Read Online On the Waterfront by Budd Schulberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Budd Schulberg
Tags: General Fiction
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young Doyle, remembered the funeral of his father nineteen years earlier, when he was only eleven. Look at a priest and you may think, what does he know of the world, his collar cutting him off from knowledge of the world, secure for life in the bosom of the Church. But a priest is a man, small-minded or truly catholic, easily frightened or lion-brave, buttering up the parish richlings, or as concerned for the poor and the wretched as was Christ Himself.
Mrs. McLaverty, a plump woman whose slip was always showing, said to a neighbor woman, “Poor Katie. They was as close as twins.”
The other woman moaned. “The poor sweet thing. It’ll kill her, it will. Her only brother and she too good for this world.”
Mrs. Collins nearby could not be quieted. A little off her head since Andy was taken from her, everybody said, and good reason, with four kids half-orphaned, half-dressed, half-fed.
“You wait and see, God’ll be the judge.” She was talking sort of crazy. “The rats, they’ll burn in hell until kingdom come.”
Mutt Murphy staggered closer to the widow Collins and crossed himself elaborately. “Amen,” he said. “Lord’ve mercy on him. He was a saint, that Joey. Oney one tried to get me me compensation. He filled out me report fer me ’n …”
He was talking to himself again.
“Come on, outa the way, comin’ through …” The morgue wagon attendants were pushing through the crowd of curious and bereaved. A cop shoved the bleary Mutt Murphy roughly out of the way, so the basket could pass.
Mutt tried to slobber his condolences to Pop, but Runty also pushed him away. There was something about Mutt that was irresistibly pushable. And pushed or cuffed away he always swung back in your direction like a heavy punching bag. “Beat it, ya rummy,” Runty told him, throwing out his small tough chest in a characteristic bantam-cock gesture. “Leave the old man alone.”
Mutt shrugged and walked away, shaking his head at the world. Runty and Moose helped Pop along by their closeness as they all followed the body to the morgue wagon. Most of the people in the neighborhood were gathered solemnly on the sidewalk to watch the wagon drive away.
“C’mon,” Runty said to Pop. “Le’s go get a coupla balls in us.”
Five
L ONGSHOREMEN WHO HAD HURRIED to the tenement courtyard were streaming back to the Friendly Bar, in need of a drink. There wasn’t much talk about Joey Doyle. There were wiser things to do, with so many goons on the Earie, than to express any sympathy for him, safer just to dummy up and go about your business, have a drink, watch the fights, keep your nose clean. If there was any law in this jungle, that was it. There was a fight on TV, selling the beer, and the men who had stayed in the bar, for reasons of their own, and those whose curiosity had led them outside into the cluster around the priest and the intern and the cops were now drawn together into their common escape, the 21-inch screen where the violence was vicarious and relatively harmless.
Terry Malloy usually watched the fights Monday, Wednesday, Friday nights, looking on in a careless, hands-in-pocket, face-in-the-beer sort of way, shrugging off the guys who kept telling him what he could have done to those hamolas in the ring, but privately thinking a lot of young bums were getting away with murder to pull down the $4000 television money with nothing to go on except willingness and sometimes not even that. Not that Terry had been a ring master. He had been easy to hit; there was scar-tissue swelling over both eyes to prove it, but he had been strong and he had had the spirit for it and he knew a little about pacing himself and closing in on an opponent when he was ready to be taken. Only lost seven fights in forty-three, a pretty fair average for a kid brought along too fast, thrown in over his head a couple of times, and under wraps for the long odds in a couple of others. So Terry watched the fights, and once in a while
Mrs. McLaverty, a plump woman whose slip was always showing, said to a neighbor woman, “Poor Katie. They was as close as twins.”
The other woman moaned. “The poor sweet thing. It’ll kill her, it will. Her only brother and she too good for this world.”
Mrs. Collins nearby could not be quieted. A little off her head since Andy was taken from her, everybody said, and good reason, with four kids half-orphaned, half-dressed, half-fed.
“You wait and see, God’ll be the judge.” She was talking sort of crazy. “The rats, they’ll burn in hell until kingdom come.”
Mutt Murphy staggered closer to the widow Collins and crossed himself elaborately. “Amen,” he said. “Lord’ve mercy on him. He was a saint, that Joey. Oney one tried to get me me compensation. He filled out me report fer me ’n …”
He was talking to himself again.
“Come on, outa the way, comin’ through …” The morgue wagon attendants were pushing through the crowd of curious and bereaved. A cop shoved the bleary Mutt Murphy roughly out of the way, so the basket could pass.
Mutt tried to slobber his condolences to Pop, but Runty also pushed him away. There was something about Mutt that was irresistibly pushable. And pushed or cuffed away he always swung back in your direction like a heavy punching bag. “Beat it, ya rummy,” Runty told him, throwing out his small tough chest in a characteristic bantam-cock gesture. “Leave the old man alone.”
Mutt shrugged and walked away, shaking his head at the world. Runty and Moose helped Pop along by their closeness as they all followed the body to the morgue wagon. Most of the people in the neighborhood were gathered solemnly on the sidewalk to watch the wagon drive away.
“C’mon,” Runty said to Pop. “Le’s go get a coupla balls in us.”
Five
L ONGSHOREMEN WHO HAD HURRIED to the tenement courtyard were streaming back to the Friendly Bar, in need of a drink. There wasn’t much talk about Joey Doyle. There were wiser things to do, with so many goons on the Earie, than to express any sympathy for him, safer just to dummy up and go about your business, have a drink, watch the fights, keep your nose clean. If there was any law in this jungle, that was it. There was a fight on TV, selling the beer, and the men who had stayed in the bar, for reasons of their own, and those whose curiosity had led them outside into the cluster around the priest and the intern and the cops were now drawn together into their common escape, the 21-inch screen where the violence was vicarious and relatively harmless.
Terry Malloy usually watched the fights Monday, Wednesday, Friday nights, looking on in a careless, hands-in-pocket, face-in-the-beer sort of way, shrugging off the guys who kept telling him what he could have done to those hamolas in the ring, but privately thinking a lot of young bums were getting away with murder to pull down the $4000 television money with nothing to go on except willingness and sometimes not even that. Not that Terry had been a ring master. He had been easy to hit; there was scar-tissue swelling over both eyes to prove it, but he had been strong and he had had the spirit for it and he knew a little about pacing himself and closing in on an opponent when he was ready to be taken. Only lost seven fights in forty-three, a pretty fair average for a kid brought along too fast, thrown in over his head a couple of times, and under wraps for the long odds in a couple of others. So Terry watched the fights, and once in a while
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