Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [88]
“Where’s that old man?” Santa asked the front shutters.
“Maybe he ain’t gonna come.”
“Maybe he forgot.”
“That’s the way it is with old folks, honey.”
“He ain’t that old, Irene.”
“How old is he?”
“Someplace in his late sixties, I guess.”
“Well, that ain’t too old. My poor old Tante Marguerite, the one I told you them kids beat up on to get fifty cents out her coin purse, she going on eighty.” Mrs. Reilly finished her drink. “Maybe he went to see a nice picture show or something. Santa, you mind if I make me another drink.”
“Irene! You gonna be on the floor, girl. I ain’t gonna introduce no drunk to this nice old man.”
“I’ll make me a small one. I got nerves tonight.”
Mrs. Reilly slopped a great deal of whiskey into her glass and sat down again, crushing one of the bags of potato chips.
“Oh, Lord, what I done now?”
“You just smashed them potato chips,” Santa said a little angrily.
“Aw, they all crumbs now,” Mrs. Reilly said, pulling the bag from beneath her. She studied the flattened cellophane. “Listen, Santa, what time you got? Ignatius says he’s sure the burgulars is striking tonight and for me to get in early.”
“Oh, take it easy, Irene. You just got here.”
“To tell you the truth, Santa, I don’t think I want to meet this old man.”
“Well, it’s too late now.”
“Yeah, but what me and this old man gonna do?” Mrs. Reilly asked apprehensively.
“Aw, relax, Irene. You making me nervous. I’m sorry I axt you over.” Santa pulled Mrs. Reilly’s drink down from her lips for a moment. “Now listen to me. You had arthritus very bad. The bowling’s helping that out. Right? You was stuck home with that crazy boy every night until Santa come along. Right? Now listen to Santa, precious. You don’t wanna end up all alone with that Ignatius on your hands. This old man looks like he’s got him a little money. He dresses neat. He knows you from somewhere. He likes you.” Santa looked Mrs. Reilly in the eye. “This old man can pay off your debt!”
“Yeah?” Mrs. Reilly hadn’t thought of this before. The old man suddenly became a little more attractive. “He’s clean?”
“Sure he’s clean,” Santa said angrily. “You think I’m trying fix my friend up with a bum?”
Someone knocked lightly at the shutters on the front door.
“Oh, I bet that’s him,” Santa said eagerly.
“Tell him I hadda go, honey.”
“Go? Where you goint to, Irene? The man’s right by the front door.”
“He is, huh?”
“Lemme go take a look.”
Santa opened the door and pushed the shutters outward.
“Hey, Mr. Robichaux,” she said into the night to someone whom Mrs. Reilly couldn’t see. “We been waiting for you. My friend Miss Reilly here’s been wondering where you was. Come on in out the cold.”
“Yeah, Miss Battaglia, I’m sorry I’m a little late, but I had to take my little granchirren around the neighborhood. They raffling some rosaries for the sisters.”
“I know,” Santa said. “I bought a chance from a little kid just the other day. They beautiful rosaries. A lady I know won the outboard motor the sisters was raffling last year.”
Mrs. Reilly sat frozen on the sofa staring into her drink as if she had just discovered a roach floating in it.
“Irene!” Santa cried. “What you doing, girl? Say ‘hello’ to Mr. Robichaux.”
Mrs. Reilly looked up and recognized the old man whom Patrolman Mancuso had arrested in front of D. H. Holmes.
“Glad to meet you,” Mrs. Reilly said to her drink.
“Maybe Miss Reilly don’t remember,” Mr. Robichaux told Santa, who was beaming happily, “but we met before.”
“To think you two are old friends,” Santa said happily. “It’s sure a small world.”
“Ay-yi-yi,” Mrs. Reilly said, her voice choked with misery. “Eh, la la.”
“You remember,” Mr. Robichaux said to her. “It was downtown by Holmes. That policeman tried to take in your boy and he took me in instead.”
Santa’s eyes opened wide.
“Oh, yeah,” Mrs. Reilly said. “I think I remember now. A little.”
“It wasn’t your fault though, Miss Reilly. It’s them police. They all a bunch of communiss.”
“Not so loud,” Mrs. Reilly cautioned. “They got