Thompson, Hunter S (19 page)

“What's wrong?” he said.

“Never mind,” I replied. “I'll be rid of it tonight -- then I'll do the brochure, okay?”

Just as I hung up Schwartz motioned me over to the desk. “Big wreck on Bayamon Road,” he
said, handing me a page of scribbled notes. “Sala's not around -- can you handle a camera?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll get a few Nikons from the darkroom.”

“Good thinking,” he said. “Take them all.”

I raced out Bayamon Road until I saw the flashing red lights of a parked ambulance. I got
there just in time to get a shot of one of the bodies, lying in the dust beside an
overturned farm truck. For some reason that nobody understood, it had swerved out of its
lane and slammed head-on into a bus. I asked a few questions, talked awhile with the cops,
then hurried back to the office to write the story. I typed feverishly so I could finish
the damn thing and get out to. . .

Suddenly I realized I was not going to Yeamon's. I was hurrying because I was anxious to
get back to the apartment. I'd been anxious all day, and now, as the afternoon came to an
end, I groaned inwardly as the truth slithered out in the open and stared me in the face.

I turned the story in and went down the stairs to my car, thinking I should probably
check by Al's to see if he might be there. But the thing that drew me toward the apartment
was huge and powerful. I started up toward Al's, then suddenly turned off toward Condado
and tried not to think about anything until I pulled up in front of my apartment.

She was wearing one of my shirts and it hung on her like a short nightie. She smiled
happily when I came in and got up off the bed to make me a drink. The shirt flapped lewdly
around her thighs as she bounced into the kitchen.

I felt totally defeated. For a while I paced around the apartment, barely hearing her
happy chatter, then I gave up entirely and went over to the bed and took off my clothes. I
fell on her with such a violence that her smile quickly disappeared and it became a
desperate business. She kicked her feet in the air and shrieked and arched her back and
she was still trying when I exploded inside her and collapsed with total exhaustion.
Finally she gave up and locked her legs around my hips and her arms around my neck, and
started to cry.

I leaned on my elbows and looked down at her. “What's wrong?” I asked.

She kept her eyes closed and shook her head. “I can't,” she sobbed. “I get so close, but
I can't.”

I looked at her for a moment, wondering what I should say, then I put my head down on the
bed and moaned. We stayed that way for a long time, and finally we got up and she cooked
dinner while I read the
Miami Herald.

The next morning I drove out to Yeamon's. I didn't know exactly what I was going to say
to him, so I kept thinking about his bad points so I could lie without feeling guilty. But
it was hard to see a bastard at the end of that drive. The hot, peaceful beauty of the
ocean and the sand and the green-gold palms threw me completely off balance, and by the
time I got to his house I felt like a decadent intruder.

He was sitting naked on the patio, drinking coffee and reading a book. I pulled up beside
the house and got out. He turned and smiled. “What's the score?”

“Chenault's back,” I said. “I have her at the apartment.”

“When?” he said.

“Yesterday -- I meant to bring her out here last night, but I thought I'd check with you
first.”

“What happened?” he asked. “Did she tell you?”

“Just fragments,” I said. “It didn't sound good.”

He kept staring at me. “Well, what's she going to do?”

“I don't know,” I said, feeling more and more nervous. “You want me to bring her out
here?”

He looked out to sea for an instant, then back at me. “Hell no,” he snapped. “She's yours
-- with my compliments.”

“Don't give me that,” I said. “She just showed up at my apartment -- she was in pretty
bad shape.”

“Who gives a damn?” he said.

“Well,” I said slowly, “she wants me to get her clothes.”

“Sure,” he said, getting out of the chair. He went into the hut and began throwing things
out the door. They were mostly clothes, but some of them were mirrors and little boxes and
glass objects that broke on the patio.

I went to the door. “Take it easy!” I yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He came out with a suitcase and threw it toward the car. “Get the hell out of here!” he
shouted. “You and that whore make a good pair!”

The clothes were all in a heap and I loaded them into the back of my car while he
watched. When I got it all packed in I opened the door and sat down. “Call me at the
paper,” I said. “But wait till you calm down. I have enough trouble as it is.”

He glared at me and I quickly backed the car out to the road. It had been just about as
bad as I'd thought it was going to be, and I wanted to get away before it got any worse. I
pushed the accelerator to the floor and the little car bounced over the ruts like a jeep,
throwing up a huge trail of dust. It was almost noon and the sun was glaring hot. The sea
rolled in on the dunes and the swamp sent up a steamy mist that burned my eyes and blotted
out the sun. I drove past the Colmado de Jesus Lopo and saw the old man leaning on his
counter and staring out at me as if he knew the whole story, and was not at all surprised.

When I got back to the apartment Chenault was washing the dishes. She looked over her
shoulder and smiled as I came in. “You're back,” she said. “I wasn't sure you'd make it.”

“He wasn't happy,” I said, dumping a load of her clothes on the bed.

She laughed, but it was a sad sound and it made me feel even worse. “Poor Fritz,” she
said. “He'll never grow up.”

“Yeah,” I said. Then I went back down to the car for more clothes.

On my way to work the next morning I stopped by Al's and found Sala on the patio. He was
drinking a beer and thumbing through a new issue of
Life en Espanol.
I got a jar of iced rum from the kitchen and went out to his table.

“Are they in there?” I asked, nodding at the magazine.

“Hell no,” he grumbled. “They'll never use 'em -- Sanderson told me they were scheduled
last fall.”

“What the hell?” I said. “You got paid.”

He tossed the magazine aside and leaned back in the chair. “That's only half of it,” he
said. “I can get paid anytime.”

We sat for a while in silence, then he looked up. “Ah, this is a shitty place, Kemp --
the shittiest place I've ever seen.” He reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.
“Yep, I think the time has come for old Robert to put his ass on the road.” I smiled.

“No, it won't be long now,” he said. “Lotterman gets back today and I won't be surprised
if he folds the paper by midnight” He nodded. “The minute they hand out those checks I'm
going to run like hell for the bank and get mine cashed.”

“I don't know,” I said. “Schwartz said he got some money.”

He shook his head. “Poor Schwartz, he'll still be showing up for work when they turn the
place into a bowling alley.” He chuckled. “What else? El Headline Bowling Palace, with
Moberg tending the bar. Maybe they'll hire Schwartz to do publicity.” He shouted toward
the kitchen for two beers, then looked at me. I nodded. “Four,” he yelled. “And turn on
the goddamn air conditioning.”

He fell back in the chair again. “I have to get off this rock. I know some people in
Mexico City -- I may give it a try.” He grinned. “I know they have women there, anyway.”

“Hell,” I said. “Plenty of women around if you'd get off your ass.”

He looked up. “Kemp, I believe you're a whorehopper.”

I laughed. “Why?”

“Why!” he exclaimed. “I'm onto your sneaky ways, Kemp. I suspected it all along -- and
now you've lured that girl away from Yeamon.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Don't deny it,” he said. “He was in here earlier -- told me the whole sleazy story.”

“You bastard!” I said. “Chenault just showed up at my apartment. She didn't have
anywhere else to go.”

He grinned. “She could have moved in with me -- at least I'm decent.”

I snorted. “Christ, you'd have finished her off!”

“I suppose you're sleeping on the floor,” he replied. “I know that apartment, Kemp. I
know there's only one bed. Don't give me this Christian crap.”

“Christian hell!” I said. “You're such a sex-crazy sonofabitch that there's no sense
telling you anything.”

He laughed. “Calm down, Kemp, you're getting hysterical -- I know you wouldn't touch the
girl, you're not that way.” He laughed again and ordered four more beers.

“Just for the record,” I said, “I'm sending her back to New York.”

“Probably the best thing,” he replied. “Any girl that runs off with a pack of bushmen is
bad news.”

“I told you what happened over there,” I said. “She didn't run off with anybody.”

He shook his head. “Forget it,” he said wearily. “I couldn't care less. Do whatever you
want. I have my own problems.”

The beers arrived and I glanced down at my watch. “It's almost noon,” I said. “You don't
figure on going to work?”

“I'll go when I'm drunk enough,” he replied. “Have another beer -- we'll all be gone by
Monday.”

We drank steadily for three hours, then we drove down to the office. Lotterman was back,
but he'd gone out somewhere. He finally came in about five and called us all together in
the middle of the room. Then he climbed up on a desk.

“Men,” he said. “You'll be happy to know that that goddamn worthless Segarra finally
quit. He was the worst goldbricker we've ever had in this place and on top of that he was
queer -- now that he's gone I think we'll be all right.”

There were a few snickers, then silence.

“That's only part of the good news,” he said with a big smile. “I suppose you all know
the paper hasn't been making much money lately -- well by God we don't have to worry about
that anymore!” He paused and looked around. “You've all heard of Daniel Stein, I guess --
well he's an old friend of mine, and as of Monday morning he's half-owner of this
newspaper.” He smiled. “I walked into his office and I said, 'Dan, I want to keep my
paper alive,' and he said, 'Ed, how much do you need?' That's all there was to it His
lawyers are fixing up the papers and they'll be here on Monday for me to sign.” He shifted
nervously on the desk and smiled again. “Now I know you boys were expecting to get paid
today, and I hate to cramp your style for the weekend, but under my agreement with Dan I
can't give out any paychecks until I sign those papers -- so you won't get paid until
Monday.” He nodded quickly. “Of course anybody who needs a few bucks to get by until then
can hit me up for a loan -- I don't want you boys getting thirsty and blaming it on me.”
There was a ripple of laughter, then I heard Sala's voice from somewhere on the other side
of the room. “I know about this guy, Stein,” he said. “Are you sure he'll come through?”

Lotterman banished the question with a wave of his hand. “Of course I'm sure, Bob. Dan
and I are old friends.”

“Well,” Sala replied. “I have a pretty big weekend coming up, and if it's all the same to
you I'd just as soon borrow my whole pay-check right now, then you won't have to give me
anything on Monday.”

Lotterman stared down at him. “What are you trying to say, Bob?”

“I don't talk in swirls,” Sala replied. “I just want you to lend me a hundred and
twenty-five bucks until Monday.”

“That's ridiculous!” Lotterman shouted.

“Ridiculous, hell,” said Sala. “I worked in Miami, remember? I know Stein. He's a
convicted embezzler.” He lit a cigarette. “And besides, I might not be here on Monday.”

“What do you mean?” Lotterman shouted. “You're not quitting?”

“I didn't say that,” Sala replied.

“Now listen, Bob!” Lotterman shouted. “I don't know what you're trying to do here,
telling me you might quit and you might not -- who in hell do you think you are?”

Sala smiled faintly. “Don't shout, Ed. It makes us all nervous. I just asked for a loan,
that's all.”

Lotterman jumped down off the desk. “You can see me in my office,” he said over his
shoulder. “Kemp, I want to see you next.” He waved his hand in the air. “That's all boys,
let's get back to work.”

Sala followed him into his office. I stood there and heard Schwartz saying: “This is a
terrible thing -- I don't know what to believe.”

“The worst,” I replied.

Moberg came running over to us. “He can't do this!” he screamed. “No salary, no severance
pay -- we can't stand it!”

Lotterman's door opened and Sala came out looking very unhappy. Lotterman appeared right
behind him and called to me. He waited until I got inside, then closed the door behind us.

“Paul,” he said. “What can I do with these guys?”

I looked at him, not sure what he meant.

“I'm on the ropes,” he said. “You're the only one here I can talk to -- the others are
vultures.”

“Why me?” I said. “I'm a hell of a vulture.”

“No you're not,” he said quickly. “You're lazy, but you're not a vulture -- not like that
stinking Sala!” He sputtered angrily. “Did you hear that crap he was giving me? Have you
ever heard anything like it?”

I shrugged. “Well --”

“That's why I want to talk to you,” he said. “I have to handle these guys. We're in real
trouble -- this guy Stein has me pinned to the wall.” He looked up at me and nodded. “If I
can't get this paper going, he'll close it and sell it for junk. I'll go to debtor's
prison.”

“Sounds pretty bleak,” I said.

He laughed humorlessly. “You don't know the half of it!” Then his voice became hearty and
full of purpose. “Now what I want you to do is get these guys on the ball. I want you to
tell 'em that we all have to pull together, or we'll sink!”

“Sink?” I said.

He nodded emphatically. “You're damn tootin'.”

“Well,” I said slowly. “That's sort of a hairy proposition, what do you figure Sala would
say if I went out there and told him it was sink or swim with the
Daily News?”
I hesitated. “Or Schwartz, or Vanderwitz -- even Moberg.”

He stared down at his desk. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess they can all run -- like
Segarra.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “That greasy little pervert! He didn't just
quit -- he broadcast it all over San Juan! People kept telling me they'd heard the paper
was bankrupt. That's why I had to go to Miami -- I can't borrow a dime in this town. That
mealy-mouthed lizard is out there screwing me.”

I was tempted to ask him why he'd hired Segarra in the first place, or why he had put out
a fifth-rate paper when he might have at least tried to put out a good one. Suddenly I was
tired of Lotterman; he was a phony and he didn't even know it. He was forever yapping
about Freedom of the Press and Keeping the Paper Going, but if he'd had a million dollars
and all the freedom in the world he'd still put out a worthless newspaper because he
wasn't smart enough to put out a good one. He was just another noisy little punk in the
great legion of punks who march between the banners of bigger and better men. Freedom,
Truth, Honor -- you could rattle off a hundred such words and behind every one of them
would gather a thousand punks, pompous little farts, waving the banner with one hand and
reaching under the table with the other.

I stood up. “Ed,” I said, using his name for the first time, “I believe I'll quit.”

He looked up at me, his face blank.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'll be back on Monday for my check, and after that I think I'll rest
awhile.”

He jumped out of his seat and rushed at me. “You cheap Ivy League sonofabitch!” he
shouted. “I've tolerated your arrogance long enough!” He pushed me toward the door.
“You're fired!” he screamed. “Get out of the building before I have you locked up!” He
gave me a shove into the newsroom, then went back in his office and slammed the door.

I wandered over to my desk and started laughing when Sala asked me what happened. “He
went off his nut,” I replied. “I told him I was quitting and he snapped.”

“Well,” said Sala, “it's all over anyway. He promised me a month's salary if I'd tell
people that he fired Segarra because he was queer -- said he'd pay it out of his own
pocket if Stein didn't come through.”

“The cheap bastard,” I said. “He didn't offer me a dime.” I laughed. “Of course he talked
like he was ready to give me Segarra's job -- until Monday.”

“Yeah, Monday's D-Day,” said Sala. “He'll have to pay us if he wants to put out a paper.”
He shook his head. “But I don't think he does -- I think he sold out to Stein.”

He snorted. “So what? If he can't pay the staff, he's finished, no matter what he wants.
I know one damn thing -- he'll be running the greyest paper in the Western Hemisphere if I
don't get my check on Monday. I'm coming in here tomorrow morning and clean out the whole
photo library -- about 99 percent of that stuff is mine.”

“Hell yes,” I said. “Hold it for ransom.” Then I grinned. “Of course they'd get you for
grand larceny if he pressed it -- he might even remember about your thousand-dollar bail.”

He shook his head. “Jesus, I keep forgetting about that -- you think he really paid it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Probably a pretty good chance he got it back, but I'd hate to
count on it.”

“Ah, to hell with it,” he replied. “Let's go up to Al's.”

It was a hot, muggy night and I felt like getting drunk as a loon.

We had been there about an hour, swilling rum at top speed, when Donovan came roaring in.
He had been out at the golf tournament all afternoon and had just heard the news. “Holy
mother of jack-bastards!” he yelled. “I went back to the paper and there was nobody there
but Schwartz, working his ass off!” He fell down in a chair. “What happened -- are we done
in?”

“Yes,” I said. “You're finished.”

He nodded gravely. “I still have a deadline,” he said. “I must finish my sports
section.” He started for the street. “I'll be back in an hour,” he assured us. “All I have
to do is this golf story. To hell with the rest of it -- I'll run a full-page cartoon.”

Sala and I kept drinking, and when Donovan came back we stepped up the pace. By midnight
we were all pretty wild and I began thinking about Chenault. I thought about it for
another hour or so, and then I got up and said I was going home.

On the way back, I stopped in Condado and got a bottle of rum. When I got to the
apartment she was sitting on the bed, reading
Heart of Darkness
and still wearing the same shirt

I slammed the door behind me and went to the kitchen to mix a drink. “Wake up and ponder
the future,” I said over my shoulder. “I quit tonight and got fired about two minutes
later.”

She looked up and smiled. “No more money?”

“No more nothing,” I replied, filling two glasses with rum. “I'm clearing out. I'm tired
of it.”

“Tired of what?” she asked.

I took one of the drinks over to the bed. “Here,” I said. “Here's one of the things I'm
tired of.” I shoved it into her hand, then walked over to the window and looked down at
the street. “Mainly,” I said, “I'm tired of being a punk -- a human suckfish.” I chuckled.
“You know about suckfish?” She shook her head.

“They have little suction cups on their bellies,” I said. “And they attach themselves to
sharks -- when the shark gets a big meal, the suckfish eats the leftovers.”

She giggled and sipped her drink.

“Don't laugh,” I snapped. “You're Exhibit A -- first Yeamon, then me.” It was an ugly
thing to say, but I was raving now and I didn't care. “Hell,” I added. “I'm no better. If
somebody came up to me and said, 'Tell me, Mister Kemp, just what is your profession?' I'd
say, 'Well, you see, I swim around in murky waters until I find something big and bad to
clamp onto -- a good provider, as it were, something with big teeth and a small belly.'”
I laughed at her. “That's the combination a good suckflsh looks for -- avoid the big belly
at all costs.”