The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [157]
“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 Vine.
“I was talking about the bald-headed sailor.”
“I don’t think I know him. Does he come around Fifty-eighth Street?”
“Hey, Vine, please don’t drive so fast. You’ll make me sea-sick,” Studs said after they had guffawed.
“Is that so? I was afraid, Studs, that I was going a little too fast,” Vine replied, slowing the car back to about fifteen an hour.
“Yes, Vine, 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.
II
“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. Vinc 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, Vinc. He wouldn’t fool you,” Benny Taite said.
“Well, it’s awfully strong pop. Maybe I better have root beer.”
“Don’t handle it.”
Vinc asked for a glass of water. They paid up. Vine 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.