“Who? Read wha?”

“Boethius will show you that striving is ultimately meaningless, that we must learn to accept. Ask Miss O’Hara about him.”

“Listen. How you like bein vagran half the time?”

“Wonderful. I myself was a vagrant in happier, better days. If only I were in your shoes. I would stir from my room only once a month to fumble for my relief check in the mailbox. Realize your good fortune.”

The fat mother was really a freak. The poor people at Levy Pants were lucky that they hadn’t ended up in Angola.

“Well, be sure you come aroun in a coupla nights.” Jones blew a cloud at the earring. “Harla be doin her stuff.”

“I shall be there with bells on,” Ignatius said happily. How Myrna would gnash her teeth.

“Whoa!” Jones walked around to the front of the wagon and studied the sheet of Big Chief paper. “Look like somebody been playin tricks on you.”

“That is only a merchandising gimmick.”

“Ooo-wee. You better check it again.”

Ignatius lumbered around to the prow and saw that the waif had decorated the TWELVE INCHES (12") OF PARADISE sign with a variety of genitals.

“Oh, my God!” Ignatius ripped off the sheet covered with the ball-point graffiti. “Have I been pushing this about?”

“I be out front lookin for you,” Jones said. “Hey!”

Ignatius waved a happy paw and waddled off. At last he had a reason for earning money: Harlett O’Hara. He aimed the denuded prow of the wagon toward the Algiers ferry ramp, where the longshoremen gathered in the afternoons. Calling, entreating, he guided the wagon into the crowd of men and succeeded in selling all of his hot dogs, courteously and effusively squirting ketchup and mustard on his sold goods with all the energy of a fireman.

What a brilliant day. The signs from Fortuna were more than promising. A surprised Mr. Clyde received cheery greetings and ten dollars from vendor Reilly, and Ignatius, his smock filled with bills from the waif and the mogul of frankfurters, billowed onto the trolley with a glad heart.

He entered the house and found his mother talking quietly on the telephone.

“I been thinking about what you said,” Mrs. Reilly was whispering into the phone. “Maybe it ain’t such a bad idea after all, babe. You know what I mean?”

“Of course it ain’t,” Santa answered. “Them people at Charity can let Ignatius take him a little rest. Claude ain’t gonna want no Ignatius around, sweetheart.”

“He likes me, huh?”

“Likes you? He called up this morning to ax me if I thought you was ever gonna remarry. Lord. I says, ‘Well, Claude, you gotta pop the question.’ Whoee. You two having a worldwin courtship if I ever seen one. That poor man’s desperate from loneliness.”

“He’s sure considerate,” Mrs. Reilly breathed into the mouthpiece. “But sometimes he makes me nervous with all them communiss.”

“What in the world are you babbling about?” Ignatius thundered in the hall.

“Christ,” Santa said. “It sound like that Ignatius come in.”

“Ssh,” Mrs. Reilly said into the phone.

“Well, listen, sweetheart. Once Claude gets married, he’ll stop thinking about them communiss. His mind isn’t occupied is what’s wrong with him. You give him some loving.”

“Santa!”

“Good grief,” Ignatius spluttered. “Are you speaking with that Battaglia strumpet?”

“Shut up, boy.”

“You better knock that Ignatius in the head,” Santa said.

“I wisht I was strong enough, sweetheart,” Mrs. Reilly answered.

“Oh, Irene, I almost forgot to tell you. Angelo come around this morning for a cup of coffee. I hardly reconnized him. You oughta seen him in that wool suit. He looked like Mrs. Astor’s horse. Poor Angelo. He’s sure trying hard. Now he’s going to all the high-class bars, he says. He better get him some character.”

“Ain’t that awful,” Mrs. Reilly said sadly. “What Angelo’s gonna do if he gets himself kicked off the force? And him with three chirren to support.”

“There are a few challenging openings at Paradise Vendors for men with initiative and good taste,” Ignatius said.

“Listen at that nut,” Santa said. “Aw, Irene. You better ring up the Charity, honey.”

“We gonna give him another chance. Maybe he’ll hit the jackpot.”

“I don’t know why I bother talking to you, girl,” Santa sighed hoarsely. “I’ll see you tonight then about seven. Claude says he’s gonna come over here. Come pick us up and we’ll take us a nice ride out to the lake for some of them good crabs. Whoo! You kids sure lucky you got me for a chaperone. You two need one, especially with that Claude around.”

Santa guffawed in a voice huskier than usual and hung up.

“What in the world do you and that old bawd babble about?” Ignatius asked.

“Shut up!”

“Thank you. I see that things about here are as cheerful as ever.”

“How much money you brought in today? A quarter?” Mrs. Reilly screamed. She leaped up and stuck her hand into one of the pockets of the smock and pulled out the brilliant photograph. “Ignatius!”

“Give that to me,” Ignatius thundered. “How dare you besmirch that magnificent image with your vintner’s hands.”

Mrs. Reilly peeked at the photograph again and then closed her eyes. A tear crept out from beneath her closed eyelids. “I knew when you started selling them weenies you was gonna be hanging around with people like this.”

“What do you mean, ‘people like this’?” Ignatius asked angrily, pocketing the photograph. “This is a brilliant, misused woman. Speak of her with respect and reverence.”

“I don’t wanna speak at all,” Mrs. Reilly sniffed, her lids still sealed. “Go sit in your room and write some more of your foolishness.” The telephone rang. “That must be that Mr. Levy. He already rang up here twice today.”

“Mr. Levy? What does that monster want?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. Go on, crazy. Answer that. Pick up that phone.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to speak with him,” Ignatius thundered. He picked up the telephone, and in an assumed voice rich with Mayfair accents said, “Yus?”

“Mr. Reilly?” a man asked.

“Mr. Reilly is not here.”

“This is Gus Levy.” In the background, a woman’s voice was saying, “Let’s see what you’re going to say. Another chance down the drain, a psycho escaped.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Ignatius enunciated. “Mr. Reilly was called out of town this afternoon on rather crucial business. Actually, he is at the state mental hospital in Mandeville. Since being so viciously dismissed by your concern, he has had to commute back and forth regularly from Mandeville. His ego is badly bruised. You may yet receive his psychiatrists’ bills. They are rather staggering.”

“He cracked up?”

“Violently and totally. We had something of a time with him here. The first time that he went to Mandeville, he had to be transported in an armored car. As you know, his physique is rather grand. This afternoon, however, he left in a state patrol ambulance.”

“Can he have visitors at Mandeville?”

“Of course. Drive out to see him. Bring him some cookies.”

Ignatius slammed the telephone down, pressed a quarter into the palm of his still sniffling, blinded mother, and waddled to his room. Before opening the door, he stopped to straighten the PEACE TO MEN OF GOOD WILL sign that he had tacked to the peeling wood.

All signs were pointing upward; his wheel was revolving skyward.