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Just in time George saw the rest room undercover agent coming down the street behind the sailor. He looked like a beatnik. George ran behind one of the arches of the ancient Spanish governmental building, the Cabildo, and dashed through the arcade out onto St. Peter Street, where he continued ru
Now the undercover agent was prowling around the Cathedral. George had to give it to the cops. They were really on the ball. Christ. A guy didn’t have a chance.
So his mind returned to the matter of storage. He was begi
But back to the matter of storage. The bus crossed Elysian Fields before George came up with anything. There it was. It had been before him all the time and he just hadn’t realized it. He could have kicked himself in the shins with the stiletto toes of his flamenco boots. He saw a nice, roomy, weather-tight metal compartment, a mobile safety deposit box that no undercover agent in the world, however crafty, would think of opening, a safe vault operated by the biggest patsy in the world: the bun compartment in that oddball vendor’s wagon.
Eleven
“Aw, look,” Santa said, holding the newspaper close to her eyes. “They got a cute picture show on in the neighborhood with little Debbie Reynolds.”
“Aw, she’s sweet,” Mrs. Reilly said. “You like her, Claude?”
“Who’s that?” Mr. Robichaux asked pleasantly.
“Little Debra Reynolds,” Mrs. Reilly answered.
“I don’t think I can place her. I don’t go to the show much.”
“She’s darling,” Santa said. “So petite. You ever seen her in that cute picture where she played Tammy, Irene?”
“Ain’t that the picture where she went blind?”
“No, girl! You must be thinking of the wrong show.”
“Oh, I know who I was thinking of, precious. I was thinking of June Wyman. She was sweet, too.”
“Aw, she was good,” Santa said. “I remember that picture where she played the dummy who got herself raped.”
“Lord, I’m glad I didn’t go see that show.”
“Aw, it was wonderful, babe. Very dramatic. You know? The look on that poor dummy’s face when she got raped. I’ll never forget it.”
“Anybody want more coffee?” Mr. Robichaux asked.
“Yeah, gimmee some there, Claude,” Santa said, folding the newspaper and throwing it on top of the refrigerator. “I’m sure sorry Angelo couldn’t make it. That poor boy. He told me he’s go
“Angelo’s got him a hard road to travel,” Mrs. Reilly said absently. She was thinking of the PEACE TO MEN OF GOOD WILL sign that Ignatius had tacked to the front of their house after he had come home from work. Miss A
“That sounds like a communiss to me.”
Mrs. Reilly’s worst fears were realized.
“Who wants peace?” Santa asked.
“Ignatius got a sign up in front the house about peace.”
“I mighta known,” Santa said angrily. “First that boy wants a king, now he wants peace. I’m telling you, Irene. For your own good. That boy’s gotta be put away.”
“He ain’t wearing no earring. I ask him and he says, ‘I ain’t wearing no earring, momma.’”
“Angelo don’t lie.”
“Maybe he just got him a small one.”
“A earring’s a earring to me. Ain’t that right, Claude?”
“That’s right,” Claude answered Santa.
“Santa, honey, that’s a sweet little Blessed Virgin you got on top that TV,” Mrs. Reilly said to get them off the earring topic.
Everyone looked at the television set next to the refrigerator, and Santa said, “Ain’t that nice, though? It’s a little Our Lady of the Television. It’s got a suction cup base so I don’t knock it over when I’m banging around in the kitchen. I bought it by Le
“Le
“Well, how you kids liked that di
“It was delicious,” Mr. Robichaux said.
“It was wonderful,” Mrs. Reilly agreed. “I ain’t had me a good meal in a long time.”
“Aarff,” Santa belched. “I think I put too much garlic in them stuffed eggplants, but I got a heavy hand with garlic. Even my granchirren tell me, they say, ‘Hey, maw-maw, you sure got a heavy hand with garlic.’”
“Ain’t that sweet,” Mrs. Reilly said of the gourmet grandchildren.
“I thought the eggplants was fine,” Mr. Robichaux said.
“I’m only happy when I’m scrubbing my floors and cooking my food,” Santa told her guests. “I love to fix a big pot of meatballs or jumbalaya with shrimps.”
“I like to cook,” Mr. Robichaux said. “It helps out my daughter sometimes.”
“I bet it does,” Santa said. “A man who can cook is a big help around the house, believe me.” She kicked Mrs. Reilly under the table. “A woman’s got a man that likes to cook is a lucky girl.”
“You like to cook, Irene?” Mr. Robichaux asked.
“You talking to me, Claude?” Mrs. Reilly had been wondering what Ignatius looked like in an earring.
“Come back out the clouds, girl,” Santa ordered. “Claude here was axing you if you like to cook.”
“Yeah,” Mrs. Reilly lied. “I like to cook okay. But sometimes it gets so hot in that kitchen, especially in the summer. You don’t get no breeze out that alley. Ignatius likes to eat junk, anyways. You give Ignatius a few bottles of Dr. Nut and plenty bakery cakes, and he’s satisfied.”
“You oughta get you a letrit range,” Mr. Robichaux said. “I bought my daughter one. It don’t get hot like a gas stove.”
“Where you getting all this money from, Claude?” Santa asked interestedly.
“I got me a nice pension from the railroad. I was with them for forty-five years, you know. They gimme a beautiful gold pin when I retired.”
“Ain’t that nice,” Mrs. Reilly said. “You made good, huh, Claude?”
“Then,” Mr. Robichaux said, “I got me a few little rental properties around my house. I was always putting a little of my salary aside to invest in properties. Property’s a good investment.”
“It sure is,” Santa said, rolling her eyes wildly at Mrs. Reilly. “Now you well fixed, huh?”
“I’m pretty comfortable. But you know sometimes I get tired of living with my daughter and her husband. I mean, they’re young. They got they own family. They are very nice to me, but I’d rather have my own home. You know what I mean?”
“If I was you,” Mrs. Reilly said, “I’d stay where I was. If your little daughter don’t mind having you around, you got you a nice setup. I wisht I had me a nice child. Be grateful for what you got, Claude.”