The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [291]
“Oh, God! And my mother home sick. Oh, God, what will I do if I don’t get my money?” a middle-aged woman said, her eyes watery, her hair dishevelled under her black felt hat.
I guess it’s a bank going on the fritz, all right,” Studs said to Mort, who had edged in beside him.
“There’s no trouble. People just get excited. Irresponsible people, like the Reds, spread these rumors around, to cause trouble,” a fellow near Studs said.
“You work all your life and put your money in the bank and dese robbers, dese robbers, take it. You work all your life, eh, and then you say no, maybe it’s nothin’ just excitement. Yah,” a tall dour-faced, red-mustached foreigner in overalls exclaimed.
The fellow gave the foreigner a look of contempt and turned away.
“Nottin’! Nottin’! for a working man to lose his money. Yah, nottin’?”
Studs wondered was the foreigner in overalls a Red. He didn’t like him because he looked too much like the type who became bald-headed crabby janitors.
“You got anything in it?” Studs asked.
“Working men don’t have much money,” the fellow said, growling, and Studs thought that he had a lot of crust shooting his bazoo off when it wasn’t any skin off his teeth.
He noticed people squeezing out of the bank, and the line of people crushing forward. He and Mort edged toward the bank entrance, and they watched a gray-haired woman, with a creased, rough-skinned peasant face, a black shawl over her head, edge out with the blustering assistance of a policeman. Crisp money stuck from the edges of the bank book which she clutched fiercely in gnarled fingers.
“This way, Mother,” a burly, ruddy-faced policeman said, taking her arm and leading her across the street.
“Lucky old bitch!” Studs heard someone in the waiting line grumble.
“Hot roasted peanuts. Get something for your money while you can. Hot roasted peanuts!” a greasy man, wearing a white soda-jerker’s coat, shouted.
The crowd seemed constantly to be increasing, and the police shoved and pushed in their efforts to preserve order. Again and again Studs caught the glances of fright on people’s faces, the nervousness they revealed by biting their lips, furtively looking about, grimacing. Something was wrong somewhere, all right, and he guessed these people would have a goddamn legitimate squawk if they lost their dough.
A well-dressed man, with a sleek face and a white carnation in his buttonhole, emerged from the bank, smiling.
“Nothing wrong. Only a scare. Why, even a priest got up on a table in the bank and spoke, telling everybody to be calm and leave their money in there where it’s safe. He waved his bank book to show that he was leaving his parish funds in, and that’s where I left all my dough,” Studs heard the fellow say in a blustering, self-confident manner.
“You tink so?” a wiry little hook-nosed man asked.
“Sure thing, brother. Look,” the fellow with the carnation in his buttonhole said, waving his bank book.
A cheer went up. Studs was caught in the middle of a wave of pushing people. He squeezed himself slowly to a curb edge and saw an armored car and four armed guards escorting two men carrying money through a lane to the entrance made by the police. Studs smiled. The bank maybe wouldn’t fail, and these people wouldn’t lose their dough. The fewer banks that failed, the better off everything would be all around.
Mort touched his sleeve and they walked away, another cheer arising behind them.
“Fierce! Fierce! Money makes people into dogs,” Mort said.
“Hell on a lot of ‘em if the bank fails. But maybe it won’t. They were bringing in more money, and I just heard a fellow saying that a priest in a parish around here was in the bank speaking to the people, telling them to leave their dough in.”
“I hope so. I know what it means to people to be poor in their old age.”
“Well, it’s more than I can make out,” Studs said, shaking his head.
“And it’s a quarter after one. We got to hustle,