Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [89]
“I see whatcha mean, honey.” Santa turned to Mr. Robichaux. “Listen, when you seen my friend and me down by the bowling alley, you didn’t see no man with us, huh?”
“You ladies was all alone.”
“Wasn’t that the night A. got himself arrested?” Mrs. Reilly whispered to Santa.
“Oh, yeah, Irene. You come by for me in that car of yours. You remember the fender came loose entirely right in front the bowling alley.”
“I know. I got it in the backseat. Ignatius is the one made me wreck that car, he got me so nervous from the backseat.”
“Aw, no,” Mr. Robichaux said. “The one thing I can’t stand is a poor loser or a bad sport.”
“If somebody does me dirt,” Santa continued, “I try to turn the other cheek. You know what I mean? That’s the Christian way. Ain’t that right, Irene?”
“That’s right, darling,” Mrs. Reilly agreed halfheartedly. “Santa, sweet, you got some nice aspirins?”
“Irene!” Santa said angrily. “You know, Mr. Robichaux, now suppose you saw that cop that took you in.”
“I hope I never see him again,” Mr. Robichaux said with emotion. “He’s a dirty communiss. Them people want to set up a police state.”
“Yeah, but just supposing. Wouldn’t you forgive and forget?”
“Santa,” Mrs. Reilly interrupted, “I think I’m gonna run in the kitchen and see if you got some nice aspirins.”
“It was the disgrace,” Mr. Robichaux said to Santa. “My whole family heard about it. The police called up my daughter.”
“Aw, that ain’t nothing,” Santa said. “Everybody gets took in some time in they life. You see her?” Santa picked up the photograph lying face down on the mantelpiece and showed it to her two guests. “My poor dear momma. The police took her out the Lautenschlaeger Market four times for disturbing the peace.” Santa paused to give the snapshot a moist kiss. “You think she cared? Not her.”
“That’s your momma?” Mrs. Reilly asked interestedly. “She had it hard, huh? Mothers got a hard road to travel, believe me.”
“So, as I was saying,” Santa continued, “I wouldn’t feel bad about getting arrested. Policeman got them a hard line of work. Sometimes they make a mistake. They only human, after all.”
“I always been a decent citizen,” Mrs. Reilly said. “I wanna go wrench out my glass in the zink.”
“Oh, go sit down, Irene. Lemme talk to Mr. Robichaux.”
Mrs. Reilly went over to the old console radio and poured herself a glass of Early Times.
“I’ll never forget that Patrolman Mancuso,” Mr. Robichaux was saying.
“Mancuso?” Santa asked with great surprise. “I got plenty relatives with that very same name. As a matter of fact, one of them’s on the force. As a matter of fact, he’s here now.”
“I think I hear Ignatius calling me. I better go.”
“Calling you?” Santa asked. “Whadda you mean, Irene? Ignatius is six miles away uptown. Look, we ain’t even give Mr. Robichaux a drink. Fix him a drink, kid, while I go get Angelo.” Mrs. Reilly studied her drink furiously in the hope of turning up a roach or at least a fly. “Gimme that coat, Mr. Robichaux. Whatcha friends call you?”
“Claude.”
“Claude, I’m Santa. And that there’s Irene. Irene, say ‘hello.’”
“Hello,” Mrs. Reilly said automatically.
“You two make friends while I’m gone,” Santa said and disappeared into the other room.
“How’s that fine big boy of yours?” Mr. Robichaux asked to end the silence that had fallen.
“Who?”
“Your son.”
“Oh, him. He’s okay.” Mrs. Reilly’s mind flew back to Constantinople Street where she had left Ignatius writing in his room and mumbling something about Myrna Minkoff. Through the door, Mrs. Reilly had heard Ignatius saying to himself, “She must be lashed until she drops.”
There was a long silence broken only by the violent sipping noises that Mrs. Reilly made on the rim of her glass.
“You want some nice potato chips?” Mrs. Reilly finally asked, for she found that the silence made her even more ill at