The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [151]
“Well, I leave you boys here,” Mort said.
“Poor devil!” said Al, after Mort had gone his way.
“He got some tough breaks all right.”
“Yeah, he gets my sympathy.”
“He’s white too,” said Studs.
“Don’t I know it? I worked with him for five years now. You ask your old man. He knows Mort. Mort’s worked for him for years. But, Jesus, he’s a tank. He’s got a crying jag on all the time. But then, with all his trouble, you can’t blame the guy. He’s got to drink to forget... but here’s my car. So long,” said Al.
“Don’t swallow that dictionary,” Studs yelled.
IV
The street car was crowded with home-going workers, a swaying mob of begrimed Hunkies, foreigners, who jabbered in broken English and their own tongues, and smelled of garlic. Studs was relieved when he alighted at Fifty-ninth and State. On his way home, he paused at the corner of Fifty-eighth and Michigan, and decided that since he was a little early for supper, he might as well take a stroll over to the poolroom. He met Red Kelly at Fifty-eighth and Indiana.
“Tired, Studs?”
“I feel like a rag.”
“We played on after you left ‘til daylight. I cleaned up twenty bucks.”
“I would have been better off going home.”
“Say, I’ll be damned, Studs, if you ain’t getting an alderman,” Red unexpectedly said, giving Studs a friendly poke in the belly.
“Only a little,” Studs said apologetically.
“Better look out, Studs, or you’ll be getting like Barney Keefe.”
“I’ll get it off before that happens,” Studs confidently replied.
He felt his belly; just a little hit fat, not any more than Kelly himself had. He was just afraid of getting fat himself. Studs knew he’d be able to watch himself and exercise the fat off before it got serious.
A noisy, excited crowd was talking in front of the poolroom. Studs saw a squad car parked at the curb, and a cop standing importantly by the doorway. He started to move out of the crowd and see what was up, but noticed Joe Thomas, dressed in his bricklayer’s clothes, step before the cop and ask what was the matter. The cop grabbed Joe, and called inside. People edged forwards, and the cop told them to get back, while Joe crabbed that he hadn’t done anything. A tough-mugged dick appeared from inside the poolroom and talked with the cop. He grabbed Joe by the arm and dragged him inside, heedless of Joe’s protests. Studs guessed it must be serious, and edged back in the crowd. He kept asking what had happened, and nobody knew, people saying it was a raid, a murder, a fight, a stabbing, a shooting, a chase after a robber. If it was serious and he tried to get in, he might be held for questioning, and he might, by accident, find himself giving one of his pals away. But none of them ever violated the law, except by drinking or going to can houses. He wondered.
With an air of mystery and authority, six lantern-jawed detectives emerged from the poolroom, putting their guns away in holsters beneath their coats. Talking, they clambered into the car, and shot off. The cop walked on. Studs rushed with others of the curious crowd into the poolroom. Everybody talked at once, and amidst all the gabbing, he finally pieced together the fact that nothing had happened. The dicks had just suddenly showed up with drawn guns, and lined everybody against the walls, and asked them useless questions. Then they had left. Most of the guys took it as a joke. George the Greek crabbed, because he said his business was getting a bad name. He declared, with many reiterations, that from now on, no more drinking, and rough-housing would go in his poolroom.
When the place quieted down, Studs shot a couple of rounds of poker dice with George. He won six bits’ worth of chips,