Studs Lonigan (61 page)

“Oh,” said Weary, shaking his shoulders in a gesture indicating that there was nothing to say.

“How come you're here,” asked Weary.

“Hell, I heard the punks around the poolroom gassing about the place, so I thought I'd see them in action.”

“Listen, we'll have a crap game in the can in a little while. Come on and get in. Buddy Coen and the guys will be around. You know him, don't you.”

“No, but I heard about him.”

“Well, the lads probably know you by name too.”

Studs felt more at home now. He was not talking with punks.

“I got this hop. See you later.”

Studs watched Weary go over to a sexy-looking dark broad in a black velvet dress. They moved among the dancers. He envied Weary because the guy danced so well. He wanted to meet the lads. They probably heard that he was the guy who'd once licked Weary Reilley. He wished some of the broads who knew Reilley knew who he was.

A tall girl, with long blond hair and a purple dress that made her figure sylph-like, stood a few feet away. Studs was wordless looking at her. She turned. It was Helen Shires' kid sister, Marion. And only a few years ago she hadn't known enough to wipe her nose, and one summer, too, they'd thought she was going to die from infantile paralysis.

Like Fritzie. Hell, she was practically a woman, she had everything. She was young, girl-like and woman-like, full of spirits and fun, and gay, with small straight breasts you almost ached to touch, nice figure, pretty as a picture, nice to see, like sunlight, like spring, like a flower blooming, like Lucy had been just before she'd moved from the neighborhood. He saw the same thing in Marion Shires that he'd seen in Lucy that day when the punks had been having their fight with tin cans in the prairie. He perceived that she was gazing at him.

“Say, aren't you Helen Shires' sister?”

“Why, yes. You're Studs Lonigan.”

“You've grown into a fine-looking lady. I hardly knew you.”

“Thank you.”

“How's Helen?”

“She's fine. She's working downtown.”

“I haven't seen her in a long time.”

“Times change,” laughed Marion Shires with disconcerting self-possession.

Studs figured the punks must break their necks over a girl like her. He felt suddenly proud, though, of his sister Fritzie. She didn't come to a hole like this. She was too decent.

“I never expected to see you here,” said Marion.

“Oh, I don't come here regularly. I was just looking the place over.”

“So am I. Like it?”

“I suppose the kids have a good time.”

“Mr. Experience. But aren't you going to ask me to dance, or am I one of the . . . kids?” she asked as the music started.

“Why, it'll be a pleasure,” Studs said, trying to be gentlemanly.

They walked to the floor, and danced. She lay against him with her head tilted back. He tried to hold himself in, because, after all, she was Helen's sister, and she was only a kid. Hell, he'd expect a guy to be white to his sisters, and if they weren't, he'd sock them. After the second piece, he couldn't do that. He gave her what he guessed she wanted. Suddenly she drew back, and her face seemed to go cold.

“You still live on Indiana Avenue?” he asked, figuring that she was a damn little teaser trying to make a monkey out of him.

“Yes.”

“I suppose you're going to high school?”

“Englewood. I'll graduate this year.”

“So is Loretta.”

“Yes, I see her a lot at dances.”

He was glad when the dance ended. He told her it was very nice to have danced with her, and asked to be remembered to Helen.

The little teasing bitch, somebody ought to cold-cock her, he thought. He looked at her surrounded by four cake-eaters. He saw O'Neill go up to her and he could tell by the sudden disappointment on the punk's face that she had refused to dance with him. He smiled. The Swede pig he'd danced with edged towards him. He moved off as if he hadn't seen her. He watched a guy with a bald head and pincenez glasses shine up to a wrinkled-faced Polack. Made him realize that the joint looked like a freak show. Next to them, a kid, she couldn't be more than fourteen, was oogle-eyeing a high school punk.

Young Rocky rushed up, glad to see Studs. He remarked about all the keen janes there were for the dance. Phil Rolfe joined them, saying it was a surprise to see Studs Lonigan present. Studs was condescending. They toddled off after a jane. The punks sure felt their oats, and strutted their stuff. He felt that he'd come to the wrong place. He should have gone to the Midway Gardens or Trianon where the bunch was older. It was robbing the cradle here. Hennessey tried to mooch two bits off of him. He told Hennessey to try it on some of the broads. Hennessey said he was known here and didn't try to pinch pocketbooks. Studs realized that Hennessey was goddamn proud of being skillful at robbing pocketbooks; he hated the louse.

Studs stood, posing and watching with a smirk of superiority on his face. He liked to see them pass, see their faces. The youngest Bleu kid, dark, tall—hell, almost six feet—went dancing by, his nose up in the air as if it were severed from his face; he kept glancing all about him as he danced, looking, Studs guessed, for everyone to notice him. The kid he had only came up to his shoulder, and she looked damn young. Christ, he'd be robbing the cradle here. Weary winked as he went by, crudely socking it into a plump girl.

A fake collegian, one of these guys who bought college boy suits on the installment plan, danced by like a whirlwind. Noel Morton followed, turning in a speedy succession of circles, his coat tails flying behind him as if they were affected by strong winds. The jazz was fast and full of sex. Studs' blood thumped. His feet worked. He turned, and saw a kid, she couldn't have been a day over sixteen, making eyes at him. An awfully sweet-looking kid, with large black eyes. It was pretty just to look at her, her body half-formed, thin, so touched with energy. She smiled as he took a step towards her. They walked to the floor. She clung close, followed every step with lightness, and it would have seemed as if he were dancing with himself, if she had not held herself so tight against him. She chattered steadily, telling him about a movie she had seen. Then she said that her name was Nellie, and explained that it was her first time up here. She described a crazy woman with an accent who taught her history at Park High, and talked all the time about ouija boards, so funny. When they drew into a corner, she heated him up with a twisting little wiggle. It made him feel like a bastard. Christ, she was younger than Loretta, and seemed so damn innocent. A kid coming into it all. He tried to draw away from her, but she squeezed more tightly, and her breath came down hot on his cheek. He looked down at her, and her responding smile was tight and forced, almost painful. He felt like a bastard, but he couldn't control himself, and they danced sidewise, socking and shimmying the whole length of the floor. At the end of the dance, she was limp and perspiring. She said she was going to hold the eleventh dance open for him.

He bumped into Weary again, and Reilley asked him to come on back to the crap game. Weary stopped to talk to some guy a minute and Studs waited. They walked back. The music began and dancers passed them. Weary suddenly stopped, frowned.

“Why, that sonofabitch!” he said, standing with hands on hips. Studs saw June Reilley, dancing with a slim fellow, who was about two inches taller than Weary. She seemed to see her brother, and a look of fright came swiftly on her pretty dark face. She seemed just like the kid he'd danced with. It made him wonder, was something happening to girls with this jazz age. Weary motioned for June to come to him. She said something to her partner, and they danced over towards Weary and Studs.

“What are you doing here?”

“Why . . . Why, I was dancing. There's nothing wrong with my dancing. . . . You come here and dance, don't you?”

“Nobody told you you could. You go on home, and do it quick. If you ever come back here, I'll slap your little face. You've got no right here. Hear me!”

A great big baby tear rolled down her cheek.

“Go on!”

“I won't. You have no right to make me, or tell me what to do. You're not my boss and I don't have to do what you tell me to. I won't go.”

A crowd gathered. Her tall dancing partner edged out of sight. June broke into uncontrollable tears.

“I'll tell you once more to leave or get dragged out of here!”

“I won't,” she said, sweet and cute, as she cried and stamped her right foot.

He took hold of her right arm. She walked off, crying.

“Where did Bain, that bastard, go?” Weary said.

“Who's that?”

“The louse who was dancing with her.”

Weary ran about, looking, followed by a small crowd. Finally he gave it up.

“I'll get the bastard,” Weary said.

He and Studs went to the can, in back of the stage. Twelve guys stood in a circle shooting craps. Buddy Coen, a wiry little guy with a snotty face, said hello to Weary. He and Studs were introduced. The game went on with a big ox shooting.

“Come on. Shake them dice!” Buddy said.

“I'm shaking.”

“Well, shake 'em harder!” Buddy said.

The guy looked at Buddy and shook. He won his pot. Buddy, running the game, took a ten-percent cut on the dough. The guy handed Coen five bucks.

“Five. Five bucks. Who'll fade. Come on, you cheap skates!”

Studs handed him two dollars.

“Three bucks!”

A little fellow, whom Weary had called Razz, faded another dollar. Somebody else took the last two. The fellow shook and made his seven. He shot the ten. Studs took five of it. The guy won. He shot fifteen.

“Shake 'em this time, you!”

“I'm shaking.”

“Well, see that you do!”

Weary frowned at the guy, and faded ten of the fifteen. Studs took the other five. The guy made his point.

“Now, let's see them dice!” said Buddy, holding the pot.

“They'll be all right!”

Buddy took a step forwards. Weary crowded in. Three husky micks stood by the ox who held the dice. Weary grabbed the dice from the guy. He, the big ox, and three other fellows edged backwards.

“You sonofabitch! Loaded!”

Weary pumped his right into the ox's eye. Two fellows jumped Weary. Buddy Coen swung and brought his knee into a groin. A fellow went down moaning. The ox swung at Studs. Studs ducked. He hit the wall and winced. Studs swung. The ox dropped, and Buddy kicked him in the head. He moaned, and crawled towards the door. Studs jumped on the back of a guy tackling Weary and got a stomach hold. Studs followed the group out, chasing the bunch who'd cheated in the crap game. The dancing stopped and everybody swirled about, a milling crowd. Girls screamed. Studs ran downstairs with Weary and Buddy, but the guys got away. He learned that they were from Sixty-third and Halsted. Buddy and some of the other lads shook hands with Studs, told him he was white and had guts. Studs felt good, like a hero. Coen gave him ten bucks back from the pot he had held just before the fight started. They chipped in for a bottle, and Studs went back to dance. He found Nellie. She said the fight was terrible.

“They were rats. They got what they deserved. Every one of them should have had his teeth kicked in,” Studs said.

“My, what language!”

“Thataboy, Studs,” said Phil Rolfe, passing him.

Studs felt like he belonged there, and it made all the difference in the world.

“You must be a terrible fighter.”

He shrugged his shoulders a trifle. He didn't want to brag or talk about it a lot, but he was pleased with what she said. He started talking, against his will:

“Well, what I do is keep in good condition, and then, if any trouble starts or I have to fight, I can take care of myself.”

“That's very sensible.”

“There's a lot of things I can take care of,” Studs said in innuendo.

“Yes,” she said knowingly.

“Sure.”

“For instance?”

“Well, girls and . . .”

“I'll bet you could, at that.”

“You can't keep a good man down,” he said.

She smiled an invitation.

After the dance he left her, and decided that he wouldn't, couldn't be the bastard to take her cherry. But he was tempted. He'd never been first with a girl. He wouldn't, and anyway, she was just jail bait and he could get into all kinds of trouble.

The liquor came, and he went back to the can with Weary and some of the boys. He took a swig. It was pretty strong, and he had to fight to get it down.

“Good stuff,” he said.

“Sure it is,” said Weary.

“To those bastards we cleaned! May they walk under a street car and forget to wake up,” Buddy said, raising the bottle.

He drank and they laughed.

“Say, Lonigan, where do you hang out, Fifty-eighth Street?” asked Coen.

Studs nodded.

“Well, drop around and see us any time. We can always get a bottle, and maybe some janes, and can have a little party, or else a game. You know! We got a white bunch around here, and we always like to have more white men with us.”

Studs thought that Weary glowered a bit at him. If he came, he supposed he'd have to tangle again with Weary sooner or later. Anyway he would. Goddamn it, he'd take Weary again. He was in condition, and he'd stay that way.

After the dance, he found Nellie waiting for him. She took his arm and started walking away with him. It was too much. If he was a bastard or not, he couldn't help himself. He looked at her. He was proud he was going to get something so sweet, even if he was a bastard for doing it. If he didn't, somebody else would.