The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [287]
“You bet, Studs, this idea of sweating your tail off with work and carefulness is the undiluted crap. With me, a bird in the hand and a cutey in a bed is worth dozens of them in a bush you can’t reach,” Martin said, while ahead of them, at Seventy-first and Jeffrey, they heard warning bells from the Illinois Central, and saw the train gates lower, red lanterns dangling from them. An electric train shot across the street and the gates were raised.
“I was pretty cockeyed last Saturday night,” Martin boasted.
“Seems to me that’s the same story nearly every Saturday night.”
“Umm, now and then.”
“Mostly now, instead of then, huh?” Studs said, and they laughed.
“By the time Saturday rolls around, a guy’s seen all the shows he wants to see for a week, and he hangs around with the boys, feeling dumb, wanting something to happen, tired of everybody’s bum jokes that he’s heard before. So he figures, well, the way to make things happen is to get a bottle, and he does. So he gets snozzled and has some fun. And last Saturday, the cutey I had! Umm! I made her, too, only I was so cockeyed it wasn’t no fun. But I’m figuring to fix that baby again…”
“Oh, hello, Austin,” Studs said.
“Why, hello Studs. And how are you, Martin?” Austin McAuliffe, replied, his voice jolly.
“How things going?” Studs asked, noticing that Austin seemed much the same as ever, thin, narrow-faced, well-dressed. Austin looked like he was making the grade. But then, why should he feel ashamed, with his Imbray investment?
“I’m a lawyer now, Studs. Graduated from St. Vincent’s. I went nights and passed my bar exams last summer. I’m lined up in a promising job with a good law firm, and even if I do say so, things look pretty rosy.”
“Married, Austin?” Studs asked.
“Not yet. I guess I better knock on wood, huh, Studs?”
“Studs is beating you to the gun,” Martin said.
“Studs, don’t tell me you’re married?”
“No, but he gave her the ring,” Martin said.
“Well, well! Congratulations, Studs. Who’s the lucky girl?” Austin said, enthusiastically pumping Studs’ hand.
“I don’t think you know her. Her name is Catherine Banahan.”
“Well, that gives her the proper credentials. Nothing like an Irish girl.”
“Yes, McAuliffe, the lad’s in love,” Martin smirked, making Studs show his embarrassment with nervousness.
“How’s the folks?” Austin asked like a fellow trying to make conversation.
“Pretty good.”
“Oh, say, by the way, did you hear that Father Gilhooley has been changed to a parish back of the yards, and Saint Patrick’s has been turned over to some order of priests, but I can’t remember which one it is.”
“Is the school still running?” Studs asked.
“Yes, but the pupils are all jiggabooes, and the parish is very poor now, I guess,” Austin lamented.
“Gilly was always a puzzle to us altar boys. When he said mass, he always drank so much more wine than the other priests did. We always expected him to go staggering off the altar,” Martin laughed.
“You know, it was a shame the way that parish went down,” Austin said, turning toward Studs after frowning at Martin. “Father Gilhooley must have taken it hard, because of the parish and the beautiful new church he built, for it was his life’s work, and then it was no sooner up than his people moved away on him. My mother met him downtown not so long ago, and she said he had aged a great deal. And say, I saw Jim Clayburn the other day. He’s put on a lot of weight, and he’s taken over his father’s law practice. Seems to be prospering.”
“He was a nice fellow. Tell him I asked for him if you see him again. See anybody else? How’s Art Hahn?”
“I haven’t seen Art for about a year. He’d just lost his job then and was selling vacuum cleaners. And I saw Father McCarthy a few weeks ago. He’s an assistant at some parish out West.”
“His brother, Monk McCarthy, is getting along, too.”
“Every time I see anybody from Fifty-eighth Street, Studs, I always say to myself how times change, how they change.”
“Yeah, that’s so, Austin,” Studs said weightily.
“And