Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [121]
“I know they ain’t loaded. But use these ones. Them damn things is jinxed!”
Davey’s first roll with the new dice was a seven. He coughed sharply and laid twenty bucks down.
“You damn kike, you got too many horseshoes,” a sorehead said as Davey raked in the pot.
“I’m shakin’ fair, brother. They’re just hot for me this time. The dice get hot for a guy like this maybe once in his whole life.”
“They get too damn hot when I lay my sheets down.”
“Want to finish my turn and try ’em yourself?”
“Shake!”
“I was just lucky tonight,” Davey said, picking up the winnings of the last pot.
They glowered at him. He said so long. He walked slowly away, trying to feel that it wouldn’t happen. He’d get away, get a swell meal, have a high-class woman for the night. Then, he’d buy a new suit, and ride back home on the cushions. It would sure be swell, seeing Paulie Haggerty, Studs, Red, Tommy Doyle, all of the old guys, the best gang in the world. Hadn’t seen them in three years. It sure would be great.
He knew that he was being followed. As soon as he had a chance, he’d run. He walked along, as if he wasn’t quaking with fear. He glanced back. Two of the bruisers were drawing close to him. He started to run. He tripped. They cold-cocked him, and left him unconscious. They weren’t letting a runty, hook-nosed kike get their dough.
The two bruisers fought over the dough, and one of them was laid out.
When Davey came to, feeling the bump on his head, he cried like a baby. Christ, wouldn’t he ever get a decent break?
Chapter Four
I
HE COULD hear the old man in the parlor, happily telling to the old lady that this summer sure, they’d have to step out a little, and go out to Riverview Park, and have a good time like they’d been planning to for a long time. And Fran was in her room, singing a new song about west-side chauffeurs who kiss ‘em where you find ’em and leave ’em where you kiss’em.
Studs studied himself in the mirror. He tipped his first straw hat at a rakish angle. He felt his face and looked closely where he’d shaven off the down. He stood back, erect, and pulled down the sleeves of his gray suit, holding them with the last three fingers of each hand. He arranged his blue tie. Quite a guy, he thought. But maybe he ought to have a loud purple silk shirt, the kind Pat Coady and Percentage wore. He would have gotten one, only if he had, he’d have had his tail kidded off. Later on, he would, and damn tootin’, he was quite a guy.
Pretty well off too at seventeen. Hell, Dan Donoghue and the others from the Indiana gang he’d graduated with from St. Patrick’s were still only high school kids. He was earning his own living, making good dough, and his old man had changed his attitude towards him. He really wasn’t so bad, and he’d only been saying the truth in that scrap they’d had. Great, all right, to be earning your own dough. He took his wallet out, counting the twelve single dollars from his first pay that he’d stuffed into it. And, some day, he’d be a full-fledged painter, on a scaffold, spreading on paint just as nice and easy as old Mort Morrison did now. There was a good guy; all the fellows he worked with were white, and treated him decent. And, yes, the time would come when he’d step into the old man’s boots; then, though, wouldn’t Fran change her tune?
He whistled as he walked towards the front door.
“Have a good time, Bill, old boy, and don’t take any wooden nickels,” the old man called from the parlor.
His mother rushed to the door, made the sign of the cross before him, kissed him, and told him to be a good boy.
He walked along, whistling. He stopped at the corner of Fifty-eighth and Indiana. If he walked down to Fifty-seventh, he might just bump into Dan or Helen Shires, talk about old times, let them see how he was all dolled up, bowl ’em over by flashing his roll. And he could maybe see Lucy, and speak, and she’d say how swell he looked, and he’d say what are you doing, and he’d say come on, let’s take in a show, and he’d have a blowout with