Miami Blues Read Online Free PDF

I'm missing, I'll go. Got her address?"
    "I wrote it all down, and I've made some calls. She lives in Kendall Pines Terrace out on One-fifty-seventh Avenue. Building Six--East apartment four-one-eight."
    "Kendall? That's a helluva ways out." Hoke transferred the information from the yellow pad to his notebook.
    "Luckily for you she isn't home. Susan Waggoner goes to Miami-Dade, to the New World Campus downtown. She'll be in class at six-fifteen. I already called the registrar, so if you stop by the office, they'll send a student assistant up to the classroom with you and get the girl out of class. You've even got time to get a drink first. Two drinks."
    "And so everything works out for the best, doesn't it? You can go home to dinner, and I can escort a hysterical young girl to the morgue to see her dead brother. I can, then, in all probability, drive her to hell and gone out to Kendall and get her calmed down. Then I have to drive all the way back to Miami Beach. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll be home in time to watch the eleven o'clock news."
    "What the hell, Hoke, it's all overtime pay."
    "Compensatory time. I've used up my overtime pay this month."
    "What's the difference?"
    "Twenty-five bucks. Haven't we had this conversation before?"
    "Last month. Only last month it was me who had to sit in the hardware store until four A.M. while you went home to bed."
    "But you were on overtime pay."
    "Compensatory time."
    "What's the difference?"
    "Twenty-five bucks."
    They both laughed, but laughing didn't mask Hoke's uneasiness. He didn't know which was worse--telling a father that his son was dead or telling a sister that her brother was dead, but he was glad he didn't have to tell both of them.
    5
    In his new clothes Freddy looked like a native Miamian. He wore a pale blue guayabera, white linen slacks with tiny golden tennis rackets embroidered at irregular intervals on both pants legs, white patent-leather loafers with tassels, a chromium dolphin-shaped belt buckle, and pale blue socks that matched his guayabera. He had had a $20 haircut and an $8 shave in the hotel barber shop, charging both to his room, together with a generous tip for the barber. He could have passed as a local, or as a tourist down from Pennsylvania to spend the full season.
    Freddy arrived at Granny's a little before five and ordered a pot of ginseng tea, telling the heavy-hipped Cuban waitress that he was waiting for a friend. He had never tasted ginseng tea before, but he managed to kill some of the bitterness by adding three spoons of raw brown sugar to his cup. The menu didn't make much sense to Freddy. After looking it over, he decided he would order whatever Susan ordered and hope for the best. The ginseng tea was foul, but it had seemed like a better choice than the gunpowder tea the waitress had recommended. He had run out of cigarettes, his first pack smoked since leaving prison. But when he asked the waitress to bring him a fresh package of Winston 100s, she told him that no smoking was allowed at Granny's, and that "cigarettes are poison to the body."
    Actually, Freddy realized, he didn't truly want a cigarette. Kicking the habit in prison had been difficult. Six days in the hole without a cigarette had given him a good start, helping his body get rid of the stored nicotine, but it hadn't helped his psychological dependence on smoking. There were very few things that a man could do alone in prison. Smoking was one of them. Smoking not only helped to pass the time, it gave a man something to do with his hands. Until he started pumping iron in earnest, those long days of wandering around in the yard without a cigarette had been his worst days in stir. And yet the first thing he had done when he got into the San Francisco bus terminal was to buy a package of Winston 100s. He had picked them because of the deep red package. He had somehow associated smoking with freedom, even though smoking was a form of slavery. That settled it. He would give it up before