Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [120]
He walked towards a fellow at Ellis, and wondered if he ought to stick him up. He passed him at a swift pace. Too bad he hadn’t taken a pal along. It would be easier. But no, he was going to be Lonewolf Lonigan, taking his own chances, pitching his own game in his own way.
He turned towards Fifty-fourth Street, and, spying another cop, went on to Fifty-fifth. Tough luck! He had to go over a block, and on a street with car lines where there’d be more people to see him. He turned south again, and spotting a fellow and girl coming north, pulled his cap peak lower and went by them with his head down, hoping he made them afraid of him. He stopped and, rubbing his hands in dirt, smeared his face a little; made him look more desperate. And goddamn it, he was going through with this stick-up tonight.
He found a place in back of a telephone post at Fifty-sixth Street in the alley between Kenwood and Kimbark. He stood hunched, trying to figure all his plans out clear. He’d step up to a guy with the gun drawn, talk fast, get the dough, blow. Nope, the guy might yell and set up an alarm. Have to tap the guy on the bean with the gun butt, just enough to knock him cuckoo, but not kill him. If the guy was too much trouble, all right, kill him. Before they sealed a coffin lid over him, he’d knock plenty of guys out of his way like that.
The wanting for home blotted his plans aside. But no, he had to be brave. Could postpone it until tomorrow? Yellow? He took his handkerchief out quickly and tied it around his face, leaving only his eyes revealed. He crouched. His heart pounded. His hand, touching the gun in his pocket, quaked. But when the time came, he’d be just as cool as ... a cucumber.
He heard the sound of an automobile. Far away, there were the dying echoes of a girl’s voice. A black cat ran before him. Still he would take his chances. He’d overcome bad luck too. A fellow was coming along ... the steps got nearer. In a few seconds ...
“Stick ’em up!” Studs said in a husky, strained voice, as a big fellow stepped into view.
The man stopped short, and his hands went over his head. Studs leaped before him, the gun pointed by a trembling hand. The realization that it was just like a movie holdup flew through his brain.
“Don’t . . . m-move . . . or I’ll . . . drrrr . . . drill you.”
The victim smiled with self-possession.
“Son, you better put that toy away!”
The gun fell. He turned and ran lickety-split down the alley, hearing diminishingly, the echo of hearty laughter.
IV
At two o’clock in the morning, Studs Lonigan walked breathlessly along Fifty-eighth Street. A large man with shoulders bent, and something of a pot-belly, approached him.
“Bill?”
Studs stopped.
“Come on home, Bill,” the man said with kindness.
Studs walked beside him.
“Bill, you don’t ever want to be doing a thing like this again. Your mother’s heartbroken!”
Studs was glad to be going home.
IV
DAVEY COHEN risked his last two bucks in a crap game around the Toledo docks. He stood, rattling the dice in his right hand, holding fifteen bucks in the left one; he had twenty dollars in his pocket.
“Come on, baby needs new diapers!” he said, shooting, trying to act natural and unafraid, when he was goddamn near crapping in his pants; there were plenty of big tough babies in the game. He’d like to get their dough, but if he did, he knew what would happen.
He looked at the dice: seven. He picked up the pot of eight bucks. He threw ten down. If he lost ten or fifteen bucks, it wouldn’t look li. e he had much, and he could slip off. The money was faded, and Davey rattled the dice in his right hand.
“Shake ’em, Jew!” crabbed a big, beefy-faced Lakes sailor.
“I’m shaking,” Davey replied apologetically.
Seven again. He picked up five and left fifteen on the ground.
A bruiser complained about