The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [110]
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 southwest. 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 a 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