Thompson, Hunter S (12 page)

I turned on the lights and opened the windows, then I made a large drink and stretched
out on the cot to read my magazine. There was a faint breeze, but the noise from the
street was so terrible that I gave up trying to read and turned out the lights. People
kept passing on the sidewalk and looking in, and now that they couldn't see me I expected
looters to come crawling through the window at any moment I lay back on the cot with a
bottle of rum resting on my navel and plotted how to defend myself.

If I had a Luger, I thought, I could drill the bastards. I leaned on one elbow and
pointed a finger at the window, seeing what kind of a shot I would get. Perfect. There was
just enough light in the street for a good silhouette. I knew it would happen quickly, I'd
have no choice: just pull the trigger and go deaf from the terrible noise, a frenzy of
screaming and scratching followed by the ghastly thump of a body knocked back and down to
the sidewalk. There would be a mob, of course, and I'd probably have to shoot a few in
self-defense. Then the cops would arrive and that would be it. They'd recognize me and
probably kill me right there in the apartment.

Jesus, I thought, I'm doomed. I'll never get out of here alive.

I thought I saw things moving on the ceiling and voices in the alley were calling my
name. I began to tremble and sweat, and then I fell into a twisted delirium.

That night finished me with Sala's tomb. The next morning I got up early and went out to
Condado to seek an apartment I wanted sunlight and clean sheets and a refrigerator where
I could keep beer and orange juice, food in the pantry and books on the shelves so I could
stay home once in a while, a breeze coming in through the window and a peaceful street
outside, an address that sounded human-instead of c/o or Gen. Del. or Please Forward or
Hold for Arrival.

A ten-year accumulation of these vagrant addresses can weigh on a man like a hex. He
begins to feel like the Wandering Jew. That's the way I felt. After one night too many
sleeping on some stinking cot in a foul grotto where I didn't want to be anyway and had no
reason to be except that it was foreign and cheap, I decided to hell with it. If that was
absolute freedom then I'd had a bellyful of it, and from here on in I would try something
a little less pure and one hell of a lot more comfortable. I was not only going to have an
address, but I was going to have a car, and if there was anything else to be had in the
way of large and stabilizing influences, I would have those too.

There were several apartments advertised in the paper, but the first few I looked at were
too expensive. Finally I found one over somebody's garage. It was just what I wanted --
plenty of air, a big flamboyan tree for shade, bamboo furniture and a new refrigerator.

The woman wanted a hundred, but when I said seventy-five she quickly agreed. I had seen a
big “51” sticker on a car in front of her house and she told me that she and her husband
were going all out for statehood. They owned La Bomba Cafe in San Juan. Did I know it?
Indeed I did -- knew it well, ate there often, incomparable food for the price. I told her
I worked for the
New York Times
and would be in San Juan for a year, writing a series of stories about statehood for
Puerto Rico. For this, I would need absolute privacy.

We grinned at each other and I gave her a month's rent in advance. When she asked for
another seventy-five on deposit I told her I'd get my expense check next week and would
pay her then. She smiled graciously and I left before she could dun me for anything else.

Knowing I had a place of my own cheered me immensely. Even if I was fired I had enough in
the bank to rest for a while, and with Sanderson shelling out twenty-five bills a day I
would have no worries at all.

I walked out to Avenida Ashford and took a bus to the office. Halfway there, I remembered
that this was my day off, but I wanted to check my mail so I went in. As I crossed the
newsroom toward the mail slots, Sala called me from the darkroom.

“Man,” he said, “you should have been here earlier. Lotterman found out about Moberg
signing that check for our bail-tried to croak him with a pair of scissors, chased him all
the way down to the street.” He nodded. “It was hell. I thought Moberg was a goner.”

“Good God,” I muttered. “What about the check -- is it still good?”

“I guess so,” he replied. “He'll lose face if it bounces.”

I nodded doubtfully. This screwed my plan to get a car. I was going to borrow money from
Lotterman and pay it back out of my salary at ten or fifteen a week. I was standing there
by the darkroom, racking my brain for alternatives, when Lotterman popped out of his
office and called me.

“I want to see you,” he barked. “You too, Sala -- don't try to duck back in there.”

Sala ignored him and went into the darkroom. Seconds later he appeared with a pack of
cigarettes. “Duck, hell!” he snorted, loud enough for Lotterman and everybody else to
hear. “The day I have to duck a punk like that I'll toss in the towel.”

As it happened, Lotterman heard nothing. I had never seen him in such a state. He tried
to sound angry, but he seemed more confused than anything else, and after listening to
him for a few moments I had the impression that he was on the verge of dissolving into
some kind of apoplexy.

He started off by telling us what a terrible thing it was for “that goddamn crazy Yeamon”
to get us into trouble. “And then Moberg,” he said with a groan. “Moberg, that crazy
worthless sot, he's been stealing from me.” He whacked the desk with his fist. “That
sleazy drunken cockroach of a man who goes out and puts the slam on me for twenty-three
hundred dollars!” He stared up at us. “Can you boys understand what that does to my bank
balance? Do you have any idea what it costs to keep this paper going?” He fell back in the
chair. "Good Lord, I've put my life savings on the line for the simple reason that I
believe in journalism -- and here this odious, pus-filled roach goes out and tries to
destroy me with one blow.

“And Yeamon!” he shouted. “I knew it the minute I saw him! I said to myself, Christ, get
rid of this guy quick -- he's pure trouble.” He shook a warning finger at us. “I want you
to stay away from him, understand? What the hell is he doing here anyway? Why doesn't he
go back where he came from? What's he living on?”

We both shrugged. “I think he has a trust fund,” I said. “He's been talking about
investing some money.”

“God almighty!” Lotterman exclaimed. “That's just the kind we don't want here!” He shook
his head. “And he had the nerve to tell me he was broke -- borrowed a hundred dollars and
threw it away on a motorcycle -- can you beat that?”

I couldn't beat it and neither could Sala.

“Now he's hounding me for blood money,” Lotterman went on. “By God, we'll see.” He
slumped back in the chair again. “It's almost too horrible to believe,” he said. “I've
just paid a thousand dollars to get him out of jail -- a dangerous nut who threatened to
twist my head. And Moberg,” he muttered. “Where did he come from?” He shook his head and
waved us out of the office. “Go on,” he said. “Tell Moberg I'm going to have him locked
up.”

As we started to go he remembered something else. “Wait a minute,” he called. “I don't
want you boys to think I
wouldn't
have got you out of jail. Of course I would -- you know that, don't you?”

We assured him that we did, and left him mumbling at his desk. I went back to the library
and sat down to think. I was going to have a car, regardless of what I had to do to get
it. I'd seen a Volkswagen convertible for five hundred and it seemed in pretty good shape.
Considering the fantastic price of cars in San Juan, it would be a real bargain if I could
get it for four hundred.

I called Sanderson. “Say,” I said casually, “what's the least I'll get out of this
Zimburger deal?”

“Why?” he asked.

“I want an advance. I need a car.”

He laughed. “You don't need a car -- you want a car. How much do you need?”

“About a thousand,” I said. “I'm not greedy.”

“You must be out of your mind,” he replied. “The best I could do under any circumstances
would be two fifty.”

“Okay,” I said. “It's a drop in the bucket, but it might help. When can I get it?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “Zimburger's coming in and I think we should get together
and set this thing up. I don't want to do it at home.” He paused. “Can you come in around
ten?”

“Okay,” I said. “See you then.”

When I put down the phone I realized I was preparing to make the plunge. I would move
into my own apartment at the end of the week, and now I was about to buy a car. San Juan
was getting a grip on me. I hadn't had a car in five years -- not since the old Citroen I
bought in Paris for twenty-five dollars, and sold a year later for ten, after driving it
all over Europe. Now I was ready to shoot four hundred on a Volkswagen. If nothing else,
it gave me a sense of moving up in the world, for good or ill.

On my way to Sanderson's the next day I stopped at the lot where I'd seen the car. The
office was empty, and on a wall above one of the desks was a sign saying “SELL -- NOTHING
HAPPENS UNTIL SOMEBODY SELLS SOMETHING.”

I found the dealer outside. “Get this one ready to go,” I said, pointing to the
convertible. “I'll give you four hundred for it at noon.”

He shook his head. “Five hundred dollars,” he said, lifting the sign on the windshield as
if I'd overlooked it.

“Nonsense,” I replied. “You know the rules -- nothing happens until somebody sells
something.”

He looked surprised, but the slogan had registered.

“The fat is in the fire,” I said, turning to go. “I'll be back at noon to pick it up.”

He stared after me as I hurried out to the street

Zimburger was already there when I got to Sanderson's office. He was wearing a bright
blue suit and a red shirt with no tie. At a glance, he looked like a wax dummy in the
window of some moldy PX. After twenty years in The Corps, Zimburger felt uneasy in
civilian clothes. “Too damn baggy,” he explained. “Cheap workmanship, flimsy material.”

He nodded emphatically. “Nobody keeps an eye on things anymore. It's the law of the
tooth and the fang.”

Sanderson came in from the outer office. He was dressed, as usual, like the resident
governor of Pago Pago. This time he was wearing a black silk suit with a bow tie.

Zimburger looked like an off-duty prison guard, a sweating potbellied vet who had
somehow scraped up a wad of money.

“All right,” he said. “Let's get down to business. Is this guy the writer?” He pointed at
me.

“This is Paul Kemp,” said Sanderson. “You've seen him at the house.”

Zimburger nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“Mr. Kemp writes for the
New York Times,”
said Sanderson. “We're lucky to have him with us on this.”

Zimburger looked at me with renewed interest. “A real writer, eh? I guess that means
trouble.” He laughed. “I knew writers in the Marines -- they were all trouble. Hell, I
used to be one myself. They had me writing training manuals for six months -- dullest damn
work I ever did.”

Sanderson leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.

“Kemp will go over to Vieques with you whenever it's convenient,” he said. “He wants to
look at the site.”

“Hell yes!” Zimburger replied. “It'll knock his eyes out-not a better beach in the
Caribbean.” He turned to me. “You'll get some real material out of this place. Nobody's
ever done a story on Vieques -- especially the
New York Times.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “When do you want to go?”

“How about tomorrow?” he said quickly.

“Too soon,” Sanderson told him. “Kemp is doing a job for the
News
right now. Why not make it this weekend?”

“Fine with me,” Zimburger replied. “I'll line up a plane for Thursday.” He looked at his
watch and stood up. “I'm off,” he said. “Hell, it's almost noon and I haven't made any
money -- wasted half the day.” He looked at me and gave me a snappy salute, grinning as he
hurried out the door.

I took a crowded elevator down to the street and hailed a cab. At the car lot the
salesman was waiting for me. I greeted him cordially and paid him in cash for the car and
quickly drove it away. It was yellow, with a black top and good tires and an AM/FM radio.

It was almost one, so I went straight to the paper instead of stopping at Al's for lunch.

I spent all afternoon at police headquarters, talking to a man who had killed his
daughter.

“Why?” I asked him, as several cops looked on and Sala snapped his picture.

He yelled something in Spanish and the cops told me he thought his daughter was “no
good.” She wanted to go to New York. She was only thirteen, but he claimed she'd been
whoring for the price of a plane ticket

“Okay,” I said. “Muchas gracias.” I had enough for a story and the cops took him away. I
wondered how long he would stay in jail before the trial. Probably two or three years,
considering he'd already confessed. Hell, what was the sense of a trial; the docket was
crowded enough.

And a damn good thing it is, I thought. All afternoon I had a feeling that cops were
giving us the eye, but I couldn't be sure.

We went up to Al's for dinner. Yeamon was there in the patio and I told him about
Lotterman's outburst

“Yeah,” he said. “I thought about that on the way in to see the lawyer.” He shook his
head. “Hell, I didn't even go. He has me now -- did he say anything about canceling my
bail?”

“He won't,” said Sala. “It would make him look bad -- unless he figures you're about to
skip out”

“I am,” said Yeamon. “We're going to South America.”

“Both of you?” I said.

He nodded. “We may have to wait awhile now,” he said. “I was counting on that severance
money.”

“Did you call Sanderson?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Call him,” I said. “He has green money. I bought a new car today.”

He laughed. “I'll be damned. Is it here?”

“Hell yes,” I said. We went out to the street to look at the car. Yeamon agreed that it
had a fine, sporting appearance.

“But you know what it means,” he said with a grin. “You're hooked. First a job, then a
car -- pretty soon you'll get married and settle in for good.” He laughed. “You'll get
like old Robert -- always going to take off manana.”

“Don't worry,” Sala replied. “I'll know when to take off. When you get to be a working
pro, then come back and tell me how to manage my life.”

We started back inside. “What's a working pro, Robert?” Yeamon asked. “Somebody who has a
job?”

“Somebody who can get a job,” Sala replied. “Because he knows what he's doing.”

Yeamon thought for a minute. “You mean because he knows what somebody else wants done?”

Sala shrugged. “Say it however you want.”

“I did,” said Yeamon. “And I don't mean to knock your talents. But if you're as good as
you say you are, and if you hate San Juan as much as you claim to, it seems to me like
you'd put two and two together, and be a working pro in a place you liked.”

“Mind your own fucking business!” Sala snapped. “I don't see that kind of logic in the
way you live -- you get straight with yourself, then I'll pay you for professional
counsel, okay?”