Short Stories: Five Decades Read Online Free PDF Page A

said. “A red bastidd.”
    “A Communist,” Palangio said.
    “I want a beer,” Geary said loudly.
    “Times’re bad,” Elias said. “That’s what’s th’ trouble.”
    “Sure.” Geary drained half his new glass. “Sure.”
    “Back in 1928,” Elias said, “I averaged sixty bucks a week.”
    “On New Year’s Eve, 1927,” Palangio murmured, “I made thirty-six dollars and forty cents.”
    “Money was flowin’,” Elias remembered.
    Palangio sighed, rubbing his beard bristles with the back of his hand. “I wore silk shirts. With stripes. They cost five bucks a piece. I had four girls in 1928. My God!”
    “This ain’t 1928,” Geary said.
    “Th’ smart guy,” Elias said. “He’s tellin’ us somethin’. This ain’t 1928, he says. Join th’ union, we get 1928 back.”
    “Why the hell should I waste my time?” Geary asked himself in disgust. He drank in silence.
    “Pinky!” Palangio called. “Pinky! Two beers for me and my friend Elias.”
    Elias moved, with a wide smile, up the bar, next to Palangio. “We are brothers in misery, Angelo,” he said. “Me and th’ Wop. We both signed th’ contract.”
    They drank together and sighed together.
    “I had th’ biggest pigeon flight in Brownsville,” Elias said softly. “One hundred and twelve pairs of pedigreed pigeons. I’d send ’em up like fireworks, every afternoon. You oughta’ve seen ’em wheelin’ aroun’ an’ aroun’ over th’ roofs. I’m a pigeon fancier.” He finished his glass. “I got fifteen pigeons left. Every time I bring home less than seventy-five cents, my wife cooks one for supper. A pedigreed pigeon. My lousy wife.”
    “Two beers,” Palangio said. He and Elias drank with grave satisfaction.
    “Now,” Elias said, “if only I didn’t have to go home to my lousy wife. I married her in 1929. A lot of things’ve changed since 1929.” He sighed. “What’s a woman?” he asked. “A woman is a trap.”
    “You shoulda seen what I seen today,” Palangio said. “My third fare. On Eastern Parkway. I watched her walk all th’ way acrost Nostrand Avenue, while I was waitin’ on the light. A hundred-and-thirty-pound girl. Blonde. Swingin’ her hips like orchester music. With one of those little straw hats on top of her head, with the vegetables on it. You never saw nothin’ like it. I held onto the wheel like I was drownin’. Talkin’ about traps! She went to the St. George Hotel.”
    Elias shook his head. “The tragedy of my life,” he said, “is I was married young.”
    “Two beers,” Palangio said.
    “Angelo Palangio,” Elias said, “yer name reminds me of music.”
    “A guy met her in front of the St. George. A big fat guy. Smilin’ like he just seen Santa Claus. A big fat guy. Some guys …”
    “Some guys …” Elias mourned. “ I gotta go home to Annie. She yells at me from six to twelve, regular. Who’s goin’ to pay the grocer? Who’s goin’ to pay the gas company?” He looked steadily at his beer for a moment and downed it. “I’m a man who married at the age a’ eighteen.”
    “We need somethin’ to drink,” Palangio said.
    “Buy us two whiskies,” Elias said. “What the hell good is beer?”
    “Two Calverts,” Palangio called. “The best for me and my friend Elias Pinsker.”
    “Two gentlemen,” Elias said, “who both signed th’ contract.”
    “Two dumb slobs,” said Geary.
    “Th’ union man,” Elias lifted his glass. “To th’ union!” He downed the whisky straight. “Th’ hero of th’ Irish Army.”
    “Pinky,” Palangio shouted. “Fill ’em up to the top.”
    “Angelo Palangio,” Elias murmured gratefully.
    Palangio soberly counted the money out for the drinks. “Now,” he said, “the Company can jump in Flushing Bay. I am down to two bucks even.”
    “Nice,” Geary said sarcastically. “Smart. You don’t pay ’em one day, they take yer cab. After payin’ them regular for five months. Buy another drink.”
    Palangio slowly picked