Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [354]
“O. K.,” he called lackadaisically.
A door opposite the entrance door opened, and Studs stepped into a familiar passageway.
“Let’s have it,” said a fellow of the slugger type in a soda-jerker’s white coat, his unintelligent face built upon a solid muscular neck; and a door behind him closed, bolting.
Although he knew there was no cause for fear, still he felt queer facing this bouncer.
“I’m going to frisk you, lad,” the bouncer said, tapping Studs from head to foot, under the armpits, the pockets, the chest, viewing Studs’ hat and examining the inside, working with a speed and efficiency which caused Studs to remember how clumsy McGoorty had been doing the same thing in the morning.
“O. K.”
“Let’s have it,” a voice from behind the inside door called, as if in the performance of some strange and mysterious rite.
Studs entered a large half-crowded room curtained with cigarette smoke, and the door was bolted behind him. A low counter ran along the opposite end of the room, behind which Phil, with a clean blue shirt, sat working, three fellows alongside of him bent forward over papers. Small groups were gathered around charts and scratch sheets along the wall, another group stood conversing near a ruled-off and lined blackboard, and men and women sat on camp chairs in the center of the room, talking, or working over papers, scratch sheets and pads, dope sheets, and various kinds of clippings. A hook-nosed fellow who needed a shave leaned against a wall reading a copy of The Morning Telegraph. There was movement back and forth, and in the left-hand comer of the room a crowd was bunched around a card table. He caught Phil’s eye. Smiling obsequiously, Phil came from behind the counter.
“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