Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [356]
A telephone rang. Conversations lapsed instantly, and those about him seemed to stiffen up. Ma, perched in back of the chairs, carelessly shoved her papers into her pocket, lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one, and bent a trifle forward, her face sternly set. The woman in blue placed her hands on the chair in front of her occupied by a pimpled, ratty-looking guy, and Studs was jealous. The fellow with the cane, who looked like some kind of a big shot, looked suddenly older than he had, with his lips compressed, his face intent.
“At the quarter, Good Luck, two lengths, Charcoal one length, Sweetheart running third,” Phil called out from the phone in stentorian tones.
“Hold ‘em! Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” the man with the cane mumbled, snapping his fingers.
Studs fastened his eyes on the woman in blue, and, snapping her fingers rapidly, she seemed like a wound-up spring ready to snap.
Sister, I know what can relax you, he told himself with a self-confident smirk.
“Come on! Come on! Come on!” Ma bleated, cracking her fingers.
“At the half, Charcoal half a length, Good Luck two lengths, Sweetheart running third . . .”
Studs wished he had dough on Good Luck. The excitement that was choking them all up seemed to be getting him, and while many kept stamping and tapping the floor, and straining themselves, and snapping their fingers, and pounding their fists together, he looked keenly around, a little bit lost.
“Come on! Come on!”
“Hold‘em! Hold’em!”
“Sweetheart be sweet.”
“Come on, Hot Pepper, get hot, get hot!”
“All right, Sweetheart Girl, keep comin’, girl, keep comin’, keep comin’, girl!”
“Hurray!” a man half-yelled, leaping from his chair to stride rapidly to and fro.
They were all tightened up, all right, like they’d bust, he thought.
The seconds of the race seemed eternally long, and there they stewed, racketed, made faces. Most of them looked like they were ready to cry, start a fight or even go nuts.
“The winners . . .”
He could see, too, how many of them took it hard, couldn’t lose with a smile like Studs Lonigan could, bum gamblers. From the sour pans they put on, a person might have thought that they had just lost their best friends or dropped a thousand bucks or more on the stock market, the way he had. Some of them should just know that, and then realize how they were taking the loss of a measly half buck or a dollar so hard.
“. . . Charcoal, Good Luck, Sweetheart third.”
Several hysterical cheers rose, died abruptly. Murmuring conversation broke over the room, the many voices drumming out like men talking to calm themselves after meeting sudden dangers. Studs searched out the woman in blue, and saw her glancing wildly and distraught from face to face. The winners were verified, and the winning list chalked on the blackboard. She rushed to it eagerly, with an extravagant hope blooming on her face, read, turned aside, watched the winning bettors clutter up to the counter. She went to a chair, sat, crossed her legs, studied her papers, her lips firm and tight.
Studs sauntered to a group around a scratch sheet on the wall.
“Well, Ma, how did you go?”
“I never complain, that’s my policy. I have my system, and I play it, and it works all right for me,” Ma said, cigarette still drooping from her lips.
“I had a hunch to play Charcoal, but I’ve been balling myself all up with my system of handicapping, and like a chump I didn’t have the nerve to play my hunch.”
“I never play hunches. That’s not scientific. I play my system,” Ma said.
“Well, who you picking for the next at Bowie?”
“That’s my business.”
“The next is a steeplechase. You can never pick ’em because anything is liable to happen in a jump race. The best horse in the country is liable to miss a hurdle and lose its rider. Now, last summer in a jump race at Saratoga, well, I had it doped for Equal Sugar to win. Every expert in the country, nearly, picked Equal Sugar.