Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [46]
So this was Patrolman Mancuso’s aunt. Only Patrolman Mancuso could have something like that for an aunt, Ignatius snorted to himself.
“Whoo!” Mrs. Reilly screamed gaily. “Santa!”
“Watch this, kids,” the gray-haired woman screamed back like a prizefight referee and began shaking lower and lower until she was almost on the floor.
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius said to the wind.
“You gonna bust a gut, girl,” Mrs. Reilly laughed. “You gonna go through my good floor.”
“Maybe you better stop, Aunt Santa,” Patrolman Mancuso said morosely.
“Hell, I ain’t stopping now. I just got here,” the woman answered, rising rhythmically. “Who says a grammaw can’t dance no more?”
Holding her arms outward, the woman bumped across the linoleum runway.
“Lord!” Mrs. Reilly said and guffawed, tipping the whiskey bottle to her glass. “What if Ignatius comes home and sees this.”
“Fuck Ignatius!”
“Santa!” Mrs. Reilly gasped, shocked but, Ignatius noticed, slightly pleased.
“You people cut it out,” Miss Annie screamed through her shutters.
“Who’s that?” Santa asked Mrs. Reilly.
“Cut it out before I ring up the cops,” Miss Annie’s muffled voice cried.
“Please stop,” Patrolman Mancuso pleaded nervously.
Five
Darlene was pouring water into the half-filled liquor bottles behind the bar.
“Hey, Darlene, listen to this shit,” Lana Lee commanded, folding the newspaper and weighting it down with her ashtray. “‘Frieda Club, Betty Bumper, and Liz Steele, all of 796 St. Peter St., were arrested from El Caballo Lounge, 570 Burgundy St., last night and booked with disturbing the peace and creating a public nuisance. According to arresting officers, the incident started when an unidentified man made a proposal to one of the women. The woman’s two companions struck the man, who fled from the lounge. The Steele woman threw a stool at the bartender, and the other two women menaced customers in the lounge with stools and broken beer bottles. Customers in the lounge said that the man who fled was wearing bowling shoes.’ How’s about that? People like that are ruining the Quarter. Some honest Joe tries to make off with one of those dykes and they try to beat him up. Once upon a time it was nice and straight around here. Now it’s all dykes and fairies. No wonder business stinks. I can’t stand dykes. I can’t!”
“The only people we get in here at night anymore is plainclothesmen,” Darlene said. “How come they don’t get a plainclothesman after women like that?”
“This place is turning into a goddam precinct. All I’m putting on is a benefit show for the Policemen’s Benevolent Association,” Lana said disgustedly. “A lotta empty space and few cops throwing signals at each other. Half the time I gotta watch you, brain, to see you don’t try to sell them a drink.”
“Well, Lana,” Darlene said. “How I’m supposed to know who’s a cop? Everybody looks the same to me.” She blew her nose. “I try to make a living.”
“You tell a cop by his eyes, Darlene. They’re very self-assured. I been in this business too long. I know every dirty cop angle. The marked bills, the phony clothes. If you can’t tell by the eyes, then take a look at the money. It’s full of pencil marks and crap.”
“How I’m supposed to see the money? It’s so dark in here I can hardly see the eyes even.”
“Well, we’re gonna have to do something about you. I don’t want you sittin out here on my stools. You’re gonna try to sell a double martini to the chief of police one of these nights.”
“Then let me get on the stage and dance. I got a socko routine.”
“Oh, shut up,” Lana hollered. If Jones knew about the police in the place at night, then goodbye,