The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [195]
Studs thought that Weary glowered a bit at him. If he came, he supposed he’d have to tangle again with Weary sooner or later. Anyway he would. Goddamn it, he’d take Weary again. He was in condition, and he’d stay that way.
After the dance, he found Nellie waiting for him. She took his arm and started walking away with him. It was too much. If he was a bastard or not, he couldn’t help himself. He looked at her. He was proud he was going to get something so sweet, even if he was a bastard for doing it. If he didn’t, somebody else would.
XVIII
“Why, Marty O’Brien, how are you?” Patrick Lonigan asked, seeing Mr. O’Brien in front of church after ten o’clock mass. Mrs. Lonigan and Mrs. O’Brien greeted each other.
“Hello, Pat. Glad to see you,” O’Brien said, shaking with Lonigan.
“What are you doing back in, the old neighborhood, Marty?”
“Oh, we just thought that we would come down here to church, today. You know, it’s nice to see the old sights now and then,” Marty said.
“Yes, I suppose the old place is the only place for many of us,” said Lonigan.
“I’m sorry I cleared out, but glad, because I see what’s happening.”
“Well, Marty, I don’t know if I would be so pessimistic. To be sure, the jiggs have got on Wabash Avenue, and a lot of Polacks and Wops have come in along the southwestern edge of the parish, but still I wouldn’t he so pessimistic. I got a building now on Michigan and I think it’s going to be worth plenty more than what I paid for it. Particularly since Father Gilhooley is going to build the new church.”
“Pat, I don’t wan! to sound discouraging, but if you ask me, I’d say this: the whole neighborhood is being ruined, and quicker than you think. You mark my words, it’s going to be so full of black clouds that a white man won’t belong in it. Fiftyeighth and Prairie is going to look like Thirty-fifth and State with them.”
“Golly. I don’t think so, I hope not, Marty, but if it does, well, I’ll be out. I’ll turn a neat profit when I sell my old building. But if that does happen, it’ll he a crime.”
“Crime or no crime, those kike real-estate bastards are getting in, and what for? I’ll tell you: to sell to niggers, that’s what for.”
“That will be a crime. We ought to do something about it.”
“That’s what I thought, but what can you do? That’s why we moved.”
“That will be a crime, and what with the new church Father Gilhooley is going to build. Goddamn it, Marty, they’ll never get Michigan. We won’t let them!”
“Well, mark my words... but how’s business, Pat?”
“I can’t complain; things are running smooth enough. I’m worried about unions. You know, them damn unions are robbing me, twelve and fifteen dollars a day. Why, no painter or plasterer is worth that, but they got to get it; but how’s business with you, Marty?”
“Fair.”
“Say, you’ll have to come up and see us some time,” Lonigan said.
“And come and see us, Pat!”
Marty gave Lonigan, a card with their new address printed on it. They went to their car and drove away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I
Studs observed that the Scanlans had a lamp in every corner, floor-lamps, table-lamps and lamps on the piano. The parlor contained so much furniture that it seemed overcrowded. He wanted to light a cigarette but restrained himself for fear that he might spill ashes. He looked at a rose-green pottery lamp set on the table near the heavy blue velvet drapes. He moved over to sit on a large overstuffed davenport that was upholstered in dark blue velour. He touched it, studied it. The Scanlans must have spent more dough than the old man on furniture. They’d always been well off, but the old man wasn’t tight. He’d been awfully decent, too, slipping him a ten-dollar bill just before he had left to come out here and call for Lucy. He looked about the parlor again, wishing that Lucy would shake a leg. Doggy house all right! Mrs. Scanlan entered. Studs jumped to his feet, smiled,