Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [290]
THE WORLD IS YOURS
Joey Gallagher again fading, in the mind of Studs Lonigan, into Studs Lonigan. Studs Lonigan, the world is yours. Take it. Oh, Christ, why hadn’t he had an exciting life like Joey Gallagher? It happened to some people. Look at Al Capone. Joey Gallagher escaping from dicks, over roofs, leaving town on a freight. Would he pick up somewheres, meet a decent girl, as in most movies, would he come back? Sinking lower and lower, living in a flop house, hanging around a poolroom. Hearing these cheap pikers talk about the man hunt for Joey Gallagher, and one of them reading Sloane’s statement in the paper.
“Gallagher is yellow.”
Gallagher meant business now. But it was dumb. Grabbing a freight back to show if he was yellow. Hell, he wouldn’t have done that. Meant the hot seat. But that was guts, guts. Gallagher telephoning Sloane. Sloane tracing the call. Cars on wet streets. Studs wished now, hoped, told himself, Christ, Gallagher couldn’t die. The cars. Gallagher rushing into the trap. Shot dead. He couldn’t be dead, and they were taking him home to his broken-hearted mother. The brother and Mr. Kennedy comforting her, and the corpse of Joey Gallagher. Dead. Death. He would die, too, some day, maybe not a hero’s death like Gallagher. But hell, it wasn’t worth it. Doomed victory. But he would die. Why hadn’t the picture ended differently, and he could think of how Joey Gallagher could go on in life, going up and up, meeting a dame hotter than the stool pigeon of a blonde, go on and up like he wanted to himself. Dead. Like a part of himself dying.
THE END
Walking out of the show, he told himself that, hell, it had only been a picture. Still, why couldn’t it have ended differently? They didn’t have to kill off Joey Gallagher. He was gloomy.
Chapter Four
I
DROPPING into his father’s overstuffed chair in the parlor, Studs asked himself if he had been a sucker. He lit a cigarette. Determined hopes forced themselves into his mind, and he expressed them by slapping his thighs and clenching and unclenching his fists. He viewed himself as a gambler, a chance-taking fool, prepared to face the risk of losing all the money he had saved for years and to drop it with a game smile on his face. Ashes slipped from his burning cigarette. Disinclined to arise and get an ash tray, he carelessly rubbed them off his trousers. He hoped that the cigarette wouldn’t burn too rapidly and cause more dropping ashes. He cast a drifting glance at the gray of the expiring day. And he heard the muffled shouts of boys at play.
He looked across the room at the crumpled copy of the morning paper. He hadn’t understood clearly the meaning of the news account of yesterday’s stock market, but it had fallen. His stock, though, had just slipped one point, and meant a loss so far of only eighty dollars. It could easily come back if today’s market was better. He recalled how enthusiastically Ike Dugan had talked to him about the stocks. They were backed by all of the Imbray holdings and public utilities, and directed by the brain of a man like Solomon Imbray, and you couldn’t go wrong on such stock. Jesus, he hoped the guy was right. But there was something snaky about that guy, and. . . .
The cigarette stub burned his lips, more ashes falling as he arose to squash it in an ash tray. Hell, you never got anywhere unless you took a chance, and that was Studs Lonigan all over, he counselled himself.
He looked at himself in the wall mirror. Guessed he was looking better. But his cheeks were still thin, not a lot of color in them. When he’d been beefier, he hadn’t seemed to himself to be so small, but now, he looked pretty much like a weak little runt. He told himself to cancel this stuff. He imagined meeting Stan Simonsky or some other friend, and casually telling them how he had taken this flyer in Imbray stock, talking as if it were nothing more than risking a few shekels in a crap game.
And when his investment rose,