The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [147]
“Better look out, Studs, or you’ll be getting like Barney Keefe.”
“I’ll get it off before that happens,” Studs confidently replied.
He felt his belly; just a little hit fat, not any more than Kelly himself had. He was just afraid of getting fat himself. Studs knew he’d be able to watch himself and exercise the fat off before it got serious.
A noisy, excited crowd was talking in front of the poolroom. Studs saw a squad car parked at the curb, and a cop standing importantly by the doorway. He started to move out of the crowd and see what was up, but noticed Joe Thomas, dressed in his bricklayer’s clothes, step before the cop and ask what was the matter. The cop grabbed Joe, and called inside. People edged forwards, and the cop told them to get back, while Joe crabbed that he hadn’t done anything. A tough-mugged dick appeared from inside the poolroom and talked with the cop. He grabbed Joe by the arm and dragged him inside, heedless of Joe’s protests. Studs guessed it must be serious, and edged back in the crowd. He kept asking what had happened, and nobody knew, people saying it was a raid, a murder, a fight, a stabbing, a shooting, a chase after a robber. If it was serious and he tried to get in, he might be held for questioning, and he might, by accident, find himself giving one of his pals away. But none of them ever violated the law, except by drinking or going to can houses. He wondered.
With an air of mystery and authority, six lantern-jawed detectives emerged from the poolroom, putting their guns away in holsters beneath their coats. Talking, they clambered into the car, and shot off. The cop walked on. Studs rushed with others of the curious crowd into the poolroom. Everybody talked at once, and amidst all the gabbing, he finally pieced together the fact that nothing had happened. The dicks had just suddenly showed up with drawn guns, and lined everybody against the walls, and asked them useless questions. Then they had left. Most of the guys took it as a joke. George the Greek crabbed, because he said his business was getting a bad name. He declared, with many reiterations, that from now on, no more drinking, and rough-housing would go in his poolroom.
When the place quieted down, Studs shot a couple of rounds of poker dice with George. He won six bits’ worth of chips, good in trade. He moved away from the counter, and stood in a group of punks who were raking Rolfe over the coals. He looked at Rolfe’s outfit, a darkish gray topcoat, opened to reveal a blue herring-bone suit with blue-bordered handkerchief showing from the pocket, a blue English broadcloth shirt with collar attached, brown tie and black brogans.
“Phil, is that so that the only thing you read in the paper is Gallicoe’s column on what the well-dressed man wears?” asked Swede Larsen.
“Phil, they tell me that with all the sheiking you do, you still don’t know what it’s for,” Ellsworth Lyman said.
“Bug House Fable Number 999; Phillip Rolfe giving a penny to a starving blind man,” said Young Rocky.
“I just see you boys shoveling out dimes like you were John D.,” Phillip sharply retorted.
“Studs, it’s nigger date night tonight. It has a date,” Tommy Doyle shouted, passing along.
“It wouldn’t do a lot of you guys any harm if you invested a dime in a second-hand joke book,” Phillip said, walking off.
Skinny Joe Thomas asked Studs how about a game of pool. Studs said he thought maybe he could take Joe.
“Always ready to give you the chance. We’ll play fifty straight pool, and I’ll spot you ten. And just to make it interesting, we’ll play for half a buck, if you say so?”
Studs nodded, hating to take the handicap and admit that Joe was better than he was. But Joe had it on him with the cue, and if he refused the spot, he’d just look like a stuck-up sap. Joe reached with his cue, and set off ten beads on Studs’ side of the marking wire stretched above the table. Lagging for break with the ivory, Studs lost, and had to break. He chalked his cue, and took careful aim, planning just to graze off the eight ball on the right of the last row of the racked triangle of balls. He hit the ivory too hard and with poor aim, cracking seven balls loose from the rack-up. Joe sank three shots, and missed an easy one, but left Studs sewn up.