The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [323]
“Isn’t it dumb, though, to buy it for twenty-five bucks when it’s thirteen in the market?”
“Well, by our employee-stock agreement, we pay half and the company pays half for us. But I’m still buying it every week and I’m not kicking... But just a minute, Studs, I’ve got to call a girl up.”
“I got to be blowing.”
“Well, call me up and we’ll go to a show some night.”
He watched Ike hustling to the phone booth toward the back of the drug store. Something sneaky about him. Still, what he said sounded like there was something to it. How could a man as big as Imbray or his companies go bust? And if he hung on, he’d be sure in the long run to get his dough back with plenty of interest.
Outside, he looked to see if Pat or any other fellows were on the corner, and he was disappointed because they weren’t, so he started home. Down five points more. Big break in all stocks. He tried to force the belief that Ike was right and it was just fluctuation. Jesus, it better be! And if it wasn’t would he sock Ike Dugan! And he’d take his medicine like a man and not bawl over spilled milk.
He knew that he was kidding himself, because he really was worried about the stocks. Still, how could a man so big as Imbray go bust? With deliberation, he lit a cigarette and calmly inhaled. People seeing him wouldn’t know that he was worrying and nine hundred and sixty bucks out on his investments. He was just calmly puffing at a fag, and that, mister, was Studs Lonigan. But was it? And was it true that everything that went up came down, and when it hit the bottom it had to go up again?
A girl approached, and when she came closer, he saw that she was a hefty wench with sex appeal sticking out all over her.
“Going any place, sister?”
He heard her heels rapping over the pavement. Stuck-up bitch. But wouldn’t it have been nice taking her to Jackson Park, forgetting every goddamn thing while he loved her up, for all he was worth. He just couldn’t feel as confident as Ike Dugan had. Well, this experience should teach him a lesson, at least; he told himself bitterly. Already, the cost of his honeymoon, of a hell of a lot of things, was lost. He tried to make up his mind what he should do, and if he should sell and take his loss. Then the nine hundred and sixty bucks would simply be floating down the creek. Just like a drowning man who’s gone under for the third time. Nothing to say but too bad.
Suppose he should walk up to this doggy-dressed old man coming toward him and say, brother, I just lost nine hundred and sixty bucks, hard-earned bucks, on the brain of Solomon Imbray, and all the public utilities of the Middle West, what do you think of that? Or suppose he should see Red Kelly and pass it off as if he was just losing a nickel. Carry it off and faze Red. But that would show nothing except that he was a good loser, and where did it get him, being a good loser?
He lit another cigarette and thought how easy it seemed for some people to make money. Jesus, why couldn’t he have that kind of luck? Others didn’t deserve it any more than he did. He wished he could meet someone to talk to, and make himself forget it. Hell, just think how many guys there were in the world who could lose that much dough just like it was only cigar money.
He shrugged his shoulders and tried to squeeze consolation out of the thought that that was the way the world went. Only, hell, it seemed so simple to make money on stocks, so easy for the market to go up rather than down, and after he had cleaned up, for it then to go any damn way it pleased. It had been pie for many guys, why not for him?
It was just like watching a baseball game. The pitcher on the side you wanted to lose would seem to have nothing on the ball, and would only appear to bob it up to the plate with lanterns hung on it. Watching the batters on your favorite team step into the batter’s box, you would look over the field.