Place in the City by Howard Fast Page A

me,” he said. “I got married tonight, Timy, so help me God. And what do you think I’m going to call the first kid? Timothy Dolan. How do you like that?—Timothy Dolan on a little nine-pound brat.”
    â€œGeesus Christ,” Timy said. “You ain’t kidding?”
    â€œSo help me God!”
    â€œWho’s lucky—that little school teacher?”
    â€œRight. You work Meyer, Timy—so he don’t give her hell.”
    â€œYou leave that to me, Danny. Maybe you ain’t got the Jewish and the Irish vote sewed up. That’ll make you mayor some day. I’ll be a sonovabitch. An’ it was only yesterday that you was delivering papers on Timy Dolan’s route. Now I’ll be a sonovabitch!”
    â€œYou’re not sore, Timy?”
    â€œHell, no—congratulations, kid. Listen, kid, ain’t it a cinch now. The boys are all inside. They’re in a helluva good way, and the night ain’t begun. We got seven kegs of beer, and enough whisky to float the navy. And the night ain’t even begun. C’mon, kid.”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œHell, c’mon. You don’t get married none too often.”
    Alice was waiting; but this was only tonight, and there would be years after when they would be together. And a married man didn’t hit things on high. You were married, and then you settled down. Maybe you drifted away from the boys; that was only to be expected: but tonight the boys were still his friends. They had all come up together, right from the bottom with Timy. Now it wasn’t right to go away. He could stay for a little while, anyway.
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œListen, kid,” Timy told him. “You know how I feel about you. There ain’t a hell of a lot that I wouldn’t do for you. I think you’re straight in a tinhorn town, and there ain’t many. I don’t drink, but I’m going to get stinko tonight.”
    â€œGeesus, Timy—”
    â€œAwright.”
    As they came in, the music stopped. Timy stood in the middle of the hall waiting for silence. “Shut up, you drunken swine!” he yelled. Then to the band: “Play a wedding march! You heard me, didn’t you?” Then to Kraus: “G’wan down an’ break open some champagne, Dutch! Yeah, champagne. You heard me, didn’t you? We ain’t drinkin’ nothing but champagne tonight.”
    Danny forgot. The music went on. The boys drank and sang and gambled, and slapped him on the back. The boys all said that no girl in the world was good enough for him, and Danny thought so too. He drank until his belly was swollen up like a balloon, and then he went out into the hall and vomited for a good ten minutes. Coming back, he slipped. He crawled in and crawled over to Timy, who looked at him and shook his head.
    Timy grinned. “Yer drunk.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYer a good boy though.”
    â€œYeah.”
    Danny pulled himself up to the table, slumped into a chair, and stared at a Timy whose head was swollen to magnificent proportions, but the same Timy, with pink cheeks and smooth yellow hair, but big, big. He blinked his eyes.
    â€œYou get laid,” Timy told him. “Then you’ll feel better. You see if you don’t feel better then.”
    Kraus brought another bottle of champagne and began to pour. In Danny’s eyes, Kraus was a nightmare. He was grinning, but apparently he had no eyes. Just grinning folds of flesh.
    Moocher Mike, who ran the lottery game, was sitting next to Timy. As Timy spoke, he put his head down on the table and began to laugh. As he laughed, he licked the table with his tongue. Timy hit him in the head, behind the ear, and he fell off his chair, rolled under the table and lay there.
    â€œG’wan in the card-room, kid,” Timy said.
    Stumbling to his feet, Danny reeled over to the cardroom. He knew that he was very drunk, more drunk than he had ever been