The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [169]
“Hello, Studs,” Phil Rolfe ingratiated, while the boys still laughed at Barney’s wit. Phillip rolled the cigar in his mouth. Studs acted as if he hadn’t heard the greeting.
“Yeah, too bad, but we all got to go sometime,” Phillip said, finding a chair in back of Studs.
The room snapped into rigid quiet with the appearance of Mr. Sheehan. He ignored the remarks politely directed at him. Red arose and offered him a chair. He looked around and walked out.
“Just like a ghost,” Red dolefully said.
“Hey, Barney, you rat, when you going to sober up?” Mickey asked from the fogs of inebriation.
“Can it, Flannagan, before we toss you on your ear,” Red said.
“I’ll sober up when I put a lily on the grave of every pig s—t Irishman here,” Barney said.
“Come on, you guys,” Red repeated.
“Say, Studs, you know, isn’t it a shame. You know, Arnold, he was my friend,” Vinc Curley said.
“Say, Goof, dry up,” Studs said. Vinc looked at Studs, hurt.
“I remember the time that Arnold and I got pie-eyed in a black-and-tan joint. You know he went for a high brown, Georgia Brown, and, boy, I thought we’d get our throats slashed from ear to ear,” Benny Taite said.
“Hey, Benny, is that the only thing you can think of now that Arnold is dead? You can’t think of anything else, can you—the time you might have seen him coming home with a present to his mother or something?”
“Gee, Red, I didn’t mean anything,” Benny said.
“Well, those aren’t the kind of breaks you want to be making at a time like this,” Kelly snapped.
Everybody laughed as Kenny Kilarney came in with that goofy, boyish smile on his thin face, just as it always was.
“Boys, this is Timothy O’Shea,” he said, pointing his finger at the character with him.
“Hi, boys!” Timothy O’Shea said like a prizefighter accepting well-earned applause. He swam in a huge, flowing overcoat, and had a rough, wide, surly face. He pushed his dirty fedora on the back of his head, and smiled.
“Say, boys, excuse me a minute!” Timothy O’Shea said, going to the sink; he relieved himself.
They were too surprised to speak. He took a seat. Horace came with the box of cigars. Timothy O’Shea and Kenny each took two.
“Hell, you guys are all hoods. I’m going,” Jim Doyle said.
“Sit down, Jim, and tell us about the political outlook for next fall,” said Studs.
“Democratic landslide.”
“What do you think of the mayor, Jim?” asked Red.
“He’s a Sunday School mayor,” Jim said.
“Bill Dever, oh, he’s all right, Bill is, if you know how to take him,” Timothy O’Shea said.
“You know him?” Jim asked hostilely.
“Sure, him and my old man is like that,” Timothy O’Shea said, crossing the second and third fingers on his right hand and holding them up in indication of closeness.
“Say, Jim, say?” Curley called.
“You in the political game?” asked Doyle.
“Sure! Me, I’m in everything. Christ, yes,” Timothy O’Shea said.
“Listen, Jim, I wanted to ask you if you wanted to go to the Tivoli with me some night this week?” Curley said.
“Hey, Curley, did anybody ever tell you that you were a pest?” said Jim; they laughed.
Fat Malloy arrived and glad-handed all the boys. Studs said he acted like he was a pupil of Jim Doyle’s.
“You know, fellows, I hate it, having to think that Arnold’s gone from us like this,” Les said.
“Yeah, Les, you’ll have to drink more to make up for what he won’t, huh?” said Tommy.
“Say, Kenny, where in hell you been keeping yourself?” asked Studs.
“Out of the pen,” Kenny said.
“Same old Kilarney. But tell me, are you working?” Red said.
“Sure, everybody.”
“Say, any drinks in the joint?” asked Timothy O’Shea. No one answered him.
“Hell, come on, Kilarney. I thought you said there’d be some sparkling waters here. Come on, this joint is a hell of a wake,” Timothy said.
“Brother, we got respect for the dead,” said Red.
“Sure, you run a wake like you were all Jews. If I hung around I’d have to drink noodle soup. Come on, Kilarney,” Timothy O’Shea said, leaving, his huge coat swinging after him.
Kenny followed him and left a roomful of soreheads.
“If it wouldn’t have been disrespectful, I