The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [122]
“They know when they’re healthy,” said Red.
“I’ll bet Andy’s old man has a horse looking like Sparkplug in Barney Google,” commented Eddie Eastwood.
“Why don’t you come around with the Klan if they’re so damn tough?” Drennan said.
“If they did, you would all run home and hide behind your mother’s apron string.”
“Blah!”
Andy issued a blanket challenge to fight anyone his size and age who was present.
“Gawan home, and come back on a kiddy-car, wearing your sister’s nightgown and we’ll fight you,” sneered Drennan.
“Don’t insult my sister!” Andy said, knocking Drennan down with a punch.
Drennan sat on the floor holding his jaw; Andy stood over him, defying him to get up and fight like a man. George the Greek told Andy to get out and not come back.
“Keep your old poolroom!” Andy yelled from the doorway in a sulk.
“No, Andy, take it along with you,” Hennessey answered.
XXIV
“Paulie’s dead!” Benny Taite yelled, rushing in excitedly, disrupting everything.
“Poor Paulie!” Studs said, next to Taite in the center of a stunned group.
“You know, years ago, I warned him to take care of himself, and not be a damn fool with the molls. But poor Paulie, every time he saw a skirt he lost his head and didn’t know what he was doing,” Red Kelly oracularly said.
“You know, I can’t really believe that he’s gone,” said Studs.
“He was my old buddy,” Hennessey said.
“A better lad never walked Fifty-eighth Street,” Kelly said.
“Death is a funny thing, all right,” Tommy Doyle said.
“We all get called at some time,” Les said.
“Yeah, it’s a funny thing. You never know who it’s going to slap down next, and you never think much about it until one day, it puts your best friend out for the count,” Red philosophized.
“It’s awful, a tragedy,” said Phil Rolfe.
“He had the priest, didn’t he?” said Red.
“Shrimp said that a priest named Doneggan was there when he died,” Taite said.
“We’ll have to take up a collection for flowers,” suggested Red.
“Jesus, he’s one poor bastard who ended up behind the eight ball,” Slug said.
“He can’t be dead. Why he was so young, he never lived,” said Bob Connell.
“Say, punk, how old are you?” asked Kelly.
“Sixteen,” said Hennessey.
“Punks like you should be seen and not heard,” Kelly said.
“Poor Paulie,” sighed Les.
XXV
“Say, let’s give the Greek the finger on this game,” said Lyman.
“O.K.,” said Young Rocky.
Lyman aimed to shoot the fifteen ball for game in slop pool. He missed, and poked the ball in a pocket with his cue.
“Pay up!” he hollered.
“I will like hell,” said Young Rocky.
“You lost,” said Lyman.
“Gimme! Gimme!” said Mike to both of them.
“See him,” said Lyman.
“That bastard is trying to cheat me. I won,” said Young Rocky.
“Come ona, you fellahs, what’s a the matter?” asked George, coming over.
“I won’t pay. He shoved the game ball in with his cue.”
“Pay up, you tight heel. I made it fair and square,” said Lyman.
“You’re a liar!” said Young Rocky.
“Don’t call me a liar!” said Lyman.
“No! Well, it’s double,” said Young Rocky.
“Come on outside,” said Lyman.
“Here! Pay, pay, pay!” said Mike.
“I’ll brain you guys with a cue,” threatened George.
Lyman and Young Rocky grabbed their coats, and dashed to the door, followed by an expectant group. At the door they turned and yelled in unison.
“Finger! Finger Greek!”
They laughed and walked away, arm-in-arm.
XXVI
“Quarter after one!” said Slug, standing with Mike at the window.
They heard the click of the cue balls from the back where Stan Simonsky was practicing. An elevated train rumbled. An automobile whizzed by. A heavy-footed, well-formed girl passed.
“How you like it?”
“Push-Push!” mumbled Mike.
VII
It was Saturday night. A cardboard picketing sign, letters turned downwards, lay in a corner of the small, disorderly bedroom. Mr. Le Gare looked at it. He felt like a dead man who had returned to life.
Blacklisted!
No hotel in the city would hire him. He had been a waiter all his life. What work could he do now?
When he had told his family, their faces had dropped. They were discussing it now in the dining room. They had opposed his striking, picketing the Shrifton Hotel, and serving on the strike committee, acting as treasurer for the union. They said nothing; but their silence was more criticizing than anything they might say. He had supported them for years. Now they were irked, lest he be a burden to them. Well, by God, he wouldn