Read Online Red Jungle by Kent Harrington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kent Harrington
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turning to him surprised. Russell hadn’t mentioned Costa Rica to her.
“We spent a week in the same hotel,” Russell said. “I was working on an article. I think it was called, ‘Costa Rica: Switzerland of Central America.’ ” It was a joke, but neither Katherine nor Carl got it. “That’s the standard line,” Russell said, trying to explain. “You see four or five of those articles a year. The Costa Rican Tourist Agency pays for a lot of them. It’s a lie, though,” he added. “It ain’t no Switzerland. They have the biggest cockroaches in the world. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen one cockroach in Switzerland.”
“What’s a lie?” Carl said. He’d missed what Russell had said because he was checking out some kid’s ass. Carl turned to Katherine. “Russell, yeah, he work in Costa Rica, he no fun. But he has fun here in Antigua. I see him at the Oprah Café with girls all the time.” Katherine looked at Carl, then at Russell a little disappointedly.
Russell was embarrassed because he didn’t want to appear a playboy, although—if truth be told—he was, to a degree. Women liked him and he liked women. It was that simple.
Katherine hit him with her hip, just like in high school, but he noticed that she kept holding his arm. Carl got them a drink by whistling with his fingers in his mouth and a waiter, a short guy, hustled over like he was playing for Manchester United. They picked champagne glasses off a silver platter and Carl took them to meet a painter friend that Russell suspected Carl was trying to put the make on. The bottle of champagne cost more than the waiter would make in a year, maybe two, Katherine told him later.
“Did you know that Gore Vidal used to live here?” the painter said. “In this very house.” The painter was a handsome American, and Russell pegged him as an upper cruster. The painter seemed very preoccupied with his watch, spinning it around his thin wrist. Russell asked him if he’d come to Guatemala to paint. The young man looked at him shocked, as if he’d been asked if he picked his nose, or ate bugs that landed on him.
“No, of course not. I’ve stopped for the time being. I’m not doing anything . Really. I’m trying to figure out the next thing.
Then I’ll paint it. I mean, you have to get a good picture of where we’re going and then get that down, man. You know, get it down. Guatemala is next. I think its going to be hot. I’m going to Coban and see what’s there. Caves, I’ve heard.” The painter acted as if he’d taken crystal meth. He had that wired anticipatory look. He was thin and had a stud in his tongue. When he spoke, it looked as if the end of his tongue wasn’t on quite right.
The music stopped, then started again. Someone put on the sound track from the movie Stealing Beauty . With the small yellow lights strung up everywhere, the mansion’s wide Mediterranean-style corridors, and the sound of the water from the big fountain in the courtyard, they could have been in Ibiza or the Costa Azul in Spain, Russell thought.
If the mountain fell in the sea let it be. I got my old world to live through . The Hendrix cover got turned up loud. Some people nearby got in the groove and started to sway. Two very blonde girls speaking in Dutch were sliding their hips to the music.
“Girls from Holland like to fuck, smoke dope, and read books. And tell you how it’s going to be when the Greens take over the world,” an English guy told him, staring at the girls. “I been here a month. I want to fuck them all.” He smiled happily.
“You want to go to the coast with me? Tomorrow?” Katherine asked him over the music. “We’re building some houses on a coffee plantation.”
“Sure,” Russell said. He mostly wanted to sleep with her. Unlike a lot of the people here, he wasn’t a do-gooder; he’d gotten a master’s degree in economics at the University of Chicago when he was only twenty three and looked askance on
“We spent a week in the same hotel,” Russell said. “I was working on an article. I think it was called, ‘Costa Rica: Switzerland of Central America.’ ” It was a joke, but neither Katherine nor Carl got it. “That’s the standard line,” Russell said, trying to explain. “You see four or five of those articles a year. The Costa Rican Tourist Agency pays for a lot of them. It’s a lie, though,” he added. “It ain’t no Switzerland. They have the biggest cockroaches in the world. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen one cockroach in Switzerland.”
“What’s a lie?” Carl said. He’d missed what Russell had said because he was checking out some kid’s ass. Carl turned to Katherine. “Russell, yeah, he work in Costa Rica, he no fun. But he has fun here in Antigua. I see him at the Oprah Café with girls all the time.” Katherine looked at Carl, then at Russell a little disappointedly.
Russell was embarrassed because he didn’t want to appear a playboy, although—if truth be told—he was, to a degree. Women liked him and he liked women. It was that simple.
Katherine hit him with her hip, just like in high school, but he noticed that she kept holding his arm. Carl got them a drink by whistling with his fingers in his mouth and a waiter, a short guy, hustled over like he was playing for Manchester United. They picked champagne glasses off a silver platter and Carl took them to meet a painter friend that Russell suspected Carl was trying to put the make on. The bottle of champagne cost more than the waiter would make in a year, maybe two, Katherine told him later.
“Did you know that Gore Vidal used to live here?” the painter said. “In this very house.” The painter was a handsome American, and Russell pegged him as an upper cruster. The painter seemed very preoccupied with his watch, spinning it around his thin wrist. Russell asked him if he’d come to Guatemala to paint. The young man looked at him shocked, as if he’d been asked if he picked his nose, or ate bugs that landed on him.
“No, of course not. I’ve stopped for the time being. I’m not doing anything . Really. I’m trying to figure out the next thing.
Then I’ll paint it. I mean, you have to get a good picture of where we’re going and then get that down, man. You know, get it down. Guatemala is next. I think its going to be hot. I’m going to Coban and see what’s there. Caves, I’ve heard.” The painter acted as if he’d taken crystal meth. He had that wired anticipatory look. He was thin and had a stud in his tongue. When he spoke, it looked as if the end of his tongue wasn’t on quite right.
The music stopped, then started again. Someone put on the sound track from the movie Stealing Beauty . With the small yellow lights strung up everywhere, the mansion’s wide Mediterranean-style corridors, and the sound of the water from the big fountain in the courtyard, they could have been in Ibiza or the Costa Azul in Spain, Russell thought.
If the mountain fell in the sea let it be. I got my old world to live through . The Hendrix cover got turned up loud. Some people nearby got in the groove and started to sway. Two very blonde girls speaking in Dutch were sliding their hips to the music.
“Girls from Holland like to fuck, smoke dope, and read books. And tell you how it’s going to be when the Greens take over the world,” an English guy told him, staring at the girls. “I been here a month. I want to fuck them all.” He smiled happily.
“You want to go to the coast with me? Tomorrow?” Katherine asked him over the music. “We’re building some houses on a coffee plantation.”
“Sure,” Russell said. He mostly wanted to sleep with her. Unlike a lot of the people here, he wasn’t a do-gooder; he’d gotten a master’s degree in economics at the University of Chicago when he was only twenty three and looked askance on
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