The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [270]
Studs asked himself could he face guns, and fight like a gangster, and he felt that Studs Lonigan was yellow, and couldn’t be a Joey Gallagher. He sat breathless as the King’s mob rushed in cars to follow up the north side mob. The picture was getting close to the end. He wanted to see how it would turn out. And still he didn’t want it to end. He wanted it to go on for hours. Best picture he’d seen in a hell of a while. Butch McKee’s headquarters in a gambling house. Butch bragging that he was the King now. The entrance of Gallagher, the King, and their gorillas, Joey speaking his piece, telling Butch to get out of town in twenty-four hours.
Studs wished, Joey had bumped McKee off then and there. No use taking chances. Joey might be shot. But no, the hero in movies always pulled through. Still, this was a different picture. Joey would come through, he and the blond would get lined up, and it would end hotsy totsy. But no, he’d read about the picture in the papers, and if he remembered it right, Joey got shot. He didn’t want Joey to get shot.
The reception, Joey at the head of the table, as gangland’s acknowledged leader. Joey Studs Lonigan Gallagher laughing loudly as Spike jabbed his fork into a mug’s elbow for taking up so much room. Charlie Chaplin had pulled that in Shanghaied. He’d seen it as a kid, but it was still funny. Joey leaving the reception with the blond, her apartment, staying for the night. Laying her. Such a woman! Daddy! Sloane again. Just a friendly call. Hadn’t seen anyone who knew about the murder of Greasy Jones and Lefty Loomis. No, just a friendly call, and he’d be seeing Gallagher at the D. A.’s office one of these days. Why didn’t Joey get out of the racket now that he had dough, a woman, and he could pull through. The mother reading of Joey as gangland’s chief, crying, the brother soothing her. Life was tough on mothers, but then, they just didn’t understand. The tightening net of evidence. The blond squealing, ought to have her puss slapped, couldn’t trust that kind of a whoring bitch. Getting near the finish, and Jesus, he wanted Joey to come through it. Joey, unsuspecting, pointing to the advertising sign...
THE WORLD IS YOURS
Joey Gallagher again fading, in the mind of Studs Lonigan, into Studs Lonigan. Studs Lonigan, the world is yours. Take it. Oh, Christ, why hadn’t he had an exciting life like Joey Gallagher? It happened to some people. Look at Al Capone. Joey Gallagher escaping from dicks, over roofs, leaving town on a freight. Would he pick up somewheres, meet a decent girl, as in most movies, would he come back? Sinking lower and lower, living in a flop house, hanging around a poolroom. Hearing these cheap pikers talk about the man hunt for Joey Gallagher, and one of them reading Sloane’s statement in the paper.
“Gallagher is yellow.”
Gallagher meant business now. But it was dumb. Grabbing a freight back to show if he was yellow. Hell, he wouldn’t have done that. Meant the hot seat. But that was guts, guts. Gallagher telephoning Sloane. Sloane tracing the call. Cars on wet streets. Studs wished now, hoped, told himself, Christ, Gallagher couldn’t die. The cars. Gallagher rushing into the trap. Shot dead. He couldn’t be dead, and they were taking him home to his broken-hearted mother. The brother and Mr. Kennedy comforting her, and the corpse of Joey Gallagher. Dead. Death. He would die, too, some day, maybe not a hero’s death like Gallagher. But hell, it wasn’t worth it. Doomed victory. But he would die. Why hadn’t the picture ended differently, and he could think of how Joey Gallagher could go on in life, going up and up, meeting a dame hotter than the stool pieeon of a blond, go on and up like he wanted to himself. Dead. Like a part of himself.