Studs Lonigan (50 page)

Studs chased him half way across the sidewalk. Strangers watched with amusement. Levinsky stopped on the other side of the alley, which ran parallel to the station, and laughed. Studs floundered like a listing ship, and again plastered himself against the station bricks. Mr. and Mrs. Dennis P. Gorman, passing, saw Studs and clucked.

“Everybody's a bastard!” Studs mumbled to himself.

“William!”

“Thought Studs Lonigan die influenza. Plenty left in Studs Lonigan, get that, you bastards! Whoops!”

“William!”

The sharp, aggravated feminine pronunciation of his name slowly wormed itself into his drunken consciousness. He looked in the direction of the voice. He saw Fran leaning from the front of a closed car that was parked at the curb. He lip-farted.

“William! . . . Come here!”

He threw his shoulders back, and almost toppled sidewise in his effort to walk straight. He stood before her, swaying, his leering face smudged, his clothes spotted with dust.

“The idea! You're a perfect sight; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, disgracing the whole family by your drunken boorishness. And you just out of a sick bed!”

“Whatjahsay?”

“It's shocking, disgraceful!”

A slick-looking Tuxedoed young man, with a talcum-powdered shaven face, leaned sidewise from the wheel.

“Fran, we'll have time to drive him around for a spin in the park and let him get some air.”

“Huh!” Studs nastily exclaimed.

“Then, a cup of black coffee might help sober him up.”

“Who in the name of all holy hell wants to get sobered up. . . . Sobered up, huh there, Droopy Drawers? Christ is born, and I'm celebrating,” he whooped.

“William Lonigan, you'll stop that uncouth, blasphemous talk this minute and get in here!”

“Whoops!”

“Fran, he's drunk. Let me handle him!”

“What's that, Charley?”

“William, don't be so disgusting! You're not funny.”

“Sure thing, Charley!” he said with an insulting laugh; he almost fell on his face.

“William. . . .”

“I'm just about ready to haul off on a skunk that I see!”

“William!”

“You're the bastard I'm talking to!” he said, stepping forwards.

Fran slammed the car door, and it shot off. Studs stumbled after it, cursing. He fell in the street. A traffic jam was caused, while he struggled to his feet, and staggered back onto the sidewalk. Slug Mason grabbed his arm, and said, with his familiar mispronunciations:

“Studs, you crazy bastard! Here we all hears that you was in bed with the flu, and what does I do but find you trying to take a nose dive in the gutter.”

“Like tuxedoes?” asked Studs.

“What's that?”

“Sure,” Studs said, trying to light a cigarette.

Slug lit it for him.

“Say, who took your stick of candy away?” Studs asked Les Coady, as Les lay crying against the poolroom window with tears running down his bucolic face.

“Studs, I'm no good!” Les said heavily.

“You need another drink,” Slug said, pronouncing it “anoder.”

“I'm only a common ordinary wagon man for the Continental Express Company; I never got a chance. I'll never amount to nothing. I'm rotting away like I was dead, a common ordinary wagon man.”

“You better come with me tonight, and get yourself a fast and furious jazz,” Slug said.

“Slug, go down to the drug store, and buy him a lolly pop!” Studs said.

Les ran a gloved hand across his teary face, streaking it.

“And I almost went and studied to be a priest. I'm no good,” he whined.

Inside the poolroom, a crowd was gathered around the telephone booth, where Red Kelly was cursing his girl. The gang laughed boisterously. Slug took Studs and Les to the can, where they secretively had a drink. When they came out, TB McCarthy tried to scrouge a nip and two bits from them. He was so insistent that Studs handed him a quarter, but said that if he ever asked again, a certain louse named McCarthy would get his consumptive face pounded full of holes.

“Yeah, up your back, Charley,” Red yelled, slamming the receiver.

He came out, and led Vinc Curley to the rear of the poolroom, telling him, as a friend, to stand there a minute. He returned to the first pool table, where Funnyface Duffy, and Swede Elston, were shooting a game of pool. He grabbed the balls from the table, wound up like a baseball pitcher, and hurled them at Vinc's bean. They missed Vine, and crashed into the wall. Red was grabbed. Vine stood dumbfounded. Studs ran down, and pulled the dumbsock aside. Vine, blushing, misunderstanding, asked Kelly why he would do such a thing to a good friend of his; and they roared. George the Greek nearly went into a fit of apoplexy, sobbing about his business. Vinc, still perplexed, drew Studs aside, and asked him why Kelly would do a thing like that. Studs told Vinc to soak his head. He drifted off, and saw Mush Joss stemming a buck from Les; he asked Mush if he and Muggsy were making the rounds again. Slug insisted that they go to Burnham. They all went to the can and killed the gin they had. Slug again suggested that they go to Burnham. It was a good idea.

As they crowded towards the door, Vine clutched Studs' arm, and asked him if he wanted to go to confession.

“Got your car?”

Vinc nodded. Studs said sure they were all going to church. He told the guys and they shoved Vine out to his car. Some of the guys crowded into Vinc's car, and the others got into Nate Klein's taxicab.

“All right, Vinc, you bastard, drive.”

“But I got to go to confession. Are you guys going?”

“Sure, but listen, Vinc, we're goin' to have a nice little harmless party, and we're going to confession out in South Chicago.”

“But that takes gasoline.”

“Vinc, you crazy idiot, drive and shut up!” Studs said.

Nate honked for them to get going.

“But listen,” Vinc said hesitantly.

“Get going, Curley, or we'll throw you out of the car,” Tommy threatened.

Vinc was cowed, and he started up, following Nate's cab over to South Park Avenue, and then south.

“Hey, Vinc, look out or you'll get run in for blocking traffic,” Mush Joss said as the car crept along.

“I'm driving all right. They can't arrest me,” Vinc replied about a minute later.

“They don't allow parking on this street, Curley,” Studs said.

“Say, Curley, for Christ sake, move!” Benny Taite yelled.

“Benny, I wish you wouldn't talk like that in this car on Christmas Eve. It might make bad luck and cause an accident,” Vinc said.

“His old lady certainly must have dropped him hard when he was a baby,” Red said.

“Come on, Vinc, for Christ sake, we don't want to get run in for mopery,” Tommy Doyle said.

Two minutes later, he said: “Tommy, what did you mean by that last thing you said?”

“Whoops, we passed another block,” Studs shouted.

“For Christ sake, chloroform that idiot,” Doyle said.

“Step on it, Vinc,” Studs said.

“Why, Studs, I never drive over fifteen miles an hour.”

“Hey, Vinc, let me drive!”

“Why, Red, I couldn't. Didn't you know I wouldn't even let my grandmother drive this car?”

“Cheer, boys, we passed another block!” said Mush Joss.

“Hey, Vine, I'll give you a stick of candy if you'll go twenty miles an hour,” Studs said.

“I don't like sticks of candy, Studs,” Vinc laconically replied.

“Let's take the car away from him, and throw him out on his ear,” Red said.

“We hadn't better. The goddamn fool will yell so much we'd all get pinched,” said Taite.

Studs whispered that it would be too good just watching Vinc with the whores out at the Cannonball Inn.

Vinc shot the car up to twenty, and after two blocks of silence, asked if he was now going fast enough to satisfy them, because it was the fastest the car had ever been driven.

“Vinc, you're Dario Resta,” said Studs.

“Say, Curley, does your mother love you?” asked Mush.

“Why, Mush, I thought you was my friend, and I never thought you'd talk about my mother.”

“Christ, I never saw an idiot like it,” Doyle said.

“What was that you said, Tommy?” asked Vinc.

“I was talking about the bald-headed sailor.”

“I don't think I know him. Does he come around Fifty-eighth Street?”

“Hey, Vinc, please don't drive so fast. You'll make me seasick,” Studs said after they had guffawed.

“Is that so? I was afraid, Studs, that I was going a little too fast,” Vinc replied, slowing the car back to about fifteen an hour.

“Yes, Vinc, you better be careful so we don't have an accident,” said Tommy.

“That's all right, Tommy. Don't worry. I had this car a year now and I never had an accident.”

“Say, you horse's ass, drive!” Studs said.

“Why, Studs!”

“Whoops, another block,” said Taite.

“We're here,” Studs whooped, as the car drove into a dreary parking yard.

To the left, there was a low, rambling structure, lit by a small electric sign: CANNONBALL INN.

“But, fellows, what place is this?” Curley asked, still sitting at the wheel after all the others had gotten out.

“Church,” Doyle snickered.

Studs and Slug pulled Vinc by the shoulders. He yelled. Slug told him to shut up and get out of the car, if he didn't want a foot jammed through his teeth. Vine got out, and followed them, as they lurched towards the narrow doorway of the inn.

“Studs! Studs. Just a minute,” Curley yelled.

“Shut up!” Studs replied, looking back at him.

“Jesus, Studs, see what he wants,” Doyle said, when Vine continued yelling that he wanted to ask Studs something.

Studs waited. Vine put his hand to Studs' ear, and whispered:

“Studs, there ain't anything wrong in going here, is there?”

“No! Come on in, Vinc,” Studs said, in fake friendliness.

“Well, Studs, if you say there's nothing wrong or sinful about going in, all right.”

They entered a narrow saloon. Four tough-looking eggs leaned against a long bar.

“Merry Christmas, Spike!” Slug said to the beefy-faced, burly bartender.

“Same to you, Mason. I see you brought the boys along to have a good time,” he replied.

The gang lined up for a drink. Vinc asked for pop. The bartender's thick lips popped open with surprise. Slug gave him the wink, and he nodded.

“Well, here's how, boys!” Slug said, lifting his small gin glass.

“And may it never get weaker,” Studs added, downing the stuff.

“And here's to you, Vinc, you fuzzy wuzzy,” Red said.

Vinc drank. He coughed, sputtered, lowered a face of boiling redness, hiccoughed. The bartender gave them the wink as they laughed.

“Say, are you sure that was pop?” he asked, when he was again able to talk.

“Sure thing, Charley.”

“This guy's a friend of ours, Vine. He wouldn't fool you,” Benny Taite said.

“Well, it's awfully strong pop. Maybe I better have root beer.”

“Don't handle it.”

Vine asked for a glass of water. They paid up. Vinc laid a dime on the bar. The bartender sneered, and said it was a half a buck. Vine drawled that was awfully expensive for pop. He asked Studs if it was right. Studs nodded. Curley paid reluctantly.

Slug led them to a door in the rear of the saloon, and rapped three times. A slide opened, and an eye peered out. The slit closed, and the door was opened. A greasy, pimply-faced fellow with hollow cheeks wished them a Merry Christmas out of the side of his mouth, and told them to have a good time. They heard music as they crossed a dim hallway, and entered another door which led them into a gaudy cabaret with colored lights. A miscellaneous assortment of males were scattered around the tables or belly-dancing with girls in teddies and chemises. They saw the guys who had come with Nate and there was confusion and kidding while two ham-faced waiters placed two tables together. Girls quickly clustered around.

“Say, let's see the snake room first,” Slug suggested.

They ordered drinks, and Slug talked to one of the bouncers. He told the girls to wait, and they all said yes, dearie.

They followed a bouncer with cauliflower ears along an aisle of tables, out a doorway, and down a narrow, dim hallway. They heard a mingled echo of moans, curses, indistinct sounds.

“It's as soundproof as we can get it,” the bouncer said.

He opened a door. They were struck by an alcoholic stench, and drunken exclamations. The lights were shot on and they saw a bare room where drunks were crowded all over the floor.

The gang laughed at one drunk who snored in a corner, his belly rising and falling, his mouth wide open. Other drunks rolled on the floor, raved and one sat playing with his toes, his shoes beside him.

“Like a booby hatch,” Slug said, with a smile.

“Say, are they sick?” drawled Vinc.

“Don't mind that chump,” Slug said, when the bouncer looked curiously at him.

A thin guy crawled towards them on his hands and knees, bumping others, falling over one bloated fat fellow. He told them he had to crawl because he was having a terrible time with his feet; every time he tried to walk, his left foot got ahead of his right one. He braced himself along the wall, and with effort. He walked in zigzags, and then turned, and told them to judge for themselves if his right foot didn't always keep getting ahead of his left one.