Red Rag Blues Read Online Free PDF Page A

of spaghetti and it tasted good. Luis thought the wine was young and coarse, but it was certainly the right drink for their food, this company, these surroundings. He had watched the pasta sauce being fortified with garlic, oregano, paprika, ground black pepper, cumin, basil, old black coffee. Max had tasted it and then stirred in some chili powder, tasted again, added more chili. This was not subtle food. This was not a sophisticated gathering. The men had not shaved. The women were without makeup. The apartment was bare of paint or wallpaper. They sat on upturned milk crates and ate off a door that rested on two trestles which were stenciled NYPD—DO NOT PASS.
    From time to time, Herb went to the window and looked down to make sure his taxi had not been stolen.
    After dinner they talked about Enrico’s arrest, and about work, or the hope of work. Herb was sick of driving a taxi but he couldn’t quit until he found a job that brought in regular money. “I coach some kids at Columbia. They’re scared they might get tossed out unless they open a book once a term,” he said. “Makes a few bucks. Peanuts, but it’s cash in hand.”
    â€œWatch your back,” Bonnie warned. “One of those kids might be a snitch for the IRS.”
    â€œI hear there’s money writing stuff for students,” Julie said. “Essays, theses, term papers.”
    â€œI’d sooner shine shoes,” Bonnie said.
    â€œDidn’t you have something going with one of the studios?” Max asked. “Some screenplay thing?”
    â€œThis schmuck at Warner Brothers wants to make a biopic of General Patton. I gave him a screenplay, he gave me zero. Said it’s not suitable. Screwed again.”
    â€œNo contract?” Julie asked.
    â€œIf I’d asked for a contract I wouldn’t have got the work. The schmuck knows I’m in a fix.”
    â€œTime I got back to the hack,” Herb said. Dinner was over. He drove them to the Subway. Luis bought tokens. Mr. Fort Knox.
    *
    Julie and Luis rode the Third Avenue El to 86th Street. She took him to Mooney’s Bar, found a booth, ordered beers. “So now you know,” she said. “The blacklist is alive and flourishing, and it’ll get you too if you don’t watch out.”
    â€œBlacklist? What blacklist?”
    She eased her shoes off and flexed her feet. “No jokes, Luis. You never could tell a good joke, and the blacklist is about as funny as a boil on the backside.”
    â€œAre we talking about American politics?”
    â€œNo, we’re talking about American hysteria. Of course it’s politics. McCarthyism. HUAC. The witchhunt for Communists, real or imaginary. Nixon’s holy crusade. Hollywood pooping its pants whenever someone names names.
That
blacklist. Don’t tell me nobody in Venezuela heard of it. The shit’s been flying for years.”
    â€œI had my bellyful of politics in the war, writing all those reports for the
Abwehr.
When I arrived in Caracas in 1945 I vowed never to read a newspaper again, and I never have.”
    â€œTime
magazine?
Newsweek? Readers’
goddamn
Digest?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThey don’t have TV in Venezuela?”
    â€œI never looked at it.”
    She sucked the suds off her beer and watched him, warily, as if this might be some elaborate hoax. “What have you been doing for eight years?”
    â€œEnjoying myself. Keeping fit. I swam in my pool every day, played tennis, golf, a little polo. Kept a Bugatti, competed occasionally. There was always horse-racing, and high-stakes bridge. Trout fishing in the mountains. But mainly I read. Foylesof London sent me a crate of new novels every month. Pure delight. Some American authors. Very talented.”
    â€œThe great American talent is publishing stuff that doesn’t get you labeled pinko and slung in the pokey.”
    â€œPokey? That’s prison, isn’t it?”
    She