The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [273]
“No. That’s only on our employee stock-purchasing plan. But Studs, it’s cheap at twenty-five a share.”
“I’d like to know more about it,” Studs said.
“No. Me, I’m working for Imbray.”
“What did you do, sneak into Solomon Imbray’s office and read his private mail?” Pat asked.
“Well, listen, fellows, this is straight. If you buy Imbray stocks you’re going to make dough.”
“I don’t know nothing about that and I ain’t got any dough to be forking over anyway,”. Pat said.
“How come, Dugan?” Studs asked, leaning forward in his seat.
“Well, fellahs, old man Solomon Imbray has got a head on his shoulders. He’s a smart man,” Ike said.
“He ought to be. With all the dough he’s made,” Studs said.
“You’re damn right he’s smart. If you coast along with him, you’re coasting along with a guy who’s got a head on his shoulders. I know. I work for one of the Imbray companies, and I’m getting fifty bucks a week.”
“That’s good dough these days,” Pat said.
“And you want to know what I’m doing? I’m sinking twenty of it in stock. We got a stock plan. They’re floating a new issue called Imbray Securities at twenty-five bucks a share. Employees, we pay half for a share and the company gives us the other half. That means I’m picking up almost a share and a half a week. And when it’s a company backed by Solomon Imbray. it’s safe.”
“Got any oil wells for sale, Ike?” Pat asked.
II
“This is the first sign I’ve seen of the depression that’s encouraging,” Studs said.
“How come?” asked Ike.
“No lineup outside the ticket window,” Studs smiled.
“A couple of years ago, there’d have been a line a block long waiting to get in,” Pat said as they purchased their tickets.
“Nice-looking place,” Studs said, walking along the glittering foyer.
“Sure, these shows are swell dumps. Fit for a palace. Look at those draperies. They cost dough. Dough!” Ike said.
“Seats on the main floor. Aisle two. This way, please,” a shiny, powdered attendant, in a maroon and gray uniform with many brass buttons, braided gold, and a long coat, announced formally.
“Jesus, that’s a job for a pansy to have. Dressed up in a monkey suit like that,” Studs said.
“Ike, you’d look the nuts with an usher’s monkey suit on.”
“The broads would give you the eye, too, Ike. They’d call you General Dugan,” Studs said.
“I don’t need that job.”
“Sure, Ike’s going to be a big shot out of the commissions he makes, selling shares of stock in the Jackson Park Golf course,” Pat said.
“Boy, anybody in that outfit standing there and speaking his funny little piece, must feel like a clown if he isn’t a damn pansy.”
“Studs, a lot of the ushers in these shows went to college,” Ike said.
“They look it,” Pat said.
“Hell, I hate news reels,” Pat whispered to Studs as an usher preceded them quickly along an aisle on the main floor, past many vacant seats.
The usher halted near the center, turned his flashlight on a row of unfilled seats, and they moved in to the middle of the rows.
“I hope we see something exciting in these damn news reels,” Ike whispered.
“The thing I like best about news reels is that they’re short,” Studs whispered.
……………..CALIFORNIA
BUSINESS ORGANIZATIONS AND FRATERNAL SOCIETIES DEVISE
NOVEL WAY OF COMBINING CIVIC SPIRIT AND FUN TO ATTACK DEPRESSION.
“Out on the coast these days, business clubs and fraternal organizations are doing some novel fighting against the bogey of Old Man Depression. And is it fun, boys! I’ll say it is!”
As the announcer spoke, the camera flashed a view of business men shouting jubilantly as they pelted each other with eggs like a crowd of school boys in a snow fight. The next shot presented the sight of huge piles of eggs guarded by shapely girls in bathing suits who filled baskets and knapsacks with eggs for ammunition. A blond gill splattered an egg against the back of a departing warrior.
“Hot stuff,” Pat whispered to Studs, while many in the theater laughed.
“Boy, that would be great fun,” Ike whispered.
The laughter in the theater increased at the sight of a wobbling fat man,