Thompson, Hunter S (13 page)

“For God's sake,” I said. “Let's forget this crap.”

“Suits me,” said Sala. “We're all fuck-ups anyway -- except that I'm a pro.”

Sweep brought a tray of hamburgers.

“When are you taking off?” I asked Yeamon.

“Depends on the money,” he replied. “I thought I'd check out St. Thomas this weekend, see
if we can get a hop on one of those boats going south.” He looked up. “You still coming
with us?”

“Ah, Christ,” I exclaimed. I told him about Zimburger and Vieques. “I could have put it
off,” I said, “but all I could think about was getting that money and the car.”

“Hell,” he said. “Vieques is halfway between here and St. Thomas. There's a ferry every
day.”

We finally agreed that I'd meet them there on Friday. They were flying over in the
morning and planned to come back sometime Sunday night.

“Stay away from St Thomas,” said Sala. “Bad things happen to people in St. Thomas. I can
tell you some incredibly horrible stories.”

“So what?” said Yeamon. “It's a good drunk. You should come with us.”

“No thanks,” Sala replied. “We had our good drunk, remember? I can do without those
beatings.”

We finished our food and ordered more drinks. Yeamon started talking about South America
and I felt a reluctant excitement flicker somewhere inside me. Even Sala got excited.
“Christ, I'd like to go there,” he kept saying. “No reason why I can't. Hell, I can make a
living anywhere.”

I listened and didn't say much, because I remembered how I'd felt that morning. And
besides, I had a car in the street and an apartment in Condado and a golden tap on
Zimburger. I thought about that. The car and the apartment didn't bother me at all, but
the fact that I was working for Zimburger gave me the creeps. Yeamon's talk made it seem
even worse. They were going to South America, and I was going to Zimburger. It gave me a
strange feeling, and the rest of that night I didn't say much, but merely sat there and
drank, trying to decide if I was getting older and wiser, or just plain old.

The thing that disturbed me most was that I really didn't want to go to South America. I
didn't want to go anywhere. Yet, when Yeamon talked about moving on, I felt the
excitement anyway. I could see myself getting off a boat in Martinique and ambling into
town to look for a cheap hotel. I could see myself in Caracas and Bogota and Rio, wheeling
and dealing through a world I had never seen but knew I could handle because I was a champ.

But it was pure masturbation, because down in my gut I wanted nothing more than a clean
bed and a bright room and something solid to call my own at least until I got tired of it.
There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I'd finally gone over the hump, and the
worst thing about it was that I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of
comfortably detached.

The next morning I drove down to Fajardo at top speed. I was covering a real estate deal,
but it turned into an ugly experience and I was forced to abandon it. On the way back I
stopped at a roadside stand and bought a pineapple, which the man cut up into little cubes
for me. I ate them as I labored through traffic, driving slowly now, with one hand,
reveling in the luxury of being master of my own movements for a change.

Next weekend, I decided, I would drive over to Ponce on the south coast. When I got to
the
News
building, Moberg was just getting out of his car.

“I trust you're armed,” I said. “Old daddio may run off his nut when he sees you.”

He laughed. “We compromised. He made me sign a note, saying I'd give him my car if
anybody skipped.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Yeamon's already talking about leaving.”

He laughed again. “I don't care. Fuck him. I'll sign anything. It's the right thing to
do.”

“Ah, Moberg,” I said, “you're a nutty bastard.”

“Yes,” he said. “I'm about as nutty as they come.”

Lotterman didn't show up all afternoon. Sala claimed he was making the rounds of the
banks, trying to float a loan to keep the paper going. It was only a rumor, but everyone
in the office was talking as if the end had come.

About three, Yeamon called to say he'd been to see Sanderson. “He gave me a few shitty
articles to do,” he said. “Says he'll get me about thirty bucks apiece for them --
wouldn't give me an advance, though.”

“That's not bad,” I said. “Do a good job on those and demand something bigger -- he has
more money than God.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess so. If I could get one thing worth about five hundred, I'd
have enough to take off.”

Sanderson called an hour or so later. “Can you be at the airport by seven on Thursday
morning?” he asked.

“Good God,” I said. “I suppose so.”

“You'll have to be,” he said. “Figure on staying most of the day. Zimburger wants to get
back before dark.”

“I'm not coming back,” I said. “I'm going over to St. Thomas for the carnival.”

He laughed. “I should have known you'd be attracted to something like that I'd stay out
of town if I were you. The locals get a little wild. The best parties are on the boats --
the yachting set has a carnival of their own.”

“I'm not making any plans,” I replied. “I'm just going over there and plunge into it -- a
good relaxing drunk.”

After work I stopped by Sala's place and picked up my clothes, then drove out to my new
apartment I had no gear to speak of, so all I had to do was hang a few things in the
closet and put some beer in the refrigerator. Everything else was furnished -- sheets,
towels, kitchen tools, everything but food.

It was
my
place, and I liked it. I slept for a while, then I drove down to a little colmado and
bought some eggs and bacon for breakfast.

I had already cooked the bacon the next morning when I realized I'd forgotten to buy
coffee. So I drove down to the Condado Beach Hotel and had breakfast there. I bought a
Times
and ate by myself at a small table on the lawn. It was a fairly expensive place and no one
from the
News
was likely to be there. The hacks who weren't at Al's would be at The Holiday, a crowded
outdoor restaurant on the beach near the edge of town.

I spent all afternoon on the waterfront, trying to find out if the paper was going to be
shut down by a strike. Just before I got off I told Schwartz I wouldn't be in the next
day; I felt a sickness coming on.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You guys are getting like rats on a sinking ship. Sala tied
up the darkroom all afternoon with his own work, and I caught Vanderwitz making a
long-distance call to Washington.” He shook his head. “We can't have a panic here; why
don't you guys calm down?”

“I'm calm,” I replied. “I just need a day to straighten out my affairs.”

“Okay,” he said wearily. “It's none of my business. Do whatever you want.”

I drove up to Al's and ate dinner by myself, then I went home and wrote the article that
Sanderson wanted to send to the
Times.
It was a simple thing and I wrote it mostly from the material he'd given me -- prices
going down for the summer, more young people on vacations, various outlying spots to
visit. It took me about two hours and when I finished I decided to take it on over to him
and have a few drinks before going to bed. I had to get up at six the next morning, but
it was still early and I wasn't sleepy.

There was nobody there when I arrived, so I went in and made a drink, then went out to
the porch and sat down in one of the long chairs. I turned on the fan and put an album of
show tunes on the phonograph.

I decided that when I got a little more money I would look for a place like this for
myself. The one I had now was good for a start, but it didn't have a porch or a garden or
a beach, and I saw no reason why I shouldn't have those things.

Sanderson came in after I'd been there about an hour. With him was a man who claimed to
be the brother of a famous trumpet player. We made fresh drinks and Sanderson read my
article and said it was excellent. “I hope you don't need the money right now,” he said.
“It might take a week or so.” He shrugged. “It won't be much anyway -- say fifty dollars.”

“Fine with me,” I said, settling back in the chair.

“I'll see what else I can shove off on you,” he said. “We're overloaded right now. Stop
in when you get back from St Thomas.”

“Good deal,” I said. “Things are looking pretty bleak at the paper -- I may have to
depend on this stuff pretty soon.”

He nodded. “Bleak is right. You'll find out on Monday just how bad it is.”

“What's going to happen on Monday?” I asked.

“I can't say,” he replied. Then he smiled. “It wouldn't help if you knew, anyway. Just
relax -- you won't starve.”

The man with the famous brother had been staring out at the beach, saying nothing. His
name was Ted. Now he turned to Sanderson and asked in a bored voice: “How's the diving out
there?”

“Not much,” Sanderson replied. “Pretty well fished out”

We talked for a while about diving. Sanderson spoke with authority about “rapture of the
deep” and diving on Palancar Reef. Ted had been living in southern France for two years,
and had once worked for Jacques Cousteau.

Sometime after midnight I realized I was getting drunk, so I got up to go. “Well,” I
said. “I have a date with Zimburger at the crack of dawn, I better get some sleep.”

I got up late the next morning. There was no time for breakfast, so I dressed hurriedly
and grabbed an orange to eat on the way to the airport. Zimburger was waiting outside a
small hangar at the far end of the runway. He nodded as I got out of the car and I walked
over to where he was standing with two other men. “This is Kemp,” he told them. “He's our
writer -- works for the
New York Times
.” He grinned and watched us shake hands.

One of them was a restaurant man and the other was an architect. We'd be back by
mid-afternoon, Zimburger told me, because Mr. Robbis, the restaurant man, had to go to a
cocktail party.

We flew over in a small Apache, with a pilot who looked like a refugee from the Flying
Tigers. He said nothing the whole time and seemed totally unaware of our presence. After a
dull, thirty-minute ride above the clouds, we nosed down toward Vieques and went hurtling
into a small cow pasture that served as an airport. I gripped my seat, certain we were
going to flip, but after several violent bounces we came to a stop.

We climbed out and Zimburger introduced us to a huge man named Martin, who looked like a
professional shark-hunter. He wore a crisp khaki outfit and motorcycle sunglasses, and his
hair was bleached almost white from the sun. Zimburger referred to him as “my man here on
the island.”

The general plan was to pick up some beer and sandwiches at Martin's bar, then drive to
the other side of the island to see the property. Martin drove us into town in his
Volkswagen bus, but the native who was supposed to make the sandwiches had disappeared.
Martin had to make them himself; he left us on the empty dance floor and went back to the
kitchen in a rage.

It took about an hour. Zimburger was talking earnestly to the restaurant man, so I
decided to go out and look for some coffee. The architect said he knew of a drugstore up
the street.

He'd been drinking steadily since five
a.m.,
when Zimburger had unaccountably roused him out of bed. His name was Lazard and he sounded
bitter.

“This Zimburger's a real screwball,” he told me. “He's had me running in circles for six
months.”

“What the hell,” I said. “As long as he pays.”

He looked over at me. “Is this the first time you've worked with him?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why? Does he welsh?”

Lazard looked unhappy. “I'm not sure. He's a fine one for free drinks and all that, but
sometimes I wonder.”

I shrugged. “Well, Adelante's paying me. I don't have to deal with him -- probably a good
thing.”

He nodded and we went into the drugstore. The menu was a strip of Coca-Cola signs on the
wall. There were red leatherette stools, a Formica-top counter, and thick tan mugs for the
coffee. The woman who ran it was sloppy white, with a heavy southern accent.

“Come right on in,” she said. “What'll it be, fellas?”

Great mother of God, I thought What town are we in?

Lazard bought a copy of the
News
for twenty cents and immediately noticed my byline on the front page. “I thought you
worked for the
New York Times,
” he said, pointing to my name above the article on the waterfront strike.

“Just gave 'em a hand,” I said. “They're short-staffed right now -- asked me to help out
until they can hire some more people.”

He nodded and smiled. “Man, that's the life, you know. What do you have -- a roving
assignment?”

“More or less,” I said.

“That's a terrific deal,” he replied. “Go anywhere you want. . . steady salary. . . no
worries. . .”

“Hell,” I said, “you've got a pretty good thing yourself.” I smiled. “Here we're both
sitting on this godforsaken island, and being paid for it.”

“Not me,” he replied. “Oh, I'm getting my expenses, but if this thing falls through it
could set me back two years.” He nodded gravely. “I'm not that well established. I can't
afford to have my name associated with any botched jobs -- even if they're not my fault.”
He finished his coffee and set the mug on the counter. “That's where you're in the clear,”
he said. “All you have to do is write your story. With me, it's sink or swim on every job.”

I felt sorry for Lazard. He obviously didn't like the smell of what he'd got into, but he
couldn't afford to be cautious. He was not much older than I was, and a thing like this
would be a fine break for him if it came through. And if it didn't, it would be a bad
break -- but even then he'd be in no worse shape than I'd been in for the past five years.
I was tempted to tell him so, but I knew it wouldn't make him feel any better. Then he'd
start feeling sorry for me too, and I didn't need that.

“Yeah,” I said. “A man wants many chestnuts in the fire.”

“Right,” he replied, getting up to go. “That's why I envy you -- you've got all kinds of
things going.”

I was beginning to believe him. The more he talked, the better I felt. On the way back to
Martin's bar I looked at the town. It was almost deserted. The streets were wide and the
buildings were low; most of them were built of concrete blocks and painted light pastel
colors, but they all seemed empty.

We turned the corner toward Martin's place and started down a hill toward the waterfront.
There were scraggy palms on both sides of the street, and at the bottom of the hill a long
pier poked into the harbor. At the end of it were four fishing boats, rolling lazily in
the groundswell that came in from Vieques Sound.

The bar was called The Ringfish. It had a tin roof and a bamboo fence around the
entrance. The Volkswagen bus was parked outside the door. Inside, Zimburger and Robbis
were still talking. Martin was packing the beer and the sandwiches in a big cooler.

I asked him why the town looked so deserted.

“No maneuvers this month,” he replied. “You ought to see this place when five thousand
U.S. Marines come in -- it's a madhouse.”

I shook my head, remembering that Sanderson had told me how two-thirds of the island was
a Marine target range. A strange place to build a luxury resort, unless you wanted to fill
it with retired Marines for cannon fodder.

It was after ten when we finally started for the other side of the island. It was only
four miles wide, a good drive through tall fields of sugar cane and along narrow roads
lined with flamboyan trees. Finally we came over a rise and looked down on the Caribbean.
The minute I saw it I felt that here was the place I'd been looking for. We drove across
another cane field and then through a grove of palms. Martin parked the bus, and we walked
out to look at the beach.

My first feeling was a wild desire to drive a stake in the sand and claim the place for
myself. The beach was white as salt, and cut off from the world by a ring of steep hills
that faced the sea. We were on the edge of a large bay and the water was that clear,
turquoise color that you get with a white sand bottom. I had never seen such a place. I
wanted to take off all my clothes and never wear them again.

Then I heard Zimburger's voice, an ugly chattering that brought me back to reality. I had
not come here to admire this place, but to write a thing that would sell it. Zimburger
called me over and pointed up at a hill where he planned to put the hotel. Then he pointed
to other hills where the houses would be. This went on for almost an hour -- walking up
and down the beach, staring at swamps that would blossom into shopping centers, lonely
green hills that would soon be laced with sewer pipes, a clean white beach where cabana
lots were already cleared and staked off. I took notes until I could stand no more of it,
then I went back to the bus and found Martin drinking a beer.