The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [105]
“That’s not so. It was a lousy trick, and she comes from a decent family and doesn’t deserve it,” Red said.
“Red, she’s a terrible spider, and she spun a web around Paulie, my pal Paulie,” Kilarney said, extravagantly.
Weary Reilley entered, with his right hand bandaged. They asked him if he’d been knocking brick buildings over.
“I just tangled holes with some flukey-looking wiseacre down at Sixty-third and the Grove. He thought he was tough, so I sent him home with a handful of teeth and a puss full of blood. But I damn near broke my hand to hell on him and had to have three stitches put in it. Anyway, I learned something. Instead of breaking my dukes any more on some rat’s face, I’m getting me a nice pair of brass knucks.”
Studs thought of how he hadn’t had a fight since hell-and-gone. But once he’d cleaned up Reilley. Nobody else in the neighborhood had. He supposed, too, that he’d have to tangle again with him. Reilley always tried to get even. Well, Reilley wouldn’t be as hard this time, with his dukes on the fritz. They kept asking Reilley questions and praising him. Hell, had they forgot what a battler Studs Lonigan was?
“Say, who in hell is going to give me a fag?”
“Kilarney, don’t you ever smoke your own?” Red responded.
“O.P.’s satisfy me.”
“Some day other people will get wise to you,” kidded Red. “Fellow, you know what Barnum said?”
Studs handed Kenny a cigarette.
“Thanks, chump,” kidded Kilarney.
“Hey, Kilarney, think you’ll ever amount to much?” asked Taite.
“Sure! Why I even went downtown yesterday to look for a job.”
“How was the show?” asked Doyle.
“Good bill at the State and Lake.”
“I guess then we’ll all have to go looking for a job tomorrow,” Red said.
“What about you, Reilley, have you been thinkin’ of getting a job and desertin’ our cause of late?” asked Taite.
“There’s plenty of chumps workin’ already,” Reilley said.
“That’s what I’m trying to suggest to my old man. But he goes on a soap-box every morning at breakfast and threatens not to give me any more dough,” Studs said.
“My old man tried that once, and I blew. He knows better than try it again. He’s got enough dough and did enough work for the Reilleys for a long time to come. If he cracks wise about it, he knows I’ll just tell him all right fellow, and blow. I can get me a gat and pull a stickup when I need the kale,” Reilley said, causing them all to admire him.
“You know, boys, sometimes I think it would be a good idea to go on the bum,” Doyle said.
“Not me. I know where I can find my pork chops,” Studs said.
“If you did go, you might meet Davey Cohen. Hell, he’s been gone three years, ever since that time we gang-shagged that little bitch Iris, and she told him no soap because he was a hebe,” said Red.
“If somebody hasn’t croaked that kike by this time, they ought to. I don’t like kikes,” Weary said.
Studs finally tired of the gassing and sitting around, so he drifted over to the Washington Park boathouse. It was a long, low, open structure, bounded on two sides by shrubbery. He picked out a cane chair and rocked rapidly. There were few people around, some old men and women who talked too much in loud, cracking voices, Coady, the red-faced, flat-footed park cop who always eyed the lads with suspicion, and a couple of dinges. If the guys had come, they could have ganged the dinges. Niggers didn’t have any right in a white man’s park, and the sooner they were taught that they didn’t, the better off they’d be. He looked around; no chickens.
A coatless fellow rowed effortlessly by on the lagoon. If he had a dollar for deposit, he could get a boat and row around, maybe pick up a chicken by the stone bridge, and fool around with her until it was dark, and then take her over to the wooded island.
Rocking away wasn’t his idea of a picnic, so he went outside, and plumped down under a shady tree behind the bushes that stood in front of the boathouse. He fell asleep thinking about girls.