The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [219]
“I wonder if much of that stuff goes on?” said Studs.
“Plenty, if you ask me. Only I said I just heard that,” said Davey.
“She was always a tomboy as a kid,” said Red.
“Yes, it wasn’t natural for a girl to be like a boy,” said Tom-my.
“She was a swell pal as a kid,” Studs said, nostalgically.
“Say what you want to, but the finest and most decent girls are Irish Catholic girls,” said Red.
“No jane is decent if she meets the right guy,” said Slug.
“Well, I don’t know that I agree with you there, Slug,” said Red.
“Say, it ain’t a matter of what you call decency. It’s all a matter of the right guy coming along at the right time,” said Slug.
“No, sir, you get a good Catholic girl, who has a decent home, the right kind of parents, and fear of God in her, like Studs’ sisters, and they’re decent, they’re fine, they’re amongst the finest things you can find in life,” said Red.
Studs felt proud of his sisters.
“And when girls don’t, there’s only two things to do. The old man to give her his razor strap, and the old man or brother or somebody to give the clouts to the guys that try and fool around with her,” said Red.
“Well, boys, let’s go to a show,” said Studs.
“All right.”
They walked off. Davey trailed after them, and asked if anyone had enough to lend him to come along. They didn’t answer him.
“Studs, I can pay you back tomorrow,” said Davey, half pleading.
“Sorry, Dave, all I got is enough for the show and coffee an’ afterwards,” Studs said.
Davey watched them straggle down towards Garfield Boulevard. He was sorry that he had returned. He had no pain in his chest, but he felt that he had. Only a poor sick Jew. He thought of Heine, whose poem he’d read in the Jamestown library.
“That Jew moocher,” sneered Studs.
“Yeah,” said Slug.
“Say, he’s the kind, his kind, that sold out Wabash Avenue to the niggers. If it wasn’t for the Jews, this would be a better neighborhood than it is. But anyway, with the new church, it will pick up,” said Red.
“I know my old man is beginning to wonder if he ought to sell his building after all, and clear out,” said Studs.
“Well, I tell you, once the kikes get in a neighborhood, it’s all over,” said Red with unanswerable argument.
IV
Davey Cohen bummed a dime off Joe Coady. He hung on Joe’s neck talking, telling him about bumming, about anything, just to talk. Joe finally blew. Davey could see that he’d bored Joe. He suddenly hated Coady. Joe was only a punk. Once he’d been only that, and Davey’d been one of the big guys, and one of the toughest of the tough—well, he had—around the corner. Now, he was a little runt, cadging nickels and dimes off kids he’d formerly protected and been a hero to. He hoped, Jesus, some day—But it was pretty much crap to hope. He felt convinced that he had that pain back in the chest. He stopped in the Greek Restaurant for coffee.
Christy, the waiter, was at the last seat by the counter, writing, with a book at his side. He came forwards, and said hello. Davey got a cup of coffee.
“Gee, I wish I was back in California,” Davey remarked, putting sugar in the coffee, and stirring it.
Christy said that he’d gone to an American high school out on the coast.
“I like the climate. Jesus, it’s a grand place,” Davey said, wishing pathetically that he were there, forgetting that when he had been on his uppers in Los Angeles, he’d wished that he’d been in Chicago.
“It’s nice out there,” Christy said.
Christy was a tall, heavy-set, full-faced Greek in his forties. His hair was thinned out, and there was a bald spot on his head. “The broads out there, they’re thick as flies around a garbage can, and they’re all like rabbits. Say, that place is paradise for a guy if he’s got a little jack,” Davey said.
“That’s the movies,” Christy said.
“Plenty of them are hot, nice.”
“I know girls go there. They want to be like...