The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [250]
“Commere, goddamn you! And shut up!”
She cowered with fright. He tried to kiss her. She fought off his thrusting mouth with her hand. He knocked it aside, and pressed his lips against her shaking forehead. He encircled her with his arms, and dragged her towards the bed where Mickey lay. He flung her towards the wall, and rolled Mickey off. She ran to the door. He tackled her.
“Oooh, my ankle!” she sobbed.
“Will you come across now,” he said, towering over her, while she sat on the floor, holding her ankle.
She screamed. He grabbed for a pillow slip, and tore a strip off it. She hobbled out of the room on her sprained ankle, screaming. He caught her from behind, and as she twisted and tore, he got the pillow slip tied around her mouth. She raised her hand to tear it off, and he twisted her arm. He could see the pain on her face:
“Will you come across?”
She nodded.
He released her. She tore the rag off her mouth. He smothered her scream with his hand, and she hit and scratched. He gave her an uppercut, and she toppled to the floor. She started to rise unsteadily, and he was on her, holding her mouth, using his other hand to ward off her scratching hands. She slumped back limp, breathing heavily. Her hair was down. Her dress was torn.
“Please. I never done it before. Please, lemme go. Please!”
“I won’t hurt you. For Christ sake, cut out the stalling.”
“Honest to God, please, I never did this. Please.. .”
“Can that! You’re comin’ across if I have to kill you!”
“Please... you might act like a... gentleman.”
“Come on, for Christ sake!”
He half smothered her scream. He stuck his knee in her stomach, and slapped her viciously with his left hand.
“Oh, you will, will you!” he said, punching her jaw after she again flashed her teeth.
He carried her unconscious to the bed.
XXXI
Her face was black and blue, and her coat thrown over her torn dress. She winced with each step, sobbed hysterically, shook all over.
“Now don’ try that game on a guy again!” he said, shoving her out the door of the suite.
He left the bloody sheets soaking in the bathtub. Coming from the bathroom, he saw Mickey Flannagan stagger out and he smiled.
He was awakened by the cops, who had been let into the suite by the night clerk.
“This is gonna be a tough rap to beat for you, fellow!”
“You ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
“No! She’s beat up pretty had!”
“She was drunk and fell down!”
“Maybe you can prove that alibi.”
The other cop came from the bathroom with the dripping, bloody sheets and asked what about them.
“I don’t know nothin’ about them.”
“Where did you get your puss scratched?”
“I had a fight.”
“Yeah!”
“Yeah!” said Weary, challengingly.
“Listen, everybody isn’t a helpless girl. Watch the way you talk.”
“Listen, they sent you to get me. Here I am. Call a cab, and I’ll pay the bill. But don’t try pullin’ nothin’ on me!” Weary said with clenched fists.
“Shall I let him have it, Joe?” asked the other cop.
“Don’t soil your mitts on him.”
Weary sneered. He walked out with them. As they went through the door, he made a gesture and said:
“She ain’t got no kick. She only got that much!”
XXXII
The dirty gray dawn of the New Year came slowly. It was snowing. There was a drunken figure, huddled by the curb near the fireplug at Fifty-eighth and Prairie. A passing Negro studied it. He saw that the fellow wasn’t dead. He rolled it over, and saw it was a young man with a broad face, the eyes puffed black, and nose swollen and bent. He saw that the suit and coat were bloody, dirty, odorous with vomit. He laughed, the drunk stirred as the Negro said:
“Boy, you all has been celebratin’ a-plenty.”
He searched the unconscious drunk and pocketed eight dollars. He walked on.
The gray dawn spread, lightened. Snow fell more rapidly from the muggy sky of the New Year.
It was Studs Lonigan, who had once, as a boy, stood before Charley Bathcellar’s poolroom thinking that some day, he would grow up to be strong, and tough, and the real stuff.
XXV
There was an inward, self-absorbed expression upon the black face