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

layouts chalked on the sidewalks.

"Higgins," said the admiral, "see if there's a back exit." One of his boys got out and walked around the
block under the dull, incurious eyes of black-shawled women sitting on their stoops. He was back hi five
minutes, shaking his head.

"Vilchek and I will go in," said the admiral. "Higgins, stand by the restaurant door and tackle anyone who
comes flying out. Let's go, reporter. And remember that I do the talking."

The noon-hour crowd at the Porto Bello's ten tables looked up at



us when we came in. The admiral said to a woman at a primitive cashier's table: "Nueva York Board of
Health, senora."

"Ah!" she muttered angrily. "For favor, no aqui! In back, understand? Come." She beckoned a pretty
waitress to take over at the cash drawer and led us into the steamy little kitchen. It was crowded with us,
an old cook, and a young dishwasher. The admiral and the woman began a rapid exchange of Spanish.
He played his part well. I myself couldn't keep my eyes off the kid dishwasher who somehow or other
had got hold of one of America's top atomic secrets.

Gomez was seventeen, but he looked fifteen. He was small-boned and lean, with skin the color of bright
Virginia tobacco in an English cigarette. His hair was straight and glossy-black and a little long. Every so
often he wiped his hands on his apron and brushed it back from his damp forehead. He was working like
hell, dipping and swabbing and rinsing and drying like a machine, but he didn't look pushed or angry. He
wore a half-smile that I later found out was his normal, relaxed expression and his eyes were far away
from the kitchen of the Porto Bello Lunchroom. The elderly cook was making it clear by the exaggerated
violence of his gesture and a savage frown that he resented these people invading his territory. I don't
think Gomez even knew we were there. A sudden, crazy idea came into my head.
The admiral had turned to him. "Como se llama, chico?"

He started and put down the dish he was wiping. "Julio Gomez, senor. Porque, par favor? Que pasa?"

He wasn't the least bit scared.

"Nueva York Board of Health," said the admiral. "Con su per-miso-" He took Gomez's hands in his and
looked at them gravely, front and back, making tsk-tsk noises. Then, decisively: "Vamanos, Julio. Siento
mucho. Usted esta muy enjermo." Everybody started talking at once, the woman doubtless objecting to
the slur on her restaurant and the cook to losing his dishwasher and Gomez to losing time from the job.

The admiral gave them broadside for broadside and outlasted them. In five minutes we were leading
Gomez silently from the restaurant. "La loteria!" a woman customer said in a loud whisper. "O las mutas,"
somebody said back. Arrested for policy or marihuana, they thought. The pretty waitress at the cashier's
table looked stricken and said nervously: "Julio?" as we passed, but he didn't notice.



Gomez sat in the car with the half-smile on his lips and his eyes a million miles away as we rolled
downtown to Foley Square. The admiral didn't look as though he'd approve of any questions from me.