"C M Kornbluth - Gomez" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kornbluth C M)

grin that was somehow bitter and unlike him. "Don't worry," he said. "I don't forget it." He tapped his
forehead. "I can't forget it." I hope I never see again on any face the look that was on his.

"Julio," I said, appalled. "Why don't you get out of here for a while? Why don't you run over to New
York and see your folks and have some fun? They can't keep you here against your will."



"They told me I shouldn't-" he said uncertainly. And then he got tough. "You're damn right, Beel. Let's
go in together. I get dressed up. Er-You tell Leitzer, hah?" He couldn't quite face up to the hard-boiled
security man.

I told Leitzer, who hit the ceiling. But all it boiled down to was that he sincerely wished Gomez and I
wouldn't leave. We weren't in the Army, we weren't in jail. I got hot at last and yelled back that we were
damn well going out and he couldn't stop us. He called New York on his direct wire and apparently New
York confirmed it, regretfully.

We got on the 4:05 Jersey Central, with Higgins and Dalhousie tailing us at a respectful distance. Gomez
didn't notice them and I didn't tell him. He was having too much fun. He had a shine put on his shoes at
Penn Station and worried about the taxi fare as we rode up to Spanish Harlem.

His parents lived in a neat little three-room apartment. A lot of the furniture looked brand-new, and I
was pretty sure who had paid for it. The mother and father spoke only Spanish, and mumbled shyly when
"mi amigo Beel" was introduced. I had a very halting conversation with the father while the mother and
Gomez rattled away happily and she poked his ribs to point up the age-old complaint of any mother
anywhere that he wasn't eating enough.

The father, of course, thought the boy was a janitor or something in the Pentagon and, as near as I could
make out, he was worried about his Julio being grabbed off by a man-hungry government girl. I kept
reassuring him that his Julio was a good boy, a very good boy, and he seemed to get some comfort out
of it.

There was a little spat when his mother started to set the table. Gomez said reluctantly that we couldn't
stay, that we were eating somewhere else. His mother finally dragged from him the admission that we
were going to the Porto Bello so he could see Rosa, and everything was smiles again. The father told me
that Rosa was a good girl, a very good girl.

Walking down the three flights of stairs with yelling little kids playing tag around us, Gomez asked
proudly: "You not think they in America only a little time, hey?"

I yanked him around by the elbow as we went down the brown-stone stoop into the street. Otherwise
he would have seen our shadows for sure. I didn't want to spoil his fun.



The Porto Bello was full, and the pretty little girl was on duty as cashier at the table. Gomez got a
last-minute attack of cold feet at the sight of her. "No table," he said. "We better go someplace else."

I practically dragged him in. "We'll get a table in a minute," I said.