The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [153]
“I only need to make two more to break my high-run record,” Studs said to Tommy Doyle, as he chalked his cue.
“You’re hot tonight, there, Hoppe,” Stan Simonsky said.
“Looks like he’s got my number,” Joe said, undismayed.
Studs bent over, and pushed the cue through the crooked index finger of his left hand, aiming at the end ball that was frozen against the back rail. The ball seemed suddenly unclear to him. He was nervous. He felt like a mechanical man without control over the cue. He wanted to break that record.
“Well, anyway, louse, I don’t snatch pocketbooks,” Rolfe shrieked.
The punk’s voice drummed in Studs’ ear. He stood up, and rechalked his cue. He took a puff from the cigarette which he had placed on the wooden edge of the table, trying to steady himself. He bent over, and again took aim.
“Any goddamn time you catch me snipping purses...”
The damn... Studs miscued. His shoulders dropped in a droop of relaxation, relieved from the strain, even though he was disappointed. Those two snotty drug-store cowboys had taken his mind off his game.
“Hey!” Studs yelled at them, sore.
“G’wan, rat, frisk some more nickels off working girls,” Rolfe yelled.
“Say, Rolfe, you goddamn Jew, if you don’t close that trap of yours, I will,” Studs barked, throwing everyone into a waiting silence.
“Jesus, Studs! I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Phillip apologized, blushing; Hennessey quietly smirked at him.
“One more bat out of you while I’m shooting, and it’ll be curtains for you, punk!”
Studs couldn’t regain his form. Joe walked away with the game, and won a second game with ease. Studs handed him a buck, and paid for the time with some of his chips. Joe said it was tough, going so good, and then suddenly losing your form. Next time, he might have better luck. Studs smiled weakly, but a sudden hatred of Joe stirred in him. Joe was almost chinless, not good-looking, a nice guy, but he had nothing on his side except his ability with the cue. No reason for jealousy and hatred. But Studs hated him for winning, hated to lose or be second fiddle at anything. He was even glad when Joe remarked that his rheumatism was bothering him again.
He started out and met Arnold Sheehan limping in the doorway. He asked how tricks were. Arnold said he had a job with a construction gang for the city, and was on the wagon. He was going to start working as soon as his knee, twisted in the football game last Sunday, was better. Studs said swell.
He walked along amidst the six-o’clock confusion of Fifty-eighth Street, with people pouring out of the elevated station, elevated trains rumbling almost continuously, kids barking as they sold the Saturday Evening Post, Sammy Schmaltz yelling his latest papers, people hurrying in front of and by him. It made him nervous. And he thought how he had just been going so good, ran the table for the third time in his life at straight pool, had been on the verge of breaking his record run. He remembered the feeling of power he had had, running the table, his eye, brains, arm, all of himself concentrated on the balls, all clicking together like a coordinated machine, and the thrill that went with each shot as the balls were smashed, cut, banked, eased into the pockets. A feeling that, in its way, was like the one he’d had making that first clean tackle of Jewboy Schwartz in the football game.
He saw the dumpy figure of Helen Shires ahead of him, and caught up with her. She looked mannish, with a shingle bob, a simple felt hat, almost like a man’s, plain blue suit with shirt waist and blue tie. Not good-looking any more. She’d been almost like a pal with him when they’d been kids. Some of the old feeling for her came back. But she hadn’t turned into much. Wouldn’t be a bargain in bed now either.
“I’m glad to see you again, Studs; haven’t seen you in ages,” she said.
“How are you, Helen?”
“Fine. Working in an office, stenographer. I hear you’re still working for your dad,