Thompson, Hunter S (11 page)

The sun didn't bother me here. It seemed to belong with the clay courts and the gin and
the white ball zipping back and forth. I remembered other tennis courts and long-gone
days full of sun and gin and people I would never see again because we could no longer
talk to each other without sounding dull and disappointed. I sat there in the grandstand,
hearing the swack of the furry ball and knowing it would never sound like it did on those
days when I knew who was playing, and cared.

The match was over at dusk and I took a cab up to Al's. Sala was there, sitting alone at
a corner table. I saw Sweep on the way to the patio and told him to bring two rums and
three hamburgers. Sala looked up as I approached.

“You have that fugitive look,” he said. “A man on the run.”

“I talked to Sanderson,” I said. “He thinks it may not come to court -- or if it does it
might take three years.”

The moment I said this I regretted it. Now we would get into the subject of my bail
again. Before he could reply I held up my hands. “Forget it,” I said. “Let's talk about
something else.”

He shrugged. “Christ, I can't think of anything that isn't depressing or threatening. I
feel hemmed in by disaster.”

“Where's Yeamon?” I asked.

“He went home,” he replied. “Right after you left he remembered Chenault was still
locked in the hut.”

Sweep arrived with our drinks and food and I took them off the tray.

“I think he's crazy as a loon,” Sala exclaimed.

“You're right,” I replied. “God knows how he'll end up. You can't just go through life
like that -- never giving an inch, anytime, anywhere.”

Just then Bill Donovan, the sports editor, came howling up to the table.

“Here they are!” he shouted. “The gentlemen of the press -- sneak drinkers!” He laughed
happily. “You fuckers really tied one on last night, eh? Man, you're lucky Lotterman went
to Ponce!” He sat down at the table. “What happened? I hear you had it out with the cops.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Beat the piss out of 'em -- real laughs.”

“Goddamnit,” he said, “Sorry I missed it. I love a good fight -- especially with cops.”

We talked for a while. I liked Donovan, but he was forever talking about getting back to
San Francisco, “where things are happening.” He made it sound so good on the Coast that I
knew he had to be lying, but I could never tell just where the truth ended and the lies
began. If even half of what he said was true, then I wanted to go there immediately; but
with Donovan I couldn't even count on that necessary half, and listening to him was always
frustrating.

We left about midnight and walked down the hill in silence. The night was muggy, and all
around me I felt the same pressure, a sense of time rushing by while it seemed to be
standing still. Whenever I thought of time in Puerto Rico, I was reminded of those old
magnetic clocks that hung on the walls of my classrooms in high school. Every now and then
a hand would not move for several minutes -- and if I watched it long enough, wondering if
it had finally broken down, the sudden click of the hand jumping three or four notches
would startle me when it came.

Sanderson's office was on the top floor of the tallest building in the Old City. I sat
in a leather lounge chair, and below me I could see the entire waterfront, the Caribe
Hilton and most of Condado. There was a definite feeling of being in a control tower.

Sanderson had his feet on the window sill. “Two things,” he was saying. “This business
with the
Times
won't amount to much -- a few articles a year -- but Zimburger's project is a big one.”

“Zimburger?” I said.

He nodded. “I didn't want to mention it yesterday because he might have dropped in.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are we talking about the same Zimburger -- the General?”

He looked annoyed. “That's right, he's one of our clients.”

“Damn,” I said. “Business must be falling off. The man's a jackass.”

He rolled a pencil in his fingers. “Kemp,” he said slowly, “Mister Zimburger is building
a marina -- a damn big one.” He paused. “He's also going to build one of the finest hotels
on the island.”

I laughed and fell back in the chair.

“Look,” he said sharply, “you've been here long enough to begin learning a few things,
and one of the first things you should learn is that money comes in odd packages.” He
tapped his pencil on the desk. “Zimburger -- known to you as 'the jackass' -- could buy
and sell you thirty times. If you insist on going by appearances you'd be better off in
some place like Texas.”

I laughed again. “You may be right. Now why don't you tell me what you have in mind. I'm
in a hurry.”

“One of these days,” he said, “this silly arrogance of yours is going to cost you a lot
of money.”

“Goddamnit,” I replied, “I didn't come here to be analyzed.”

He smiled stiffly. “All right. The
Times
wants a general article for their spring travel section. Mrs. Ludwig will get some
material together for you -- I'll tell her what you need.”

“What do they want?” I said. “A thousand happy words?”

“More or less,” he replied. “We'll handle the photos.”

“Okay,” I said. “That's a back-breaker -- now what about Zimburger?”

“Well,” he said. “Mister Zimburger wants a brochure. He's building a marina on Vieques
island, between here and St. Thomas. We'll get the photos and do the layout -- you write
the text, about fifteen hundred words.”

“What will he pay?” I asked.

“He won't,” Sanderson replied. “He'll pay us a flat fee -- we'll pay you twenty-five
dollars a day, plus expenses. You'll have to make a trip to Vieques, probably with
Zimburger.”

“Jesus,” I said.

He smiled. “No real hurry. Let's say next Friday.”

“The brochure will be aimed at investors,” he added. “This is one hell of a big marina --
two hotels, a hundred cottages, the whole works.”

“Where did Zimburger get his money?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It's not just Zimburger. He has several people with him on this --
as a matter of fact, he asked me in on it.”

“What stopped you?”

He swung around to face the window again. “I'm not ready to retire yet. This is a pretty
interesting place to work.”

“I'll bet it is,” I said. “What's your cut here -- ten percent of every dollar invested
on the island?”

He grinned. “You think like a mercenary, Paul. We're here to help, to keep the wheels
turning.”

I got up to go. “I'll come by tomorrow and pick up the stuff.”

“How about lunch?” he said, looking at his watch. “It's about that time.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I have to run.”

He smiled. “Late for work?”

“That's right,” I said. “I have to get back and work on an expose.”

“Don't let your boy scout ethics run away with you,” he said, still smiling. “Oh yes --
while we're on the subject of scouts, tell your friend Yeamon to stop by when he gets a
chance. I have something for him.”

I nodded. “Put him to work with Zimburger. They'd get along fine.”

When I got back to the office Sala called me over to his desk and showed me a copy of
El Diario.
On the front page was a picture of the three of us. I hardly recognized myself --
slit-eyed, sneaky-looking, hunched on the bench like a hardened criminal. Sala looked
drunk and Yeamon looked like a maniac.

“When did they get this?” I said.

“I don't remember,” he replied. “But they damn well got it.”

Underneath the photo was a small story. “What's it say?” I asked.

“Same thing the cop said,” he replied. “We'll be lucky if we aren't lynched.”

“Has Lotterman said anything?”

“He's still in Ponce.”

I was beginning to get the fear. “You better carry a gun,” Moberg advised me. “They'll be
after you now. I know those swine -- they'll try to kill you.” By six o'clock I was so
depressed that I gave up trying to work, and went to Al's.

Just as I turned onto Calle O'Leary I heard Yeamon's scooter approaching from the
opposite direction. It made a hellish sound in those narrow streets and you could hear it
six blocks away. We arrived in front of Al's at the same time. Chenault was riding on the
back, and she hopped off while he cut the engine. They both seemed drunk. On the way back
to the patio we ordered hamburgers and rum.

“Things are getting worse,” I said, pulling up a chair for Chenault.

Yeamon scowled. “That bastard Lotterman dodged the hearing today. It was a hell of a
thing -- those people at the Labor Department saw our picture in
El Diario.
I'm sort of glad Lotterman didn't show. He might have won today.”

“No wonder,” I said. “That was a very ugly photograph.” I shook my head. “Lotterman's in
Ponce -- we're lucky.”

“Damnit,” he said. “I need that money this weekend. We're going over to St. Thomas for
the carnival.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I've heard about that -- it's supposed to be pretty wild.”

“I've heard it's wonderful!” Chenault exclaimed. “It's supposed to be as good as the one
in Trinidad.”

“Why don't you come with us?” Yeamon suggested. “Tell Lotterman you want to do the
story.”

“I'd like to,” I said. “San Juan is driving me nuts.”

Yeamon started to say something, but Chenault cut him off. “What time is it?” she said
anxiously.

I looked at my watch. “Almost seven.”

She quickly stood up. “I have to go -- it starts at seven.” She picked up her purse and
started toward the door. “I'll be back in an hour,” she called. “Don't get too drunk.”

I looked at Yeamon.

“There's some kind of a ceremony going on at the big cathedral,” he said wearily. “God
only knows what it is, but she has to see it.”

I smiled and shook my head.

He nodded. “Yeah, it's hell. I'm damned if I know what to do with her.”

“Do with her?” I said.

“Yeah, I've about decided this place is rotten to the core and I should get out.”

“Oh,” I said. “That reminds me. Sanderson has some kind of work for you -- writing travel
articles. His integrity demands that he justify what he said about us the other night.”

He groaned. “Christ, travel articles. How low can a man fall?”

“Figure that out with Sanderson,” I said. “He wants you to call him.”

He leaned back and stared at the wall, saying nothing for several moments. “His
integrity,” he said finally, as if he'd been dissecting the word. “It seems to me that a
guy like Sanderson has about as much integrity as a Judas Goat.”

I sipped my drink.

“What makes you deal with a guy like that?” he asked. “You're always going over there --
is there something to him that I can't see?”

“I don't know,” I said. “What do you see?”

“Not much,” he replied. “I know what Sala says -- he claims he's queer -- and of course
he's a phony and a prick and God knows what else.” He paused. “But Sala just tosses words
around: Phony, Prick, Queer -- so what? I'm curious as to what the hell you see in the
guy.”

Now I understood Sala's crack at breakfast the other day. And I felt that whatever I said
about Sanderson now would be crucial -- not for Sanderson, but for me. Because I knew why
I dealt with him and most of my reasons were pretty small -- he was in and I was out, and
he looked like a pretty good pipeline to a lot of things I wanted. On the other hand,
there was something about him that I liked. Perhaps it was Sanderson's struggle with
himself that fascinated me -- the hardnose man of the world, gradually blotting out the
boy from Kansas. I remembered him telling me that the Hal Sanderson from Kansas had died
when his train got to New York -- and any man who can say a thing like that, and attempt
to say it with pride, is worth listening to unless you have something a hell of a lot
better to do with your time.

Yeamon's voice snapped me out of my pondering. “Okay,” he said with a wave of his hand,
“if you give it that much thought there's bound to be something to it, but I still think
he's rotten.”

“You think too much,” I said.

“Got to think all the time,” he muttered. “That's my trouble -- I take vacations from
thinking.” He nodded. “It works out the same way as all the other vacations -- you relax
for two weeks, then spend fifty weeks making up for it.”

“I don't quite follow you,” I said.

He smiled. “You interrupted me. We were talking about Chenault -- and all of a sudden you
brought up the Judas Goat.”

“Okay,” I said. “What about her? Is this your way of saying you're going to leave her
with me?”

He tapped the table with his fingers. “Kemp, I'd rather you wouldn't say things like
that. I'm pretty square when it comes to trading girls around, especially a girl I like.”
He said it calmly, but I could hear the edge in his voice.

I shook my head. “You're an inconsistent bastard -- that's the last thing I'd expect to
hear from you.”

“I'm not much on consistency,” he said, talking easily again. “No, I was just thinking
out loud -- I don't do that very often.”

“I know,” I said.

He sipped his drink. “I spent all day yesterday thinking,” he said. “I should leave this
place, and I don't know what to do about Chenault.”

“Where do you figure on going?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don't know -- maybe down the islands, maybe Europe.”

“Europe's not bad,” I said. “If you have a job.”

“I won't,” he said.

“No,” I agreed. “You probably won't.”

“That's what I was thinking about,” he said. “And I wondered why the hell I wanted to go
to Europe, anyway -- why should I?”

I shrugged. “Why not?”

“You know,” said Yeamon, “I haven't been home in three years, but the last time I was
there, I spent a lot of time in the woods.”

“You're losing me again,” I said. “I don't even know where you're from.”

“A place called London, Kentucky,” he said. “Laurel County -- a fine place to disappear.”

“You planning on disappearing?” I asked.

He nodded. “Could be. Not in Laurel County, though.” He paused. “My father decided to
play games with his money, and we lost the farm.”

I lit a cigarette.

“It was a fine place,” he said. “A man could go out there and shoot all day and run his
dogs and raise all manner of hell, and not a soul in the world would bother him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did some hunting around St. Louis.”

He leaned back and stared into his drink. “I got to thinking about that yesterday, and it
gave me the idea that I might be on the wrong track.”

“How's that?” I said.

“I'm not sure,” he replied. “But I have a feeling that I'm following a course that
somebody laid out a long time ago -- and I have one hell of a lot of company.”

I looked up at the plantain tree and let him go on.

“You're the same way,” he said. “We're all going to the same damn places, doing the same
damn things people have been doing for fifty years, and we keep waiting for something to
happen.” He looked up. “You know -- I'm a rebel, I took off -- now where's my reward?”

“You fool,” I said. “There is no reward and there never was.”

“Jesus,” he said. “That's horrible.” He raised the bottle to his lips and finished it
off. “We're just drunkards,” he said, “helpless drunkards. To hell with it -- I'll go back
to some Godforsaken little town and be a fireman.”

I laughed, and just then Chenault came back. We sat in the patio and drank for several
hours until Yeamon stood up and said they were going home. “Think about that St. Thomas
thing,” he said. “We might as well play the game while we can.”

“Why not?” I muttered. “I'll probably go. Might be the last fun I'll have.”

Chenault waved goodbye and followed Yeamon out to the street.

I sat there for a while, but it was too depressing. Between Yeamon's talk and my picture
in
El Diario,
I was beginning to feel suicidal. My skin felt creepy and I began to wonder if maybe all
this drinking was getting the best of me. Then I remembered a story the
News
had run last week about an epidemic of parasites in the local water supply, little worms
that destroy the intestines. Jesus, I thought, I better get out of here. I paid my tab and
bolted out to the street and looked up and down, wondering where I could go. I was afraid
to walk, for fear of being recognized and beaten by an angry mob -- but the thought of
going home to the nest of fleas and poison crab lice I had been sleeping in for three
months filled me with terror. Finally, I took a cab to the Caribe Hilton. I sat at the
bar for an hour or so, hoping to meet a girl who'd invite me up to her room, but the only
person I met was a football coach from Atlanta who wanted me to walk on the beach. I told
him I would, but first I had to borrow a meat-whip from the kitchen.

“What for?” he asked.

I stared at him. “Don't you want to be flogged?”

He laughed nervously.

“You wait here,” I said. “I'll get the whip.” I got up and went to the restroom, and when
I returned he was gone.

There were no girls in the bar -- only middle-aged women and bald men in dinner jackets.
I was shaking. Jesus, I thought, maybe I'm getting the DTs. I drank as fast as I could,
trying to get drunk. More and more people seemed to be staring at me. But I couldn't
speak. I felt lonely and exposed. I stumbled out to the street and flagged a cab. I was
too crazed to check into a hotel. There was no place to go but that filthy roach-infested
apartment. It was the only home I had.