The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [331]
“Just a minute, fellow. I didn’t mean nothing personal. The sergeant’s just on my tail because there’s been so many histing jobs pulled off around here, and I got my orders to keep my eyes peeled for suspicious-looking characters. I seen you here, and the only way I could find out whether you was a suspicious character or not is by asking you questions and finding out, isn’t it? It’s nothing personal. And my name’s McGoorty.”
“Sure, I know,” Studs said, toning down. “I was just walking around, and it sounded kind of funny because, hell, I ain’t got nothing to hide, and I was just walking around because I didn’t have anything else to do.”
“A cop, you know, has to make certain about things, that’s all.”
“I know how it is,” Studs said, thinking that Officer McGoorty had dumbness written pretty plainly all over his map.
“That’s it. We don’t take chances, because it’s our business not to.”
“Yes,” Studs said.
“Well, so long, Lonigan. I’ll be seeing you around. I got to amble along to the box at the corner.”
Studs watched him move toward the corner. He turned eastward, thinking that it was pretty dumb, having nothing to do. What was Catherine doing, and was she, at this very moment, thinking of him? Had to keep his mind off her, though, or he’d go cuckoo. Couldn’t have another night like last night. But had she, or would she telephone him? He could see her, begging forgiveness at their next meeting, while he was aloof, just to teach her a lesson. But he probably wouldn’t act that way, because he wanted the scrap patched up.
Did you ever hear Pete
Go tweet, tweet, tweet on his piccolo?
Radios all over. And he hated that damn song. But women, now, they never did seem to know their own minds, or what they wanted, so how could a guy know it? Even so, and even if he was in the right, still, he needn’t have been so goddamn mean to her. Yes, he was kind of sorry about it.
He haphazardly stared in a fish-store window at the unshaven man in a dirty apron behind the counter. He laughed, thinking that the fellow was a dead ringer for Abie Kabibble. He moved along, and stopped at the window of a book store and rental library, looking from a stack of greeting cards to books piled up and spread around the window, with their bright jackets, reading the titles, Lumber, Jews Without Money, The Woman of Andros, The Crystal Icicle, Iron Man, The Mystery of Madame Q, Bottom Dogs, Arctic Quest. Sometime he might rent one or two of the books they had and do a little reading, he reflected, turning away from the window. Nice, it was, walking along here at this time of day, sunny, people coming and going, young married women, some pushing baby buggies, neat, swell-looking girls with their figures developed just right, not at all bad on the eyes. Two of them ahead, dressed smartly in black suits. Funny, too, that girls like that would be walking along on the street so calm and haughty, and even high-hat. And yet they would, with their husbands or whoever was the right fellow for them, lose all their cold haughtiness. If it was the right time, and the right fellow was feeling and necking them, they would pant, burn up, their faces would change and they would become so passionate that they’d almost suffer until the guy fixed them up. Just like Catherine in the hallway when she’d run upstairs to prevent herself from going the limit. And wouldn’t he like to be the guy to fix up one of these younger married girls around here? One like Weary Reilley’s sister, Fran. Suppose he should meet her now, and that should happen. Just looking at her was enough to show how much passion she had in her. And now that she was married. To see her and get fixed up regular on mornings like this while her husband was down on La Salle Street. That’s what would make life a little interesting.