Studs Lonigan (41 page)

“Curley hasn't got a marble in his bean,” Young Rocky said as they all roared.

“Well, Conrad's a classic,” Mose Levinsky, poolroom intellectual, said.

“What is a classic? Define it,” said Big Syd.

“A classic is a book that lives.”

“Now take a book like Robert Herrick's
The Common Lot
,” said Big Syd.

“It's a good book, but it isn't a classic,” said Mose.

“Say, you guys act like you thought you were too good for the human race,” said Red Kelly, passing them on his way from the can.

“I'm getting along,” Hoppy Shanks said, lighting a cigarette.

“The job you got sounds O.K.,” said Loeb.

“I make forty bucks a week. My room costs me six and my meals about four or five a week, because I'm cutting down on 'em. I'm salting fifteen and twenty every pay day,” said Hoppy.

“That's pretty good. I wish I had a decent job.”

“I worked hard for this one. I don't believe in loafing around like some of these guys do. When you're not working, you got time on your hands, and keep hanging around wondering what time it is, and what you'll do. Hell with that for this boy. I'm playin' the game smart.”

“Say, Shanks, can you spare two bits? I'm flat, but I'll be able to pay you back this afternoon,” Mush Joss asked.

“Haven't got it, Mush.”

Mush passed to another group.

“That bastard hasn't worked since Noah got piped on the Ark,” said Loeb.

“I wouldn't give him my dough. Him and McCarthy try and scrouge on me every time I see them.”

“Andy, are the Irish hundred-per-cent Americans?” asked Connell.

“No, because they believe in the Pope,” Le Gare answered.

“All right, punk, keep religion out of it,” ordered Red Kelly, who had come over to see why they were having such a good time razzing Andy.

“Say, if the Klan is so tough, why doesn't it come around looking for the Irish some night when it's out riding in nightshirts like kids on Halloween?” asked Darby Dan.

“They know when they're healthy,” said Red.

“I'll bet Andy's old man has a horse looking like Sparkplug in Barney Google,” commented Eddie Eastwood.

“Why don't you come around with the Klan if they're so damn tough?” Drennan said.

“If they did, you would all run home and hide behind your mother's apron string.”

“Blah!”

Andy issued a blanket challenge to fight any one his size and age who was present.

“Gawan home, and come back on a kiddy-car, wearing your sister's nightgown and we'll fight you,” sneered Drennan.

“Don't insult my sister!” Andy said, knocking Drennan down with a punch.

Drennan sat on the floor holding his jaw; Andy stood over him, defying him to get up and fight like a man. George the Greek told Andy to get out and not come back.

“Keep your old poolroom!” Andy yelled from the doorway in a sulk.

“No, Andy, take it along with you,” Hennessey answered.

“Paulie's dead!” Benny Taite yelled, rushing in excitedly, disrupting everything.

“Poor Paulie!” Studs said, next to Taite in the center of a stunned group.

“You know, years ago, I warned him to take care of himself, and not be a damn fool with the molls. But poor Paulie, every time he saw a skirt he lost his head and didn't know what he was doing,” Red Kelly oracularly said.

“You know, I can't really believe that he's gone,” said Studs.

“He was my old buddy,” Hennessey said.

“A better lad never walked Fifty-eighth Street,” Kelly said.

“Death is a funny thing, all right,” Tommy Doyle said.

“We all get called at some time,” Les said.

“Yeah, it's a funny thing. You never know who it's going to slap down next, and you never think much about it until one day, it puts your best friend out for the count,” Red philosophized.

“It's awful, a tragedy,” said Phil Rolfe.

“He had the priest, didn't he?” said Red.

“Shrimp said that a priest named Doneggan was there when he died,” Taite said.

“We'll have to take up a collection for flowers,” suggested Red.

“Jesus, he's one poor bastard who ended up behind the eight ball,” Slug said.

“He can't be dead. Why he was so young, he never lived,” said Bob Connell.

“Say, punk, how old are you?” asked Kelly.

“Sixteen,” said Hennessey.

“Punks like you should be seen and not heard,” Kelly said.

“Poor Paulie,” sighed Les.

“Say, let's give the Greek the finger on this game,” said Lyman.

“O.K.,” said Young Rocky.

Lyman aimed to shoot the fifteen ball for game in slop pool. He missed, and poked the ball in a pocket with his cue.

“Pay up!” he hollered.

“I will like hell,” said Young Rocky.

“You lost,” said Lyman.

“Gimme! Gimme!” said Mike to both of them.

“See him,” said Lyman.

“That bastard is trying to cheat me. I won,” said Young Rocky.

“Come ona, you fellahs, what's a the matter?” asked George, coming over.

“I won't pay. He shoved the game ball in with his cue.”

“Pay up, you tight heel. I made it fair and square,” said Lyman.

“You're a liar!” said Young Rocky.

“Don't call me a liar!” said Lyman.

“No! Well, it's double,” said Young Rocky.

“Come on outside,” said Lyman.

“Here! Pay, pay, pay!” said Mike.

“I'll brain you guys with a cue,” threatened George.

Lyman and Young Rocky grabbed their coats, and dashed to the door, followed by an expectant group. At the door they turned and yelled in unison.

“Finger! Finger Greek!”

They laughed and walked away, arm-in-arm.

“Quarter after one!” said Slug, standing with Mike at the window.

They heard the click of the cue balls from the back where Stan Simonsky was practicing. An elevated train rumbled. An automobile whizzed by. A heavy-footed, well-formed girl passed.

“How you like it?”

“Push-Push!” mumbled Mike.

IT WAS
Saturday night. A cardboard picketing sign, letters turned downwards, lay in a corner of the small, disorderly bedroom. Mr. Le Gare looked at it. He felt like a dead man who had returned to life.

His life was much the same as it had been last week or last year. It was a week now since his twenty-first birthday, and his life was much the same as it had been last week or a year ago.

The old man owned a new building on Michigan, near the Carter School, and the Lonigans lived on the third floor south. Studs emerged from the building and walked along, taking loose, easy strides, strides that he considered self-confident.

He had made his decision while shaving. Now, it caused him to have a sense of impending unpleasantness. It would be a wasted evening, and tomorrow he would regret having let a night slip by him. But that wasn't the right attitude to show. Sometimes, he wished that he wasn't a Catholic, and didn't have to meet the responsibilities of a Catholic. But that wasn't the right attitude either.

The Carter playgrounds surrounding the school were rimmed by an iron picket fence. Walking along, Studs had an impulse to touch each picket as he had used to do. But he walked along like a guy of twenty-one who wasn't a clown. He paused at a spot along the fence which stood almost opposite the third base of the indoor diamond in the northeast corner of the grounds.

Remembering, remembering many things, he nodded. And Paulie was dead now. He had never thought that on his twenty-first birthday, first day of manhood, that his old friend, Paulie, would die. Life was funny and unpredictable.

He looked at the rambling, tan-and-gray school building that stood in the center of the grounds facing south. The sky over it was red. It all made him lonesome. The sky red, the empty buildings, the playground he had known so well as a kid, with nobody now in it. He looked at the batter's box on the diamond. Paulie had stood there batting right-handed in a piggy game, cursing Young Coady for twirling the ball on the day he'd cleaned Red Kelly. He could almost hear Paulie's voice:

“Come on, you goddamn punk, or I'll fling the bat at you!”

And right inside the fence from where he stood was the spot where they'd had the fight. Paulie had placed the stick on his shoulder and Red had knocked it off, and they'd tangled. And the fists of Studs Lonigan had won him respect.

Suddenly, he was lonesome, lonesome to be a boy again.

He looked at his clenched fist. It was pretty big, considering his size. He was only about five six, but he was broad, and he was still tough, and able to spot a lot of guys on weight and take them.

But still he couldn't get himself to believe that Paulie was dead. He had stood right inside the playground, and Studs could almost see him, mushy-faced, a bit fat, big fanny, wearing a red-trimmed, gray baseball shirt. The first to go, and all shot to pieces with clap, and drink, and dissipation.

Poor Paulie.

Studs lit a cigarette. He wondered why the good guys like Paulie went, and the louses like Weary Reilley didn't. He shrugged his shoulders and told himself he ought to snap out of it. But when he looked at the playground, with the sky red over it, and remembered so many things, and thought that Paulie was dead, out in Calvary Cemetery, he was lonesome, lonesome to be a kid again. He walked on towards the corner, along a sidewalk he'd walked with Paulie many times. Even though he was sad about Paulie, he couldn't help being a bit proud, because he was twenty-one and strong, and yes, tomorrow in the football game, he'd show his strength. He'd done his drinking and jazzing too, and still, he was strong and tough. He was the real stuff.

He'd never realized that he was growing up and changing. There had been signs on his body, but they, too, had come gradually. Each day he had grown stronger, bigger, with more hair on him. He had changed, though, slowly day by day, gotten to hanging around the poolroom, worked with his old man, and then, well, he wasn't doing the things he'd done as a kid. Now he was a man. Well, he was! He felt a little goofy, remembering how, before coming out, he'd looked at himself in the mirror, and assured himself that he was a man. But he was. And there were many years ahead of him, drinking, jazzing, poker-games, plenty of things. And he had dough. With the birthday present from his old man, he now had four hundred bucks in his own name in the bank. He was pretty goddamn well off.