Roscoe Read Online Free PDF Page B

the gin is gone.”
    She wobbled and almost fell, Roscoe’s first gin-soaked nun. He swept her into his arms, a feather, the pain from his trauma twisting a small knife in his belly as he carried her to the
parking lot.
    “This is the date we never had, Arlene,” he said. “I dearly love the way you turned out.”
    “Don’t you dare be nice to me, Roscoe. I don’t want it. I’m going to stay a virgin till I die.” She resumed her hymn—“. . . Bella premunt hostilia
. ..” —as he drove her uptown in his car with the dented bumper.
    “I’ve never known a woman like you, Arlene.”
    “Doesn’t surprise me.”
    “Let’s take a boat to Bermuda.”
    “I’ve still got a toothache.”
    Roscoe found Doc Reardon, who did free dental work for select Democrats, and he promptly eliminated her pain and fixed the blessed tooth. Arlene then promised Roscoe and the doc a place among
the lesser angels.
    “God bless you, too, Arlene,” Roscoe said. “God bless all nuns and all women.” Then he thought of Trish and added, “Most women.”
    He drove Arlene back to the Academy of the Sacred Heart at Kenwood, hoping her time with him would incite a convent-wide scandal, then went back to the hospital to check on
Elisha. But he’d been sent home, no concussion after all. It was ten-thirty, too late to visit, a missed opportunity to be with Veronica. Roscoe went back to his car in the emergency-room
parking lot. Where to go now? He watched ambulances and cars come and go with the dying and the wounded from the peaceful home front. He dwelled on Artie Flinn, casualty of the political wars, a
man who’d been making a fortune but ran out of luck. What other disasters will unfold for Roscoe on this night of radical developments? He could go to Trish’s apartment and retrieve his
clothes out of her closet. She might be there with four sailors. Go home and get some sleep, Ros. But who can sleep on V-J night? Go find a woman, then. Shouldn’t be difficult tonight. But if
you don’t score, don’t even think of buying one, they’re watching you. You should have kidnapped Arlene, your prototype of ideal beauty. You could’ve talked about the good
old days of young sin. They don’t make sin like they used to. Also, your stomach is rumbling. You never finished your dinner. Forget women and celebrate the Jap surrender with a steak. Or
three hamburgers. Or a hot beef sandwich at the Morris Lunch, two hot beefs with double home fries and a wedge of apple pie with a custard-pie chaser. He drove to the Miss Albany Diner on Central
Avenue, open all night, found it dark. A sign in the window reported, “No Food.” The Boulevard Cafeteria, never closes, was open but no steaks, no roast beef, no ham, no hamburgers, no
eggs. All they had was bread, coffee, and no cream. The whole town ate out tonight. Roscoe had two orders of buttered toast, a plate of pickle slices, black coffee, and went back to his car. The
streets were busy but no more traffic jams. The frenzy wanes. Who’ll be at the bar in the Elks Club? Who cares? Roscoe did not want to talk about war or peace or politics, not even the Cutie
Diversion. What do you want, Ros? How about Hattie? Yes, a very good idea. Hattie Wilson, his perennial love. He did love her, always would. He wouldn’t lay a hand on her. That’s
not what Roscoe is looking for right now. What’s more, isn’t Hattie married to O.B., Roscoe’s brother? Yes, she is. Roscoe wants only straight talk, smart talk, maybe a little
sweet talk with Hattie, who is wise, who is a comfort. Six husbands and still nubile. Get your mind off nubility, for chrissake. He drove to Lancaster Street east of Dove Street and parked across
from Hattie’s house. All four floors were dark. She could be awake in the back of the house, probably asleep. Roscoe did not want to get her out of bed to carry on a conversation—about
what? Why are you waking me up in the middle of the night, Rosky? I wish I knew,