Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [91]
“I sure will,” Mrs. Reilly said happily. Ignatius was just the type to be a communist. He even looked like one a little. “Maybe I can scare him.”
“That boy shouldn’t be giving you trouble. You got a very fine character. I admire that in a lady. When I reconnized you down by the bowling alley with Miss Battaglia, I says to myself, ‘I hope I can meet her sometime.’”
“You said that?”
“I admired your integrity, standing up for that boy in front that dirty cop, especially if you got troubles with him at home. That takes courage.”
“I wisht I woulda let Angelo take him away. None of this other stuff woulda happened. Ignatius woulda been locked up safe in jail.”
“Who’s Angelo?”
“There! I hadda go open my big mouth. What I said, Claude?”
“Something about Angelo.”
“Lord, lemme go see if Santa’s okay. Poor thing. Maybe she burnt herself on the stove. Santa’s all the time getting herself burnt. She don’t take care around the fire, you know.”
“She woulda screamed if she was burnt.”
“Not Santa. She’s got plenty courage, that girl. You won’t hear a word outta her. It’s that strong Italian blood.”
“Christ Awmight!” Mr. Robichaux screamed, jumping to his feet. “That’s him!”
“What?” Mrs. Reilly asked in panic, and, looking around, saw Santa and Angelo standing in the doorway of the room. “You see, Santa. I knew this was gonna happen. Lord, my nerves is shot already. I shoulda stayed home.”
“If you wasn’t a dirty cop, I’d punch you right in the nose,” Mr. Robichaux was screaming at Angelo.
“Aw, take it easy, Claude,” Santa said calmly. “Angelo here didn’t mean no harm.”
“He ruint me, that communiss.”
Patrolman Mancuso coughed violently and looked depressed. He wondered what terrible thing would happen to him next.
“Oh, Lord, I better go,” Mrs. Reilly said despairingly. “The last thing I need is a fight. We’ll be all over the newspaper. Ignatius’ll really be happy then.”
“How come you brought me here?” Mr. Robichaux asked Santa wildly. “What is this?”
“Santa, honey, you wanna call me a nice taxi?”
“Aw, shut up, Irene,” Santa answered. “Now listen, Claude, Angelo says he’s sorry he took you in.”
“That don’t mean nothing. It’s too late to feel sorry. I was disgraced in front my granchirren.”
“Don’t be mad at Angelo,” Mrs. Reilly pleaded. “It was all Ignatius’s fault. He’s my own flesh and blood, but he sure does look funny when he goes out. Angelo shoulda locked him up.”
“That’s right,” Santa added. “Listen at what Irene’s telling you, Claude. And watch out you don’t step on my poor little niece’s phonograph.”
“If Ignatius woulda been nice to Angelo, none of this woulda happened,” Mrs. Reilly explained to her audience. “Just look at the cold poor Angelo’s got. He’s got him a hard road, Claude.”
“You tell him, girl,” Santa said. “Angelo got that cold on account of he took you in, Claude.” Santa waved a stubby finger at Mr. Robichaux a little accusingly. “Now he’s stuck in a toilet. Next thing they gonna kick him off the force.”
Patrolman Mancuso coughed sadly.
“Maybe I got a little excited,” Mr. Robichaux conceded.
“I shouldn’t of toog you id,” Angelo breathed. “I got nerbous.”
“It was all my fault,” Mrs. Reilly said, “for trying to protect that Ignatius. I should of let you lock him away, Angelo.” Mrs. Reilly turned her white, powdery face to Mr. Robichaux. “Mr. Robichaux, you don’t know Ignatius. He makes trouble everyplace he goes.”
“Somebody oughta punch that Ignatius in the nose,” Santa said eagerly.
“Somebody oughta punch him in the mouth,” Mrs. Reilly added.
“Somebody oughta beat up on that Ignatius,” Santa said. “Now come on. Everybody make friends.”
“Okay,” Mr. Robichaux said. He took Angelo’s blue-white hand and shook it limply.
“Ain’t that nice,” Mrs. Reilly said. “Come sit on the sofa, Claude, and Santa can play her precious little niece’s high-fly.”
While Santa put a Fats Domino record on the phonograph, Angelo, sniffling and looking a little confused, sat down on the kitchen chair across from Mrs. Reilly and Mr. Robichaux.
“Now ain’t this nice,” Mrs. Reilly