Thompson, Hunter S (18 page)

Sala looked up at me. “Schwartz is afraid they'll cut off his credit at the Marlin and
he'll lose that special seat at the end of the bar -- the one they save for the dean of
the white journalists.”

Schwartz shook his head sadly. “You cynical fool. We'll see how you feel when you start
looking for a job.”

Sala got up and started for the darkroom. “No more jobs in this place,” he said. “When
Greasy Nick jumps ship, you can bet the word is out.”

A few hours later we went across the street for a drink. I told Sala about Chenault and
he twisted nervously in his seat as I talked.

“Man, that's awful!” he exclaimed when I finished. “Christ, it makes me sick!” He whacked
the table with his fist. “Goddamnit, I knew something like that would happen -- didn't I
tell you?”

I nodded, staring down at my ice.

“Why the hell didn't you do something?” he demanded. “Yeamon's pretty good at slapping
people around -- where was
he
all that time?”

“It happened too fast,” I said. “He tried to stop it, but they stomped him.”

He thought for a moment. “Why did you take her to that place?”

“Come on,” I said. “I didn't go over there to play chaperon to some lunatic girl.” I
looked across the table at him. “Why didn't
you
stay home and read a good book the night you got whipped by the cops?”

He shook his head and fell back in the booth. After two or three minutes of silence, he
looked up. “What the hell are we heading for, Kemp? I'm really beginning to think we're
all doomed.” He scratched his face nervously and lowered his voice. “I'm serious,” he
said. “We keep getting drunk and these terrible things keep happening and each one is
worse than the last. . .” He waved his hand in a gesture of hopelessness. “Hell, it's no
fun anymore -- our luck's all running out at the same time.”

When we got back to the office I thought about what he'd said, and I began to think that
Sala might be right. He talked about luck and fate and numbers coming up, yet he never
ventured a nickel at the casinos because he knew the house had all the percentages. And
beneath his pessimism, his bleak conviction that all the machinery was rigged against
him, at the bottom of his soul was a faith that he was going to outwit it, that by
carefully watching the signs he was going to know when to dodge and be spared. It was
fatalism with a loophole, and all you had to do to make it work was never miss a sign.
Survival by coordination, as it were. The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the
strong, but to those who can see it coming and jump aside. Like a frog evading a
shillelagh in a midnight marsh.

So, with this theory firmly in mind, I went to see Sanderson that night, meaning to leap
from the bog of threatened unemployment to the high-dry branch of fat assignments. It was
the only branch I could see within a thousand miles, and if I missed it, it meant a long
haul to a new foothold, and I didn't have the faintest idea where it would be.

He greeted me with a fifty-dollar check, which I saw as a good omen. “For that article,”
he explained. “Come on out to the porch, we'll get you a drink.”

“Drink, hell,” I said. “I'm looking for unemployment insurance.”

He laughed. “I might have known -- especially after today.”

We stopped in the kitchen to get some ice. “Of course you knew Segarra was going to
quit,” I said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Tell me, Hal -- just what does the future hold for me? Am I going
to get rich, or go to the dogs?”

He laughed and started for the porch, where I could hear other voices. “Don't worry,” he
said over his shoulder. “Come on out where it's cool.”

I didn't feel like dealing with a bunch of new people, but I went out to the porch
anyway. They were young and they had all just come from somewhere exciting, and they were
very very interested in Puerto Rico and all its possibilities. I felt successful and
au courant.
After days of being blown and buffeted in the rotten winds of life, it was nice to be back
on the inside.

I was awakened the next morning by a tapping on my door, a soft, yet urgent tapping.
Don't answer it, I thought, don't let it happen. I sat up in bed and stared at the door
for a minute. I groaned, putting my head down in my hands and wanting to be anywhere in
the world but here and involved in this thing; then I got up and walked slowly over to the
door.

She was wearing the same clothes, but now she looked haggard and dirty. The delicate
illusions that get us through life can only stand so much strain -- and now, looking at
Chenault, I wanted to slam the door and go back to bed.

“Good morning,” I said.

She said nothing.

“Come in,” I said finally, stepping back to clear the doorway.

She kept staring at me with an expression that made me more nervous than ever. It was
humiliation and shock, I suppose, but there was something else in it -- a shade of sadness
and amusement that was almost a smile.

It was a frightening thing to see, and the longer I looked at it the more convinced I was
that she'd lost her mind. Then she walked in and put her straw pocketbook on the kitchen
table. “This is nice,” she said in a quiet voice, looking around the apartment.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's okay.”

“I didn't know where you lived,” she said. “I had to call the newspaper.”

“How did you get here?” I asked.

“A cab.” She nodded toward the door. “He's waiting outside. I don't have any money.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Well, I'll go out and pay him -- how much is it?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

I found my wallet and started for the door. Then I realized I was wearing nothing but
shorts. I went back to the closet and pulled on my pants, half desperate to get out of the
place and organize my thoughts. “Don't worry,” I said. “I'll get it.”

“I know,” she said wearily. “Could I lie down?”

“Sure,” I said quickly, hopping over to the bed. “Here, I'll straighten it out for you --
it's one of those beds that turns into a couch.” I pulled up the sheets and tucked the
spread around them, snatching at the wrinkles like a charwoman.

She sat down on the bed, looking at me as I pulled on a shirt. “This is a wonderful
apartment,” she said. “So much sun.”

“Yeah,” I replied as I moved toward the door. “Well, I'll pay the cab now -- see you in a
minute.” Then I ran down the steps to the street. He smiled happily as I came toward him.
“How much is it?” I said, opening my wallet.

He nodded eagerly. “Si, bueno. Senorita say you pay. Bueno, gracias. Senorita is not
okay.” He pointed meaningfully at his head.

“That's right,” I said. “Cuanto es?”

“Ah, si,” he replied, holding up seven fingers. “Seven dolares, si.”

“Are you nuts!” I said.

“Si,” he said quickly. “We go all over, around and around, stop here, stop there. . .” He
shook his head again. “Ah, si, two hours, loco, senorita say you pay.”

I gave him seven dollars, assuming he was lying, but believing him when he said the
morning had been loco. No doubt it had been, and now it was my turn. I watched him drive
off, then I went over to a spot under the flamboyan tree, out of sight of the windows.
What the hell am I going to do with her? I thought I was barefoot and the sand was cool
under my feet I looked up at the tree, then over to the window of my apartment. She was in
there, already on the bed. Here the
News
was about to fold and suddenly I had a penniless girl on my hands -- and a nut, to boot.
What could I say to Yeamon, or even Sala? The whole thing was too much. I decided I would
have to get her off my hands, even if it meant paying her way back to New York.

I went upstairs and opened the door, feeling more relaxed, now that I'd made up my mind.
She was stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Have you had any breakfast?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful.

“No,” she replied, so softly that I barely heard.

“Well I have everything,” I said. “Eggs, bacon, coffee, the whole business.” I went over
to the sink. “How about some orange juice?”

“Orange juice would be fine,” she said, still staring at the ceiling.

I cooked a pan of bacon and scrambled some eggs, happy for something to keep me busy. Now
and then I would glance back at the bed. She was lying on her back with her arms folded
across her stomach.

“Chenault,” I said finally. “Do you feel okay?”

“I'm fine,” she replied in the same dull voice.

I turned around. “Maybe I should call a doctor.”

“No,” she said. “I'm fine. I just want to rest.”

I shrugged and went back to the stove. I put the eggs and bacon on two plates and poured
two glasses of milk. “Here,” I said, taking her plate over to the bed. “Eat this and see
if you feel any better.”

She didn't move and I put the plate down on a table beside the bed. “You better eat,” I
said. “You look pretty damn unhealthy.”

She kept staring at the ceiling. “I know,” she whispered. “Just let me rest awhile.”

“Fine with me,” I said. “I have to go to work anyway.” I went to the kitchen and drank
two mouthfuls of warm rum, then I took a shower and got dressed. When I left, the food on
her table was untouched. “See you about eight,” I said. “Call the paper if you need
anything.”

“I will,” she said. “Goodbye.”

I spent most of the day in the library, taking notes on previous anti-communist
investigations and looking for background material on people involved in hearings that
were scheduled to start on Thursday. I avoided Sala, hoping he wouldn't come looking for
me to ask for news of Chenault. At six o'clock Lotterman called from Miami, telling
Schwartz to handle the paper and saying he'd be back on Friday with “good news.” It could
only mean that he'd found some financing; the paper would last a little longer and I still
had my job.

I left about seven. There was nothing else to do and I didn't want to get caught in some
movement to Al's. I went down the back stairs and slipped into my car like a fugitive.
Somewhere in Santurce I ran over a dog, but I kept going. When I got to the apartment
Chenault was still asleep.

I made some sandwiches and a pot of coffee, and while I was clattering around in the
kitchen she woke up. “Hello,” she said quietly.

“Hello,” I said, not turning around. I opened a can of tomato soup and put it on to heat.
“You want something to eat?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said, sitting up on the bed. “I'll fix it, though.”

“It's already fixed,” I said. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” she said. “Much better.”

I took a ham sandwich and a bowl of soup over to the bed. The bacon and eggs from
breakfast were still sitting there, looking cold and withered. I took the plate off the
table and put the other food down in its place.

She looked up and smiled. “You're such a good person, Paul.”

“I'm not good,” I said on my way back to the kitchen. “Just a little confused.”

“Why?” she said. “Because of what happened?”

I took my food over to a table by the window and sat down. “Yeah,” I said after a pause.
“Your. . . ah. . . your maneuvers of the past few days have been. . . ah. . . sort of
obscure, to say the least”

She looked down at her hands. “Why did you let me in?” she said finally.

I shrugged. “I don't know -- did you think I wouldn't?”

“I didn't know,” she replied. “I didn't know how you'd feel.” .

“Neither did I,” I said.

Suddenly she looked up at me. “I didn't know what to do!” she blurted. “When I got on
that plane I hoped it would crash! I wanted it to blow up and sink in the ocean!”

“Where'd you get a plane ticket?” I said. “I thought you didn't have any money.” I asked
without thinking, and the minute the words came out of my mouth I regretted them.

She looked startled, then she began to cry. “Somebody bought it for me,” she sobbed. “I
didn't have any money, I --”

“Never mind,” I said quickly. “I didn't mean to ask anyway. I was playing journalist.”

She put her face down in her hands and kept crying. I resumed eating until she quieted
down, then I looked over at her again. “Look,” I said. “Let's start everything from right
now. I'll just assume you've had a bad experience and I won't ask any more questions,
okay?”

She nodded, without looking up.

“All I want to know,” I added, “is what you plan to do now.” She looked like she was
going to cry again and I quickly added: “Just so I can help out.”

She sobbed, then said, “What does Fritz think?”

“Well,” I said. “He wasn't real happy when I last saw him. Of course that was Sunday
night and we were both in pretty bad shape -- he might feel better by now.”

She looked up. “What happened -- did he get in a fight?”

I stared at her.

“Don't look at me that way!” she screamed. “I don't remember!”

I shrugged. “Well --”

“The last thing I remember is going into that house,” she said, starting to cry again. “I
don't remember anything else until the next day!”

She fell down on the bed and cried for a long time. I went to the kitchen and poured a
cup of coffee. I was tempted to drive her out to Yeamon's and leave her on the road behind
his house. I thought about it for a while, but decided I'd better talk to him first and
find out how he felt. For all I knew he might break both her arms if she showed up out
there in the dead of night with this malignant-sounding story. The little she'd said was
enough to kill any hopes I'd had that it was all a mistake, and now I didn't want to hear
any more. The sooner I could get her out of here, the better. If I didn't see Yeamon in
town the next day, I would drive out to his house after work.

She finally stopped crying and went to sleep. I sat by the window and read for a few
hours, sipping the rum until I got sleepy. Then I shoved her over to one side of the bed
and very carefully stretched out on the other.

When I woke up the next morning Chenault was already in the kitchen. “It's my turn to do
something,” she said with a bright smile. “You just sit there and be waited on.”

She brought me a glass of orange juice, then a big omelette, and we both sat on the bed
and ate. She seemed relaxed and talked about having the place cleaned up by the time I got
back from work. I had meant to tell her that I was going to see Yeamon and have her off my
hands by nightfall, but now the idea of saying it made me feel like an ogre. What the
hell, I thought. No sense telling her -- just do it.

She brought the coffee over on a little tray. “Right after this I'm going to take a
shower,” she said. “Do you mind?”

I laughed. “Yes, Chenault, I forbid you to use the shower.”

She smiled, and when she finished her coffee she went into the bathroom and I heard the
water turn on. I went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee. I felt slightly indecent,
wearing nothing but my shorts, and decided to get dressed before she came out of the
shower. First I went downstairs to get the paper. As I came back through the door I heard
her call from the bathroom: “Paul, can you come here a minute?”

I went over and opened the door, thinking she would have the curtain pulled. She didn't,
and greeted me with a big smile. “I feel human again,” she exclaimed. “Aren't I
beautiful?” She stepped out of the stream of water and faced me, lifting her arms like a
model demonstrating some new and unusual soap. There was such a weird, nymphet egotism
about her stance that I had to laugh.

“Come on in,” she said happily. “This is wonderful!”

I stopped laughing and there was an odd silence. I heard a gong somewhere in the back of
my brain, and then a melodramatic voice saying, “And this concludes The Adventures of Paul
Kemp, the Drunken Journalist. He read the signs and saw it coming, but he was too much of
a lecher to step out of the way.” Then there was organ music, a sort of feverish dirge,
and then I was stepping out of my shorts and into the shower with Chenault. I remember the
feel of those soapy little hands washing my back, keeping my eyes tightly shut while my
soul fought a hopeless battle with my groin, then giving up like a drowning man and
soaking the bed with our bodies.

She was stretched out with a peaceful smile on her face, still wet from the shower, when
I finally left for work. All the way into San Juan I drove blindly, muttering and shaking
my head like a man who has finally been tracked down.

When I got to the office there were two things on my desk: one was a small book titled
72 Sure-Fire Ways to Have Fun,
and the other was a note saying Sanderson wanted me to call him.

I checked with Schwartz to see if there were any assignments. There weren't, so I went
out for some coffee, walking several blocks down the waterfront to avoid any possibility
of meeting Sala. I also expected Yeamon to come bounding into the office at any moment.
It took me a while to compose myself, but finally I decided that the morning had never
happened. Nothing had changed. I would see Yeamon and get her off my hands. If he didn't
come into town, I would drive out there after work.

When I felt myself under control I went back to the office. At two-thirty I had to go to
the Caribe to talk to one of the Congressmen who had come down for the anti-communist
investigation. I drove over there and talked to the man for two hours. We sat on the
terrace and drank rum punch, and when I left he thanked me for the “valuable information”
I had given him.

“Okay, Senator,” I said. “Thanks for the story -- it's a hot one.” Back at the office I
was hard-pressed to get four paragraphs out of the entire conversation.

Then I called Sanderson. “How're you coming on that brochure?” he asked.

“Oh Jesus,” I muttered.

“Damnit, Paul, you promised me a first draft this week. You're worse than this fellow
Yeamon.”

“All right,” I said wearily. “I'm going nuts right now, Hal. I'll get it to you this
weekend, maybe Monday.”