stickup. And he would. He'd pull it off, and make his getaway. His old man might have called the police by now, after going around Fifty-eighth and not finding him there. He guessed he'd been wise not going around. But it had been slow as hell, with nothing to do all night. He'd been so nervous and excited that he didn't even know what picture he'd seen in the movie. It was tough too, that he wouldn't be able to go around Fifty-eighth with his gat, and show 'em what he did and could do. But it would be dangerous. He'd have to blow town tonight, because his old man might even have his picture in the paper, and dicks might even be looking for him at the railroad stations. He might never come back either, and they'd be searching for him all over the country. Or he might come back sometime, and rob his father and leave a note signed:

THE LONEWOLF!

Fun, thinking of all the things like this that might happen. But it was getting late, and he'd have to get busy. He clenched his fist, emphasizing firmness to himself. He stopped and drew out his handkerchief, and wrapped it around his face. He bent down on one knee, waited with drawn gun. He jumped up with a levelled gat, threatening the darkness.

“Stick 'em up fast. . . . Come on! Hand over your jack quick or I'll drill yah!” he said in a cool, collected voice.

He snatched, as if taking money, and ran, turning repeatedly to pull the trigger. He dropped behind a water fountain, and shot. Suddenly, he dropped his gun, and clutched his left shoulder. He pressed his upper lip over his lower lip, and grunted, fighting off an apparent effort to moan. He picked his revolver up and swung the butt of it down, like he was cracking a copper's skull. He ran, with simulated staggers, turning again and again to shoot.

Suddenly, he remembered that Martin had often played like this in the back yard. But he wasn't playing. He was just rehearsing things, so he would have all his plans down pat, and know what to do in every emergency.

He jerked off his handkerchief, and lit a cigarette. He was calm now, and he ought to pull the job off right away. He walked on across the park. He'd do it, and not get caught. If he did? Even so, he might be let off because it was a first offense, and then, the old man would see he meant business, and if he did go back home, the old man would change his tune. But he wouldn't be caught. He wouldn't ever see his old man either, and he'd let him do the worrying. Studs Lonigan was the wrong guy to monkey around with.

He paused by the bushes on the eastern edge of the park, and looked back across the park to the south west. Out there, in back of the darkness and shadows were all the things he was leaving, his home and family and friends and Lucy. It was his last goodbye to everybody, everything, even maybe to all the fellows, the best pals in the world. Goodbye!

He put his hands before his face to ward off branches, and dived through the bushes. He came out of the park at Cottage Grove, and started to scuttle across the street. He saw a cop down a little on the east side of the street walking towards him. He had to cross the street calm, not arousing any suspicion. He felt as if the cop could see he was a criminal. He walked across, going slower than he had intended so as not to make the cop suspicious, fearing he'd hear the cop call him to halt, touching his hip pocket to be sure his gat didn't stick out, then touching all his pockets so it wouldn't look fluky to the cop. His shoulders slumped unconsciously after he got across and down Fifty-third out of the cop's sight. A close one, that!

He walked towards a fellow at Ellis, and wondered if he ought to stick him up. He passed him at a swift pace. Too bad he hadn't taken a pal along. It would be easier. But no, he was going to be Lonewolf Lonigan, taking his own chances, pitching his own game in his own way.

He turned towards Fifty-fourth Street, and, spying another cop, went on to Fifty-fifth. Tough luck! He had to go over a block, and on a street with car lines where there'd be more people to see him. He turned south again, and spotting a fellow and girl coming north, pulled his cap peak lower and went by them with his head down, hoping he made them afraid of him. He stopped and, rubbing his hands in dirt, smeared his face a little; made him look more desperate. And goddamn it, he was going through with this stick-up tonight.

He found a place in back of a telephone post at Fifty-sixth Street in the alley between Kenwood and Kimbark. He stood hunched, trying to figure all his plans out clear. He'd step up to a guy with the gun drawn, talk fast, get the dough, blow. Nope, the guy might yell and set up an alarm. Have to tap the guy on the bean with the gun butt, just enough to knock him cuckoo, but not kill him. If the guy was too much trouble, all right, kill him. Before they sealed a coffin lid over him, he'd knock plenty of guys out of his way like that.

The wanting for home blotted his plans aside. But no, he had to be brave. Could postpone it until tomorrow? Yellow? He took his handkerchief out quickly and tied it around his face, leaving only his eyes revealed. He crouched. His heart pounded. His hand, touching the gun in his pocket, quaked. But when the time came, he'd be just as cool as ... a cucumber.

He heard the sound of an automobile. Far away, there were the dying echoes of a girl's voice. A black cat ran before him. Still he would take his chances. He'd overcome bad luck too. A fellow was coming along ... the steps got nearer. In a few seconds ...

“Stick 'em up!” Studs said in a husky, strained voice, as a big fellow stepped into view.

The man stopped short, and his hands went over his head. Studs leaped before him, the gun pointed by a trembling hand. The realization that it was just like a movie holdup flew through his brain.

“Don't . . . m-move . . . or I'll . . . drrrr . . . drill you.”

The victim smiled with self-possession.

“Son, you better put that toy away!”

The gun fell. He turned and ran lickety-split down the alley, hearing diminishingly, the echo of hearty laughter.

At two o'clock in the morning, Studs Lonigan walked breathlessly along Fifty-eighth Street. A large man with shoulders bent, and something of a pot-belly, approached him.

“Bill?”

Studs stopped.

“Come on home, Bill,” the man said with kindness.

Studs walked beside him.

“Bill, you don't ever want to be doing a thing like this again. Your mother's heartbroken!”

Studs was glad to be going home.

DAVEY COHEN
risked his last two bucks in a crap game around the Toledo docks. He stood, rattling the dice in his right hand, holding fifteen bucks in the left one; he had twenty dollars in his pocket.

HE COULD hear the old man in the parlor, happily telling to the old lady that this summer sure, they'd have to step out a little, and go out to Riverview Park, and have a good time like they'd been planning to for a long time. And Fran was in her room, singing a new song about west-side chauffeurs who kiss ‘em where you find 'em and leave 'em where you kiss'em.

Studs studied himself in the mirror. He tipped his first straw hat at a rakish angle. He felt his face and looked closely where he'd shaven off the down. He stood back, erect, and pulled down the sleeves of his gray suit, holding them with the last three fingers of each hand. He arranged his blue tie. Quite a guy, he thought. But maybe he ought to have a loud purple silk shirt, the kind Pat Coady and Percentage wore. He would have gotten one, only if he had, he'd have had his tail kidded off. Later on, he would, and damn tootin', he was quite a guy.

Pretty well off too at seventeen. Hell, Dan Donoghue and the others from the Indiana gang he'd graduated with from St. Patrick's were still only high school kids. He was earning his own living, making good dough, and his old man had changed his attitude towards him. He really wasn't so bad, and he'd only been saying the truth in that scrap they'd had. Great, all right, to be earning your own dough. He took his wallet out, counting the twelve single dollars from his first pay that he'd stuffed into it. And, some day, he'd be a full-fledged painter, on a scaffold, spreading on paint just as nice and easy as old Mort Morrison did now. There was a good guy; all the fellows he worked with were white, and treated him decent. And, yes, the time would come when he'd step into the old man's boots; then, though, wouldn't Fran change her tune?