The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [174]
“Reilley’s a skunk,” Studs said, kind of hoping that Red would mention how he had cleaned Weary as a kid.
“Too bad!” said Tommy.
“Where was the fire sale, Muggsy?” asked Studs as Muggsy McCarthy entered the room. He was more slumped and hollow than ever; but he wore a new dark gray suit.
“Muggsy, you look prosperous,” Doyle remarked.
“Boys, I’m working for the city now,” Muggsy said almost unnaturally exuberant.
“So you got in the political game, huh, Muggsy?” Tommy Doyle asked.
“Yeah, my old man took me back home and got me the job. I’m off that damn crap. There’s nothing to it, hanging around all the time with not even a son in your jeans. How you like the suit, boys?” Muggsy asked.
“I think I’ll get me into the political game,” Tommy said, while the boys examined Muggsy’s suit, and kidded him.
Like an apparition, Barney Keefe stood in the center of the room, and pointed at drunken Irish Mickey Flannagan; everybody laughed.
“And you, bitch! The last time I saw you, you passed out in a saloon over at Twelfth and Halsted, and the boys all took you on while you were dreaming of the birdies of the springtime,” Barney said, pointing at Mrs. Haggerty; she smiled feebly and apologetically.
“Yeah, Tommy, you never know when you’re called,” Studs said, profoundly feeling the uncertainty of life, sensing a sudden fear lest he be the next of the boys called, buoying himself up with the feeling that he was strong and well and taking care of himself and wouldn’t need to worry about death for a long, long time.
“Hey, Barney, where you think you’re at,” Red said, sore because Barney was keeping up the horseplay.
“I thought I came to a wake, but seeing all you flannel-mouth Irish here, I guess it’s a saloon or a poolroom,” Barney said. They laughed.
“Hello, Studs,” Phil Rolfe ingratiated, while the boys still laughed at Barney’s wit. Phillip rolled the cigar in his mouth. Studs acted as if he hadn’t heard the greeting.
“Yeah, too bad, but we all got to go sometime,” Phillip said, finding a chair in back of Studs.
The room snapped into rigid quiet with the appearance of Mr. Sheehan. He ignored the remarks politely directed at him. Red arose and offered him a chair. He looked around and walked out.
“Just like a ghost,” Red dolefully said.
“Hey, Barney, you rat, when you going to sober up?” Mickey asked from the fogs of inebriation.
“Can it, Flannagan, before we toss you on your ear,” Red said.
“I’ll sober up when I put a lily on the grave of every pig s—t Irishman here,” Barney said.
“Come on, you guys,” Red repeated.
“Say, Studs, you know, isn’t it a shame. You know, Arnold, he was my friend,” Vinc Curley said.
“Say, Goof, dry up,” Studs said. Vinc looked at Studs, hurt.
“I remember the time that Arnold and I got pie-eyed in a black-and-tan joint. You know he went for a high brown, Georgia Brown, and, boy, I thought we’d get our throats slashed from ear to ear,” Benny Taite said.
“Hey, Benny, is that the only thing you can think of now that Arnold is dead? You can’t think of anything else, can you—the time you might have seen him coming home with a present to his mother or something?”
“Gee, Red, I didn’t mean anything,” Benny said.
“Well, those aren’t the kind of breaks you want to be making at a time like this,” Kelly snapped.
Everybody laughed as Kenny Kilarney came in with that goofy, boyish smile on his thin face, just as it always was.
“Boys, this is Timothy O’Shea,” he said, pointing his finger at the character with him.
“Hi, boys!” Timothy O’Shea said like a prizefighter accepting well-earned applause. He swam in a huge, flowing overcoat, and had a rough, wide, surly face. He pushed his dirty fedora on the back of his head, and smiled.
“Say, boys, excuse me a minute!” Timothy O’Shea said, going to the sink; he relieved himself.
They were too surprised to speak. He took a seat. Horace came