“Huh?” George asked.
“They sure keeping a buncha hoods in the orphanages these days,” Darlene observed. “I wouldn’t give him nothing, Lana. He’s operating some kinda shakedown racket, if you ast me. If this kid’s a orphan, I’m the queen of England.”
“Come here,” Lana said to George and led him out onto the street.
“Whatsa matter?” George asked.
“I can’t talk in front of those two jerks,” Lana said. “Look, this new porter’s not like the old one. This smartass has been asking me about this orphan crap since he first saw you. I don’t trust him. I got cop trouble already.”
“Then get yourself a new jig. There’s plenty around.”
“I couldn’t get a blind Eskimo for the salary I’m paying him. I got him on something of a deal, like discount price. And he thinks if he tries to quit, I can get him arrested for vagrancy. The whole thing’s a deal, George. I mean, in my line of business, you gotta keep your eye peeled for a bargain. Understand?”
“But what about me?”
“This Jones goes out to lunch from twelve to twelve-thirty. So you come around about twelve-forty-five.”
“What am I supposed to do with them packages all afternoon? I can’t do nothing till after three. I don’t want to be carrying that stuff around.”
“Go check it in the bus station. I don’t care. Just be sure they’re safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Lana went back into the bar.
“I sure hope you told that kid off,” Darlene said. “Somebody oughta report him to the Better Business Bureau.”
“Whoa!”
“Come on, Lana. Give me and the bird a chance. We’re boffo.”
“It used to be the old Kiwanis types liked to come in and watch a cute girl shake it a little. Now it’s gotta be with some kinda animal. You know what’s wrong with people today? They’re sick. It’s hard for a person to earn an honest buck.” Lana lit a cigarette and matched Jones cloud for cloud. “Okay. We audition the bird. It’s probably safer for you to be on my stage with a bird than on my stools with a cop. Bring in the goddam bird.”
*
Mr. Gonzalez sat next to his little heater listening to the sounds of the river, his peaceful soul suspended in a Nirvana somewhere far above the two antennae of Levy Pants. His senses subconsciously savored the clatter of rats and the smell of old paper and wood and the possessed feeling that his pair of baggy Levy Pants gave him. He exhaled a thin stream of filtered smoke and aimed the cigarette’s ashes like a marksman directly at the center of his ashtray. The impossible had happened: life at Levy Pants had become even better. The reason was Mr. Reilly. What fairy godmother had dropped Mr. Ignatius J. Reilly on the worn and rotting steps of Levy Pants?
He was four workers in one. In Mr. Reilly’s competent hands, the filing seemed to disappear. He was also quite kind to Miss Trixie; there was hardly any friction in the office. Mr. Gonzalez was touched by what he had seen the previous afternoon—Mr. Reilly on his knees changing Miss Trixie’s socks. Mr. Reilly was all heart. Of course, he was part valve, too. But the constant conversation about the valve could be accepted. It was the only drawback.
Looking happily about, Mr. Gonzalez noticed the results of Mr. Reilly’s handiwork in the office. Tacked to Miss Trixie’s desk was a large sign that said MISS TRIXIE with an old-fashioned nosegay drawn in crayon in one corner. Tacked to his desk was another sign that said SR. GONZALEZ and was decorated with the crest of King Alfonso. A multisectioned cross was nailed to a post in the office, the LIBBY’S TOMATO JUICE and KRAFT JELLY on two sections awaiting what Mr. Reilly had said would be brown paint with some black streaks to suggest the grain of the wood. In several empty ice cream cartons on top of the filing cabinets beans were already sprouting little vines. The purple monkscloth drapes that hung from the window next to Mr. Reilly’s desk created a meditative area in the office. There the sun cast a claret-colored glow over the three-foot plaster statue of St. Anthony that stood near the wastebasket.
There had never been a worker like Mr. Reilly. He was so dedicated, so interested in the business. He was even planning to visit the factory when his valve was better to see how he could improve conditions there. The other workers had always been so unconcerned, so slipshod.
The door opened slowly as Miss Trixie made her day’s entrance, a large bag preceding her.
“Miss Trixie!” Mr. Gonzalez said in what was, for him, a very sharp tone.
“Who?” Miss Trixie cried frantically.
She looked down at her tattered nightgown and flannel robe.
“Oh, my goodness,” she wheezed. “I thought I felt a little chilly outside.”
“Go home right now.”
“It’s cold outside, Gomez.”
“You can’t stay at Levy Pants like that. I’m sorry.”
“Am I retired?” Miss Trixie asked hopefully.
“No!” Mr. Gonzalez squeaked. “I just want you to go home and change. You only live around the block. Hurry up.”
Miss Trixie shuffled through the door, banging it closed. Then she came in again to get the bag, which she had left on the floor, and banged out again.
By the time Ignatius arrived an hour later, Miss Trixie had not returned. Mr. Gonzalez listened to Mr. Reilly’s heavy, slow tread on the stairs. The door was thrust open, and the marvelous Ignatius J. Reilly appeared, a plaid scarf as large as a shawl wound around his neck, one end of it stuffed down into his coat.
“Good morning, sir,” he said majestically.
“Good morning,” Mr. Gonzalez said with delight. “Did you have a nice ride here?”
“Only fair. I suspect that the driver was a latent speed racer. I had to caution him continually. Actually, we parted company with a degree of hostility on both sides. Where is our little distaff member this morning?”
“I had to send her home. She came to work this morning in her nightgown.”
Ignatius frowned and said, “I do not understand why she was sent away. After all, we are quite informal here. We are one big family. I only hope that you have not damaged her morale.” He filled a glass at the water cooler to water his beans. “You may not be surprised to see me appear one morning in my nightshirt. I find it rather comfortable.”
“I certainly don’t mean to dictate what you people should wear,” Mr. Gonzalez said anxiously.
“I should hope not. Miss Trixie and I can only take so much.”
Mr. Gonzalez pretended to look for something in his desk to avoid the terrible eyes that Ignatius had turned on him.
“I shall finish the cross,” Ignatius said finally, removing two quarts of paint from the pouchlike pockets of his overcoat.
“That’s wonderful.”
“The cross is top priority at the moment. Filing, alphabetizing—all of that must wait until I have completed this project. Then, when I finish the cross, I am going to have to visit the factory. I suspect that those people are screaming for a compassionate ear, a dedicated guide. I may be able to aid them.”
“Of course. Don’t let me tell you what to do.”
“I won’t.” Ignatius stared at the office manager. “At last my valve seems to permit a visit to the factory. I must not pass up this opportunity. If I wait, it may seal up for several weeks.”
“Then you must go to the factory today,” the office manager agreed enthusiastically.
Mr. Gonzalez looked at Ignatius hopefully, but he received no reply. Ignatius filed his overcoat, scarf, and cap in one of the file drawers and began working on the cross. By eleven o’clock he was giving the cross its first coat, meticulously applying the paint with a small watercolor brush. Miss Trixie was still AWOL.
At noon Mr. Gonzalez looked over the stack of papers on which he was working and said, “I wonder where Miss Trixie can be.”
“You have probably broken her spirit,” Ignatius replied coldly. He was dabbing at the rough edges of the cardboard with the brush. “However, she may appear for lunch. I told her yest
erday that I was bringing her a luncheon meat sandwich. I have discovered that Miss Trixie considers luncheon meat a rather toothsome delicacy. I would offer you a sandwich, but I am afraid that there are only enough for Miss Trixie and me.”
“That’s quite all right.” Mr. Gonzalez produced a wan smile and watched Ignatius open his greasy brown paper bag. “I’m going to have to work straight through lunch anyway to finish these statements and billings.”
“Yes, you’d better. We must not allow Levy Pants to fall behind in the struggle for the survival of the fittest.”
Ignatius bit into his first sandwich, tearing it in half, and chewed contentedly for a while.
“I do hope that Miss Trixie does appear,” he said after he had finished the first sandwich and emitted a series of belches which sounded as if they had disintegrated his digestive tract. “My valve will not tolerate luncheon meat, I’m afraid.”
While he was tearing the filling of the second sandwich from the bread with his teeth, Miss Trixie came in, her green celluloid visor facing the rear.
“Here she is,” Ignatius said to the office manager through the big leaf of limp lettuce that was hanging from his mouth.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Gonzalez said weakly. “Miss Trixie.”
“I imagined that the luncheon meat would activate her faculties. Over here, Mother Commerce.”
Miss Trixie bumped into the statue of St. Anthony.
“I knew I had something on my mind all morning, Gloria,” Miss Trixie said, taking the sandwich in her claws and going to her desk. Ignatius watched with fascination the elaborate process of gums, tongue, and lips that every piece of sandwich set into motion.
“You took a very long time to change,” the office manager said to Miss Trixie, noting bitterly that her new ensemble was only a little more presentable than the robe and nightgown.
“Who?” Miss Trixie asked, sticking out a tongueful of masticated luncheon meat and bread.
“I said you took a long time to change.”
“Me? I just left here.”
“Will you please stop harassing her?” Ignatius demanded angrily.
“There was no need for the delay. She only lives down by the wharves somewhere,” the office manager said and returned to his papers.
“Did you enjoy that?” Ignatius asked Miss Trixie when the last grimace of her lips had stopped.
Miss Trixie nodded and began industriously on a second sandwich. But when she had at last eaten half, she slumped back in her chair.
“Oh, I’m full, Gloria. That was delicious.”
“Mr. Gonzalez, would you care for the bit of sandwich that Miss Trixie cannot eat?”
“No, thank you.”
“I wish that you would take it. Otherwise, the rats will storm us en masse.”
“Yes, Gomez, take this,” Miss Trixie said, dropping the soggy half of uneaten sandwich on top of the papers on the office manager’s desk.
“Now look what you’ve done, you old idiot!” Mr. Gonzalez screamed. “Damn Mrs. Levy. That’s the statement for the bank.”
“How dare you attack the spirit of the noble Mrs. Levy,” Ignatius thundered. “I shall report you, sir.”
“It took over an hour to prepare that statement. Look at what she’s done.”
“I want that Easter ham!” Miss Trixie snarled. “Where’s my Thanksgiving turkey? I quit a wonderful job as cashier in a nickelodeon to come to work for this company. Now I guess I’ll die in this office. I must say a worker gets shabby treatment around here. I’m retiring right now.”
“Why don’t you go wash your hands?” Mr. Gonzalez said to her.
“That’s a good idea, Gomez,” Miss Trixie said and tacked off to the ladies’ room.
Ignatius felt cheated. He had hoped for a scene. While the office manager began making a copy of the statement, Ignatius returned to the cross. First, however, he had to lift Miss Trixie, who had returned and was kneeling directly beneath it and praying in the spot where Ignatius had been standing to paint. Miss Trixie hovered about him, leaving only to seal some envelopes for Mr. Gonzalez, to visit the bathroom several times, and to catnap. The office manager made the only noise in the office with his typewriter and adding machine, both of which Ignatius found slightly distracting. By one-thirty the cross was almost finished. It lacked only the little gold leaf letters that spelled GOD AND COMMERCE which Ignatius had ready to apply across the bottom of the cross. After the motto was applied, Ignatius stood back and said to Miss Trixie, “It is complete.”
“Oh, Gloria, that’s beautiful,” Miss Trixie said sincerely. “Look at this, Gomez.”
“Isn’t that fine,” Mr. Gonzalez said, studying the cross with tired eyes.
“Now to the filing,” Ignatius said busily. “Then off to the factory. I cannot tolerate social injustice.”
“Yes, you must go to the factory while your valve is operating,” the office manager said.
Ignatius went behind the filing cabinets, picked up the accumulated and unfiled material, and threw it in the wastebasket. Noticing that the office manager was sitting at his desk with his hand over his eyes, Ignatius pulled out the first drawer of the files, and, turning it over, dumped its alphabetical contents into the wastebasket, too.
Then he lumbered off to the factory door, thundering past Miss Trixie, who had fallen to her knees again before the cross.
*
Patrolman Mancuso had tried a little moonlighting in his effort to apprehend someone, anyone for the sergeant. After dropping off his aunt from the bowling alley, he had stopped in the bar on his own to see what he could turn up. What had turned up was these three terrifying girls who had struck him. He touched the bandage on his head as he entered the precinct to see the sergeant, who had summoned him.
“What happened to you, Mancuso?” the sergeant screamed when he saw the bandage.
“I fell down.”
“That sounds like you. If you knew anything about your job, you’d be in bars tipping us off on people like those three girls we brought in last night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know what whore give you the tip on this Night of Joy, but our boys have been in there almost every night and they haven’t turned up anything.”
“Well, I thought…”
“Shut up. You gave us a phony lead. You know what we do to people give us a phony lead?”
“No.”
“We put them in the rest room at the bus station.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You stay in the booths there eight hours a day until you bring somebody in.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t say ‘okay.’ Say ‘yes, sir.’ Now get outta here and go look in your locker. You’re a farmer today.”
*
Ignatius opened “The Journal of a Working Boy” to the first unused sheet of Blue Horse looseleaf filler, officiously snapping the point of his ballpoint pen forward. The point of the Levy Pants pen did not catch on the first snap and slipped back into the plastic cylinder. Ignatius snapped more vigorously, but again the point slid disobediently back out of sight. Cracking the pen furiously on the edge of his desk, Ignatius picked up one of the Venus Medalist pencils lying on the floor. He probed the wax in his ears with the pencil and began to concentrate, listening to the sounds of his mother’s preparations for an evening at the bowling alley. There were many staccato footfalls back and forth in the bathroom which meant, he knew, that his mother was attempting to accomplish several phases of her toilet at once. Then there were the noises that he had grown accustomed to over the years whenever his mother was preparing to leave the house: the plop of a hairbrush falling into the toilet bowl, the sound of a box of powder hitting the floor, the sudden exclamations of confusion and chaos.
“Ouch!” his mother cried at one point.
Ignatius found the subdued and solitary din in the bathroom annoying and wished that she would finish. At last he heard the light click off. She knocked at his door.
“Ignatius, honey, I’m going.”
“All right,” Ignatius replied icily.
“Open the door, babe, and come kiss me goodbye.”
“Mother, I am quite busy at the moment.”
“Don’t be like that, Ignatius. Open up.”
“Run off with your friends, please.”
“Aw, Ignatius.”
“Must you distract me at every level. I am working on something with wonderful movie possibilities. Highly commercial.”
Mrs. Reilly kicked at the door with her bowling shoes.
“Are you ruining that pair of absurd shoes that were bought with my hard-earned wages?”
“Huh? What’s that, precious?”
Ignatius extracted the pencil from his ear and opened the door. His mother’s maroon hair was fluffed high over her forehead; her cheekbones were red with rouge that had been spread nervously up to the eyeballs. One wild puff full of powder had whitened Mrs. Reilly’s face, the front of her dress, and a few loose maroon wisps.
“Oh, my God,” Ignatius said, “you have powder all over your dress, although that is probably one of Mrs. Battaglia’s beauty hints.”
“Why you always knocking Santa, Ignatius?”
“She appears to have been knocked a bit in her life already. Up rather than down. If she ever nears me, however, the direction will be reversed.”
“Ignatius!”
“She also brings to mind the vulgarism ‘knockers.’”
“Santa’s a grammaw. You oughta be ashamed.”
“Thank goodness Miss Annie’s coarse cries restored peace the other night. Never in my life have I seen so shameless an orgy. And right in my very own kitchen. If that man were any sort of law enforcement officer, he would have arrested that ‘aunt’ right there on the spot.”
“Don’t knock Angelo, neither. He’s got him a hard road, boy. Santa says he’s been in the bathroom at the bus station all day.”
“Oh, my God! Do I believe what I’m hearing? Please run along with your two cohorts from the Mafia and let me alone.”
“Don’t treat your poor momma like that.”
“Poor? Did I hear poor? When the dollars are literally flowing into this home from my labors? And flowing out even more rapidly.”