Red Rag Blues Read Online Free PDF

finished her beer and stood up. “Got to work.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œHere. Waitress. I do the graveyard shift, midnight till four. The tips aren’t bad, and I get a free hamburger for breakfast.” She gave him her spare keys. “Don’t play the radio, and stay out of my bed. See you at dawn.” She came back to ask: “Was that solid gold fountain pen really yours?”
    â€œA golf trophy. Runner-up in the Venezuelan Amateur Open, 1951.”
    â€œOlé
in spades,” she said, and went away again.
2
    Next day she slept until noon, took a shower, and dressed in one of Harry’s old shirts. Luis had been out and bought a loaf and a small jar of Maxwell House, which left him with less than a dollar. They ate a late breakfast of dry toast and black coffee. “Last night you spoke of HUAC,” he said. “What is HUAC?”
    â€œNo.” She looked at him as if he had spilled ketchup down his shirt. “No.” She took her cup and padded, barefoot, to the window. “I have to live with that horseshit but I don’t have to talk about it.”
    â€œTerrific legs,” he said. “The ass was superb, I remember. May I see the ass?”
    â€œGo to hell, Luis. Go back to Venezuela, you don’t belong here.”
    â€œI can’t go back. That shirt is the most provocative thing you have ever worn.”
    â€œChrist… I’d go straight to Venezuela if I could. If I had any money.”
    He went over and stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She put her cup on the windowsill. She held his wrists, lightly. Whether she was resisting the embrace or endorsing it, neither of them knew. “We were always happy in bed,” he said. “Isn’t that right?”
    â€œYes, sort of. And if we go to bed now, I’ll be stuck with you. Sex is fun but it isn’t simple and right now my life is too complicated already.” She spoke flatly and without emotion. Luis could think of no reply. They stood for a long minute, looking out the window. Eventually the doorbell rang.
    It was Bonnie Scott. She had four tins of smoked oysters, part of a food hamper sent by her rich aunt in Philadelphia who had heard that she was unemployed and not eating properly. “This is my aunt’s idea of K-rations for Manhattanites,” Bonnie said. “There was a jar of caviare too, not the best Beluga, she apologized for that. I traded it.” She waved a bottle of French white wine. “You guys ready for lunch?”
    â€œPermanently,” Julie said.
    They ate, and talked about Enrico’s arrest, the notorious squalor of the Tombs, his chances of getting bail. Luis wanted to know more. “What is HUAC?” he asked.
    â€œShit,” Julie said. “There he goes again. He’s been locked in the toilet since 1945, reading Proust. He knows nothing. Walk him round the block, Bonnie, tell the poor bastard the facts of life. I have to wash my undies.”
    â€œAre those the only shoes you have?” Bonnie asked him.
    â€œThe best suede. Very comfortable.”
    â€œSure. Don’t blame me if you get kidnapped by the New York City Ballet.”
    They strolled down First Avenue.
    â€œHUAC,” she said. “You’ve honestly never heard of HUAC?”
    â€œThere was no reason. I didn’t intend to leave Caracas, so why should I follow American politics? When I could spend my time reading the best American novelists?” Luis was beginning to resent their poor opinion of his Venezuelan lifestyle. “Truman Capote, Herman Wouk, Norman Mailer, Malamud, Bellow, Salinger. Where would you go to find the truth? The
Daily News,
or John Steinbeck?”
    She grunted. “I certainly wouldn’t quote
The Grapes of Wrath
to HUAC, which incidentally stands for the House Un-American Activities Committee, a bunch of bad-breath bigots who could prove the Pope’s a card-carrying tool of the