Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [125]
“Then do you want me to say I wrote that?”
“Of course not!” Mrs. Levy screamed at her husband. “I’m supposed to end in the poorhouse? If the young idealist wrote it, he goes to jail for forgery.”
“Say, what’s going on?” Mr. Zalatimo asked. “Is this dump gonna close down or what? I mean, I’d like to know.”
“Shut up, gangster,” Mrs. Levy answered wildly, “before we pin it on you.”
“Huh?”
“Will you keep quiet? You’re getting everything confused,” Mr. Levy said to his wife. Then he turned to the office manager. “Get me this Reilly’s phone number.”
Mr. Gonzalez awakened Miss Trixie and asked her for a phone book.
“I keep all of the phone books,” Miss Trixie snapped. “And no one is going to use them.”
“Then look up a Reilly on Constantinople Street for us.”
“Well, all right, Gomez,” Miss Trixie snarled. “Hold your horses.” She took the three hoarded office telephone books out of some recess in her desk, and, studying the pages with a magnifying glass, gave them a number.
Mr. Levy dialed it and a voice answered, “Good morning. Regal Cleaners.”
“Give me one of those phone books,” Mr. Levy hollered.
“No,” Miss Trixie rasped, slapping her hand down on the stack of books, guarding them with her newly enameled nails. “You’ll only lose it. I’ll find the right number. I must say you people are very impatient and excitable. Staying at your house took ten years off my life. Why can’t you let poor Reilly alone? You already kicked him out over nothing.”
Mr. Levy dialed the second number that she gave him. A woman who sounded slightly intoxicated answered and told him that Mr. Reilly wouldn’t be home until late in the afternoon. Then she started crying, and Mr. Levy got depressed and thanked her and hung up.
“Well, he’s not at home,” Mr. Levy told the audience in the office.
“Mr. Reilly always seemed to have the best interests of Levy Pants at heart,” the office manager said sadly. “Why he started that riot I’ll never know.”
“For one thing because he had a police record.”
“When he came to apply, I certainly didn’t think he was a police character.” The office manager shook his head. “He seemed so refined.”
Mr. Gonzalez watched Mr. Zalatimo probing his long index finger high into one of his nostrils. What would this one do? His feet tingled with fear.
The factory door banged open and one of the workers screamed, “Hey, Mr. Gonzalez, Mr. Palerma just burn his hand on one of them furnace door.”
There were sounds of disorder in the factory. A man was cursing.
“Oh, my goodness,” Mr. Gonzalez cried. “Quiet the workers. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Come on,” Mr. Levy said to his wife. “Let’s get out of here. I’m getting heartburn.”
“Just a moment.” Mrs. Levy gestured to Mr. Gonzalez. “About Miss Trixie. I want you to give her a welcome every morning. Give her meaningful work to do. In the past her insecurity probably made her afraid of taking any responsible work. I think she’s over that now. Basically she has a deep seated hatred of Levy Pants that I’ve analyzed as being rooted in fear. The insecurity and fear have led to hatred.”
“Of course,” the office manager said, half listening. The factory sounded bad.
“Go see about the factory, Gonzalez,” Mr. Levy said. “I’ll get in touch with Reilly.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Gonzalez made a deep bow to them and dashed out of the office.
“Okay.” Mr. Levy was holding the door open. Just come near Levy Pants and you were subjected to all sorts of annoyances and depressing influences. You couldn’t leave the place alone for a minute. Anyone who wanted to take it easy and not be bothered had better not have a company like Levy Pants. Gonzalez didn’t even know what kind of mail was going out of the office. “Come on, Dr. Freud. Let’s go.”
“Look how calm you are. It doesn’t matter to you that Abelman is about to sue our lives away if he can.” The aquamarine lids trembled. “Aren’t you going to get the idealist?”
“Some other time. I’ve had enough for one day.”
“Meanwhile Abelman has Scotland Yard at our throats.”
“He’s not even home.” Mr. Levy