Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [8]
“A pervert, huh?” the sergeant asked greedily.
“Yes,” Mancuso said with new confidence. “A great big prevert.”
“How big?”
“The biggest I ever saw in my whole life,” Mancuso said, stretching his arms as if he were describing a fishing catch. The sergeant’s eyes shone. “The first thing I spotted was this green hunting cap he was wearing.”
Jones listened in attentive detachment somewhere within his cloud.
“Well, what happened, Mancuso? How come he’s not standing here before me?”
“He got away. This woman came out the store and got everything mixed up, and she and him run around the corner into the Quarter.”
“Oh, two Quarter characters,” the sergeant said, suddenly enlightened.
“No, sir,” the old man interrupted. “She was really his momma. A nice, pretty lady. I seen them downtown before. This policeman frightened her.”
“Oh, listen, Mancuso,” the sergeant screamed. “You’re the only guy on the force who’d try to arrest somebody away from his mother. And why did you bring in grampaw here? Ring up his family and tell them to come get him.”
“Please,” Mr. Robichaux pleaded. “Don’t do that. My daughter’s busy with her kids. I never been arrested in my whole life. She can’t come get me. What are my granchirren gonna think? They’re all studying with the sisters.”
“Get his daughter’s number, Mancuso. That’ll teach him to call us communiss!”
“Please!” Mr. Robichaux was in tears. “My granchirren respect me.”
“Jesus Christ!” the sergeant said. “Trying to arrest a kid with his momma, bringing in somebody’s grampaw. Get the hell outta here, Mancuso, and take grampaw with you. You wanna arrest suspicious characters? We’ll fix you up.”
“Yes, sir,” Mancuso said weakly, leading the weeping old man away.
“Ooo-wee!” Jones said from the secrecy of his cloud.
III
Twilight was settling around the Night of Joy bar. Outside, Bourbon Street was beginning to light up. Neon signs flashed off and on, reflecting in the streets dampened by the light mist that had been falling steadily for some time. The taxis bringing the evening’s first customers, midwestern tourists and conventioneers, made slight splashing sounds in the cold dusk.
A few other customers were in the Night of Joy, a man who ran his finger along a racing form, a depressed blonde who seemed connected with the bar in some capacity, and an elegantly dressed young man who chainsmoked Salems and drank frozen daiquiris in gulps.
“Ignatius, we better go,” Mrs. Reilly said and belched.
“What?” Ignatius bellowed. “We must stay to watch the corruption. It’s already beginning to set in.”
The elegant young man spilled his daiquiri on his bottle-green velvet jacket.
“Hey, bartender,” Mrs. Reilly called. “Get a rag. One of the customers just spilled they drink.”
“That’s quite all right, darling,” the young man said angrily. He arched an eyebrow at Ignatius and his mother. “I think I’m in the wrong bar anyway.”
“Don’t get upset, honey,” Mrs. Reilly counseled. “What’s that you drinking? It looks like a pineapple snowball.”
“Even if I described it to you, I doubt whether you’d understand what it is.”
“How dare you talk to my dear, beloved mother like that!”
“Oh, hush, you big thing,” the young man snapped. “Just look at my jacket.”
“It’s totally grotesque.”
“Okay, now. Let’s be friends,” Mrs. Reilly said through foamy lips. “We got enough bombs and things already.”
“And your son seems to delight in dropping them, I must say.”
“Okay, you two. This is the kinda place where everybody oughta have themselves some fun.” Mrs. Reilly smiled at the young man. “Let me buy you another drink, babe, for the one you spilled. And I think I’ll take me another Dixie.”
“I really must run,” the young man sighed. “Thanks anyway.”
“On a night like this?” Mrs. Reilly asked. “Aw, don’t pay no mind to what Ignatius says. Why don’t you stay and see the show?”
The young man rolled his eyes heavenward.
“Yeah.” The blonde broke her silence. “See some ass and tits.”
“Mother,” Ignatius said coldly. “I do believe that you are encouraging these preposterous people.”
“Well, you