Thompson, Hunter S (20 page)

She looked at me, shaking her head sadly.

“That's right!” I shouted. “I'm drunk and nuts both -- no hope for me, is there?” I
stopped pacing and looked at her. “Well there's not much hope for you either, by God.
You're so damn stupid that you don't know a suckflsh when you see one!” I started pacing
again. “You said to hell with the only person down here without cups on his belly, and
then you grab on to me, of all damn people.” I shook my head. “Christ, I'm cups all over
-- I've been grabbing leftovers so long I don't know what the real thing looks like
anymore.”

She was crying now, but I kept on. “What the hell are you going to do, Chenault? What
can
you do?” I went back to the kitchen for more drink. “You better start thinking,” I said.
“Your days are numbered here -- unless you want to pay the rent when I go.”

She kept on crying, and I walked back to the window. “No hope for an old suckflsh,” I
muttered, suddenly feeling very tired. I wandered around for a while, saying nothing,
then I went over and sat down on the bed.

She stopped crying and sat up, leaning on one elbow. “When are you leaving?” she said.

“I don't know,” I replied. “Probably next week.”

“Where?” she asked.

“I don't know -- someplace new.”

She was silent for a moment, then she said, “Well, I suppose I'll go back to New York.”

I shrugged. “I'll get you a plane ticket. I can't afford it, but what the hell.”

“You don't have to,” she said. “I have money.”

I stared at her. “I thought you couldn't even get back from St Thomas.”

“I didn't have any then,” she said. “It was in that suitcase you got from Fritz -- I hid
it, so we'd have something left.” She smiled faintly. “It's only a hundred dollars.”

“Hell,” I said. “You'll need some when you get to New York.”

“No I won't,” she replied. “I'll still have fifty, and --” she hesitated. “And I think
I'll go home for a while. My parents live in Connecticut.”

“Well,” I said. “That's good, I guess.”

She leaned over and put her head on my chest “It's horrible,” she sobbed. “But I don't
know where else to go.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. I didn't know where she could go, either, or why, or
what she could do when she got there.

“Can I stay here until you go?” she asked.

I tightened my arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Sure,” I said. “If you think
you can stand the gaff.”

“The what?” she asked.

I smiled and stood up. “The craziness,” I said. “Do you mind if I get naked and drunk?”

She giggled. “What about me?”

“Sure,” I said, taking off my clothes. “Why not?”

I made some new drinks and brought the bottle back to the table beside the bed. Then I
turned on the fan and put out the lights while we sipped our drinks. I was propped up on
pillows and she had her head on my chest The silence was so total that the clink of the
ice in my glass sounded loud enough to be heard on the street. The moon was bright through
the front window and I watched the expression on Chenault's face, wondering how she could
look so peaceful and content.

After a while I reached over and filled my glass again. In the process, I spilled some
rum on my stomach and she leaned down to lick it off. The touch of her tongue made me
shudder, and after a moment of contemplation I picked up the bottle again and spilled some
rum on my leg. She looked up at me and smiled, as if I were playing some kind of an odd
joke, then she bent down and carefully licked it off.

We woke up early the next morning. I drove down to the hotel to get some papers while
Chenault took a shower. I got a
Times
and a
Trib,
so we'd both have something to read, and then as an afterthought I bought two copies of
what I figured was the final issue of the
San Juan Daily News.
I wanted to have one as a souvenir.

We had breakfast at the table by the window and afterward we drank coffee and read the
papers. That morning was the only time I ever felt a sense of peace in the apartment, and
when I thought about it I felt dumb, because that was the only reason I'd wanted it in the
first place. I lay on the bed and smoked and listened to the radio while Chenault washed
the dishes. There was a good breeze, and when I looked out the window I could see across
the trees and the red-tiled rooftops all the way to the horizon.

Chenault was wearing my shirt again, and I watched it bounce and flutter around her
thighs as she moved in the kitchen. After a while I got up and crept over to her, lifting
the shirt and seizing her rump with both hands. She shrieked and spun around, then fell
against me, laughing. I put my arms around her and playfully jerked the tail of the shirt
up over her head. We stood there swaying slightly and then I carried her over to the bed,
where we made love very quietly.

It was mid-morning when I left the house, but the sun was already so hot that it felt
like mid-afternoon. Driving along the beach I remembered how much I'd enjoyed the mornings
when I first came to San Juan. There is something fresh and crisp about the first hours of
a Caribbean day, a happy anticipation that something is about to happen, maybe just up the
street or around the next corner. Whenever I look back on those months and try to
separate the good times from the bad, I recall those mornings when I had an early
assignment -- when I would borrow Sala's car and go roaring along the big tree-lined
boulevard. I remember the feel of the little car vibrating beneath me and the sudden heat
of the sun on my face as I zipped out of the shade and into a patch of light; I remember
the whiteness of my shirt and the sound of a silk tie flapping in the wind beside my
head, the unhinged feel of the accelerator and a sudden switching of lanes to pass a truck
and beat a red light.

Then into a palm-lined driveway and hit the rasping brakes, flip down the Press tag on
the visor and leave the car in the nearest No Parking zone. Hurry into the lobby, pulling
on the coat to my new black suit and dangling a camera in one hand while an oily clerk
calls my man to confirm the appointment. Then up a soft elevator to the suite -- big
greeting, pompous conversation, and black coffee from a silver pot, a few quick photos on
the balcony, grinning handshake, then back down the elevator and hustle off.

On my way back to the office, with a pocketful of notes, I would stop at one of the
outdoor restaurants on the beach for a club sandwich and a beer; sitting in the shade to
read the papers and ponder the madness of the news, or leaning back with a lusty grin at
all the bright-wrapped nipples, trying to decide how many I could get my hands on before
the week was out.

Those were the good mornings, when the sun was hot and the air was quick and promising,
when the Real Business seemed right on the verge of happening and I felt that if I went
just a little faster I might overtake that bright and fleeting thing that was always just
ahead.

Then came noon, and morning withered like a lost dream. The sweat was torture and the
rest of the day was littered with the dead remains of all those things that might have
happened, but couldn't stand the heat. When the sun got hot enough it burned away all the
illusions and I saw the place as it was -- cheap, sullen, and garish -- nothing good was
going to happen here.

Sometimes at dusk, when you were trying to relax and not think about the general
stagnation, the Garbage God would gather a handful of those choked-off morning hopes and
dangle them somewhere just out of reach; they would hang in the breeze and make a sound
like delicate glass bells, reminding you of something you never quite got hold of, and
never would. It was a maddening image, and the only way to whip it was to hang on until
dusk and banish the ghosts with rum. Often it was easier not to wait, so the drinking
would begin at noon. It didn't help much, as I recall, except that sometimes it made the
day go a little faster.

I was snapped out of my reverie when I turned the corner into Calle O'Leary and saw
Sala's car parked in front of Al's front door, and next to it was Yeamon's scooter. The
day turned instantly rotten and a sort of panic came on me. I drove past Al's without
stopping, and kept looking straight ahead until I turned down the hill. I drove around
for a while, trying to think it out, but no matter how many reasonable conclusions I came
to, I still felt like a snake. Not that I didn't feel perfectly right and justified -- I
just couldn't bring myself to go up there and sit down at a table across from Yeamon. The
more I thought about it, the worse I felt. Hang out a shingle, I muttered: “P. Kemp,
Drunken Journalist, Suckfish & Snake -- hrs. noon to dawn, closed Mondays.”

As I circled the Plaza Colon I got jammed up behind a fruit peddler and blew my horn
savagely at him. “You stinking little nazi!” I shouted. “Get out of my way.”

My mood was turning sour. My sense of humor was slipping. It was time to get off the
street.

I headed for the Condado Beach Club, where I hunkered down at a big glass table on the
deck with a red, blue, and yellow umbrella to keep off the sun. I spent the next few
hours reading
The Nigger of the Narcissus
and making notes for my story on The Rise and Fall of the
San Juan Daily News.
I was feeling smart, but reading Conrad's preface frightened me so much that I abandoned
all hope of ever being anything but a failure. . .

But not today, I thought. Today will be different. Today we will whoop it up. Have a
picnic. Get some champagne. Take Chenault out to the beach and go wild. My mood swung
immediately. I called the waiter and ordered two special picnic lunches with lobster and
mangoes.

When I got back to the apartment, Chenault was gone. There was no sign of her, none of
her clothes in the closet. There was an eerie sense of quiet in the place, a strange
emptiness.

Then I saw the note in my typewriter -- four or five lines on
Daily News
stationery with a vivid pink lipstick kiss above my name.

Dear Paul,

I can't stand it anymore. My plane leaves at six. You love me. We are soul-mates. We will
drink rum and dance naked. Come see me in New York. I will have a few surprises for you.

Love,

Chenault

I looked at my watch and saw that it was six-fifteen. Too late to catch her at the
airport. Ah well, I thought I'll see her in New York.

I sat on the bed and drank the bottle of champagne. I felt melancholy, so I decided to
go swimming. I drove out to Luisa Aldea where the beach was empty.

The surf was high and I felt a combination of fear and eagerness as I took off my clothes
and walked toward it. In the backlash of a huge wave I plunged in and let it suck me out
to sea. Moments later I was hurtling back toward the beach on top of a long white breaker
that carried me along like a torpedo. Then it spun me around like a dead fish and slammed
me on the sand so hard that my back was raw for days afterward.

I kept at it as long as I could stand up, riding out with the riptide and waiting for the
next big one to throw me back at the beach.

It was getting dark when I quit and the bugs were coming out, millions of diseased little
gnats, impossible to see. I felt a thick black taste in my mouth as I stumbled toward my
car.

Monday was a crucial day and the tension was waiting for me when I woke up. I had
overslept again and it was almost noon. After a quick breakfast, I hurried down to the
paper.

When I got there I found Moberg on the front steps, reading a notice tacked to the door.
It was long and complicated, saying in essence that the paper had been sold into
receivership and all claims against the former owners would be duly considered by Stein
Enterprises of Miami, Florida.

Moberg finished reading it and turned to me. “This is unconscionable,” he said. “We
should break in and loot the place. I need money, all I have is ten dollars.” Then, before
I could stop him, he kicked the glass out of the door. “Come on,” he said, starting
through the hole. “I know where he keeps the petty cash.”

Suddenly, a bell began ringing and I jerked him backward. “You crazy bastard,” I said.
“You've triggered the alarm. We have to get away from this place before the cops get here.”

We raced up to Al's and found the others huddled around a big patio table and jabbering
feverishly. Drizzling rain forced them to hunch closely as they plotted the murder of
Lotterman.

“That swine,” said Moberg. “He could have paid us Friday. He has plenty of money, I've
seen it.”

Sala laughed. “Hitler had plenty of money, but he never paid his bills.”

Schwartz shook his head sadly. “I wish I could get into the office. I have to make some
calls.” He nodded meaningfully. “Long calls -- like Paris, Kenya, and Tokyo.”

“Why Tokyo?” said Moberg. “You can get killed there.”

“You mean
you
can get killed there,” Schwartz replied. “I mind my own business.”

Moberg shook his head. “I have friends in Tokyo. You'll never make friends -- you're too
stupid.”

“You dirty little lush!” Schwartz exclaimed, suddenly standing up. “One more word out of
you and I'll punch your face!”

Moberg laughed easily. “You're cracking up, Schwartz. I'd advise you to take a bath.”

Schwartz took a quick step around the table and swung like he was throwing a baseball.
Moberg could have dodged, if he'd had any reflexes, but he just sat there and let himself
be bashed off his chair.

It was a tough show and Schwartz was obviously pleased with himself. “That'll teach you,”
he muttered, starting for the door. “See you fellows later,” he called back to us. “I
can't stand being around that lush.”

Moberg grinned and spit at him. “I'll be back in a while,” he told us. “I have to see a
woman in Rio Piedras -- I need money.”

Sala watched him go, shaking his head sadly. “I've seen a lot of creeps in my time, but
that one takes the cake.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Moberg is your friend. Never forget that.”

Later that night we went to a garden party given by the Rum League and the San Juan
Chamber of Commerce, to honor the spirit of American scholarship. The house was white
stucco, ornate and sprawling, with a big garden in back. About a hundred people were
there, most of them dressed formally. On one side of the garden was a long bar and I
hurried toward it Donovan was there, drinking heavily. He opened his coat discreetly and
showed me a butcher knife tucked into his belt “Look at this,” he said. “We're ready.”

Ready? I thought. Ready for what? Slitting Lotterman's throat? The garden was full of
rich celebrities and visiting students. I noticed Yeamon standing off from the crowd with
his arm around an exceptionally pretty girl. They were sharing a pint of gin and laughing
harshly. Yeamon was wearing black nylon gloves, which I took as an ominous sign. Jesus, I
thought, these bastards have gone through the looking glass. I wanted no part of it

The party was dressy. There was a band on the porch, playing “Cielito Lindo” over and
over again. They gave it a mad waltzing tempo and each time they finished, the dancers
would yell for more. For some reason, I remember that moment as well or better than
anything else I saw in Puerto Rico. A sensuous green garden, surrounded by palms and a
brick wall; a long bar full of bottles and ice, and behind it a white-coated bartender; an
elderly crowd in dinner jackets and bright dresses, talking peacefully on the lawn. A warm
Caribbean night, with time passing slowly and at a respectful distance.

I felt a hand on my arm and it was Sala. “Lotterman's here,” he said. “We're going to
nail him.”

Just then we heard a shrill scream. I looked across the garden and saw a flurry of
movement There was another scream and I recognized Moberg's voice, yelling: “Watch out,
watch out. . . eeeeeeyahhaaaa!”

I got there just in time to see him getting up off the ground. Lotterman was standing
over him, waving his fist. “You stinking little sot! You tried to kill me!”

Moberg got up slowly and brushed himself off. “You deserve to die,” he snarled, “die like
the rat you are.”

Lotterman was trembling and his face was dark red. He took a quick step toward Moberg and
hit him again, knocking him back on some people who were trying to get out of the way. I
heard laughter beside me and a voice saying, “One of Ed's boys tried to hit him up for
some cash. Look at him go, would you!”

Lotterman was shouting incoherently and flailing at Moberg, driving him back into the
crowd. Moberg was screaming for help when he bumped into Yeamon coming the other way.
Yeamon shoved him aside and yelled something at Lotterman. The only word I caught was
“Now. . .”

I saw Lotterman's face collapse with surprise, and he was standing straight as a wooden
pole when Yeamon hit him in the eyes and knocked him about six feet. He staggered wildly
for a moment, then collapsed on the grass, bleeding from his eyes and both ears. Then, out
of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape come hurtling across the garden and strike the
group like a cannonball. They all went down, but Donovan was first on his feet. He had a
berserk grin on his face as he grabbed one man by the head and mashed him sideways against
a tree. Yeamon dragged Lotterman out from under another man and began whacking him around
the garden like a punching bag.

The crowd panicked and rushed to escape. “Call the police!” one man shouted.

A wrinkled old woman in a strapless dress went stumbling past me, shrieking, “Take me
home! Take me home! I'm afraid!”

I edged away through the mob, trying to attract as little attention as possible. When I
got to the door I looked back and saw a bunch of men staring down at Lotterman's body and
making the sign of the cross. “There they go!” someone shouted, and I looked toward the
back of the garden where he was pointing. There was a rustling in the bushes, the sound of
snapping limbs, and then I saw Donovan and Yeamon scrambling over the wall.

A man came running up the steps to the house. “They got away!” he shouted. “Somebody call
the police! I'm going after them!”

I slid out the door and ran along the sidewalk toward my car. I thought I heard Yeamon's
scooter somewhere nearby, but I couldn't be sure. I decided to hurry back to Al's, saying
that I'd ducked out of that unruly crowd and gone down to the Flamboyan for a few quiet
beers. It would be a flimsy alibi, if anybody at the party had recognized me, but I had no
choice.

I'd been there about fifteen minutes when Sala arrived. He was trembling as he hurried
over to the table. “Man!” he said in a loud whisper. “I've been driving like a bastard all
over town. I didn't know where to go.” He looked around to make sure there was nobody
else in the patio.

I laughed and leaned back in the chair. “Wasn't that a bitch?”

“A bitch?” he exclaimed. “Did you hear what happened? Lotterman had a heart attack --
he's dead.”

I leaned toward him. “Where'd you hear that?”

“I was there when they took him away in the ambulance,” he replied. “You should have seen
the place -- women screaming, cops everywhere -- they took Moberg.” He lit a cigarette.
“You know we're still out on bail,” he said quietly. “We're doomed.”

The lights were on in my apartment, and as I hurried up the stairs I heard the shower
running. The bathroom door was closed and I pulled it open. The curtain jerked back and
Yeamon peered out of the shower. “Kemp?” he said, peering through the steam. “Who the hell
is it?”

“God damn you!” I shouted. “How did you get in here?”

“Your window was open. I'll have to stay here tonight -- the lights failed on my scooter.”

“You dumb bastard!” I snapped. “You might have a murder rap on your ass -- Lotterman had
a heart attack -- he's dead!”

He jumped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Jesus,” he said. “I
better get out of here.”

“Where's Donovan?” I said. “They're after him too.”

He shook his head. “I don't know. We hit a parked car on the scooter. He said he was
going to the airport.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. “Where's the scooter?” I asked.

He pointed to the rear of the building. “I put it around the side. It was hell getting
here with no lights.”

I groaned. “Christ, you're sucking me right into jail! Get dressed. You're leaving.”

It was a ten-minute drive to the airport and we had barely got under way when we ran into
a tropical monsoon. We stopped and put up the top, but by the time we got it snapped down
we were both soaking wet.

The rain was blinding. A few inches above my head it pounded on the canvas, and beneath
us the tires hissed on the wet pavement.

We swung off the highway and started up the long road to the airport We were about
halfway to the terminal when I looked to my left and saw a big plane with Pan Am markings
come hurtling down the runway. I thought I could see Donovan's face at one of the windows,
grinning and waving at us as the plane lifted off the runway and went past us with a
great roar, a winged monster full of lights and people, all bound for New York. I pulled
over and we watched it climb and go into a steep turn above the palm jungle and then out
to sea, until finally it was nothing but a tiny red dot up in the stars.

“Well,” I said. “There it goes.”

Yeamon stared after it. “Is that the last one?”

“Yep,” I replied. “Next flight's at nine-thirty tomorrow morning.”

After a pause he said, “Well, I guess we should head back.”

I looked at him. “Back where?” I said. “You might as well give yourself up right now as
come out here tomorrow morning.”

He stared out at the rain and glanced around nervously. “Well goddamnit, I have to get
off this island -- that's all there is to it.”

I thought for a moment, then I remembered the ferry from Fajardo to St. Thomas. As far
as I knew, it left about eight every morning. We decided that he would go over there and
get a cheap room at the Grand Hotel. After that he would be on his own --I had my own
problems.

It was forty miles to Fajardo, but the road was good and there was no hurry, so I drove
easily. The rain had stopped and the night smelled fresh. We put the top down and took
turns sipping the rum.

“Damn,” he said after a while. “I hate to have to take off for South America with one
suit and a hundred dollars to my name.”

He leaned back in the seat and wept I could hear the surf a few hundred yards to the left
of the road. To the right I could see the peak of El Yunque, a black outline against a
menacing sky.

It was almost one-thirty when we came to the end of the highway and turned off to
Fajardo. The town was dark and there wasn't a soul on the streets. We rounded the empty
plaza and drove down toward the ferry dock. There was a small hotel about a block away and
I stopped in front of it while he went in to get a room.

In a few minutes he came out and got into the car. “Well,” he said quietly, “I'm okay.
The ferry leaves at eight.”

He seemed to want to sit for a while, so I lit another cigarette and tried to relax. The
town was so quiet that every sound we made seemed dangerously amplified. Once the rum
bottle banged against the steering wheel as he was passing it back to me, and I jumped
like somebody had fired a shot.

He laughed quietly. “Take it easy, Kemp. You don't have anything to worry about.”

I wasn't so much worried, as spooked. There was something eerie about the whole business,
as if God in a fit of disgust had decided to wipe us all out. Our structure was
collapsing; it seemed like just a few hours ago that I was having breakfast with Chenault
in the sunny peace of my own home. Then I had ventured into the day, and plunged headlong
into an orgy of murder and shrieking and breaking of glass. Now it was ending just as
senselessly as it began. It was all over and I was very sure of it because Yeamon was
leaving. There might be some noise after he left, but it would be orthodox noise, the
kind a man can deal with and even ignore --instead of those sudden unnerving eruptions
that suck you into them and toss you around like a toad in rough water.

I couldn't remember where it actually began, but it was ending here in Fajardo, a dark
little spot on the map that seemed to be the end of the world. Yeamon was going on from
here and I was going back; it was definitely the end of something, but I wasn't sure just
what.

I lit a cigarette and thought about other people, and wondered what they were doing
tonight, while I was here on a dark street in Fajardo sipping rum out of a bottle with a
man who would tomorrow morning be a fugitive murderer.

Yeamon handed the bottle back to me and got out of the car. “Well, I'll see you, Paul --
God knows where.”

I leaned across the seat and stuck out my hand. “Probably New York,” I said.

“How long will you be here?” he asked.

“Not long,” I replied.

He gave my hand a final shake. “Okay, Kemp,” he said with a grin. “Thanks a lot -- you
came through like a champ.”

“Hell,” I said, starting the engine. “We're all champs when we're drunk.”

“Nobody's drunk,” he said.

“I am,” I said. “Or else I'd have turned you in.”