The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [344]
“Gee, Studs, I’m glad to see you around. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming so we could have had lunch together?”
“I didn’t have anything exciting in prospect, so I thought I’d just drop around,” Studs said, from the corner of his eye noting the glances cast at him and Phil, thinking maybe they would take him for somebody important; no, he was Phil Rolfe’s brother-in-law, he reflected bitterly.
“I’m glad you came, Studs. Only today is just another dull day with nothing special in the lineup?’
“I just wanted to say hello, and maybe lay a buck or two on a race for the fun of it. How’s business?”
“Fair, Studs, fair. In fact, it’s really a little more than fair, only everything that is clear I’m putting aside, because in a few weeks we’re going to start enlarging here. I’m going to have more space, more black-jack tables, a roulette wheel, a table for poker and craps, and some nice-looking furniture around. Make it a swell-looking place, and it will bring in twice as much revenue.”
“Swell idea. And how’s the kid?”
“Loretta, she’s fine. And when are you coming down to see us again?”
“Oh, one of these nights.”
“We’re always glad to have you, and bring Catherine along, too.”
“I will,” Studs said dully, resisting his temptation to tell Phil about their scrap.
They faced each other as if talked out.
“Oh, yes, say, Studs, want me to tip you off for a bet or two?”
“No, thanks, Phil, that would take the fun away, and I’d just be taking your dough gratis.”
“As you wish, Studs. But,” Phil lowered his voice, “between ourselves, the odds are against you if you try to play the ponies day in and day out. That’s why we are able to stick in business.”
“I know,” Studs sagely said.
“Say, listen, Studs, the first race at Jamaica starts soon, and I got to get back there. I’ll be with you again a little later. And if there’s anything you want, just ask me,” Phil said solicitously.
“Thanks, Phil, I’ll just hang around.”
He heard the door behind closing, and noted that many newcomers had arrived since his entry. He moved over to a group studying a scratch sheet on the wall.
“Which one do you like for the first, mister? It’s a race for maidens, and the dope doesn’t hold so good for them. I’ve been betting according to the dope from Sykes in The Questioner and I’ve never won a cent on a maidens’ race,” a fat-faced woman of middle age said to him.
“Sorry, but I don’t know much about it,” he said apologetically.
She turned to a woman on Studs’ left who held a pencil between her teeth, newspapers, scraps of paper, dope sheets under her arm, and a copy of The American Racing Record opened before her.
“Good Luck to place,” the woman said, papers sliding from under her arm.
“How about you, Ma?” she asked, and Studs saw that the woman addressed as Ma was a squat and rotund Jewish lady of about fifty.
“I’m betting on Good Luck, Charcoal, Happy Hours, and Sweetheart, fifty cents on each to show,” Ma said, ashes from her cigarette dropping onto the stack of papers she held.
“Taking big chances, huh, Ma?” a stout man said.
“Tim, this is not fun. It’s a business. I’m here to make a little money each day, and I play my system,” Ma said without removing the cigarette from her mouth.
“Last call for first at .. .”
Studs watched a flurried and excited rush to the counter for final bets, feeling out of it because he wasn’t betting. But suddenly, he thought of them as chumps who just forked their dough over the counter on a proposition that couldn’t win in the long run. There they all were, paying for Phil and Loretta’s apartment and automobile.