Two
I got up early the next morning and went for a swim. The sun was hot and I squatted on the beach for several hours, hoping no one would notice my sickly New York pallor.
At eleven-thirty I caught a bus in front of the hotel. It was crowded and I had to stand. The air in the bus was like steam, but no one else seemed to mind. Every window was closed, the smell was unbearable, and by the time we got to the Plaza Colon I was dizzy and soaked with sweat.
As I came down the hill to the News building I saw the mob. Some of them carried big signs and others sat on the curbing or leaned against parked cars, shouting from time to time at anyone going in or out. I tried to ignore them, but one man came after me yelling in Spanish and shaking his fist as I hurried into the elevator. I tried to catch him in the door, but he jumped away as it closed.
As I crossed the hall to the newsroom I heard someone yelling inside. When I opened the door I saw Lotterman standing in the middle of the room, waving a copy of El Diario. He pointed at a small blond man: Moberg! You drunken bastard! Your days are numbered! If anything goes wrong with that wire machine I’ll have it repaired out of your severance check!
Moberg said nothing. He looked sick enough to be in a hospital. I later learned that he’d come into the newsroom at midnight, raving drunk, and pissed on the teletype machine. On top of that, we’d been scooped on a waterfront stabbing and Moberg had the police beat. Lotterman cursed him again, then turned on Sala, who had just come in. Where were you last night, Sala? Why don’t we have any pictures of this stabbing?
Sala looked surprised. What the hell? I finished at eight — you expect me to work twenty-four hours a day?
Lotterman mumbled and turned away. Then he caught sight of me and waved me into his office.
Jesus! he exclaimed as he sat down. What’s wrong with these bums — sneaking out of the office, pissing on expensive equipment, drunk all the time — it’s a wonder I’m not crazy!
I smiled and lit a cigarette.
He looked at me curiously. I hope to Christ you’re a normal human being — one more pervert around here will be the last straw.
Pervert? I said.
Ah, you know what I mean, he said with a wave of his hand. General perverts — drunks, bums, thieves — god only knows where they come from.
Not worth a pound of piss! he exclaimed. Sneak around here like weasels, give me the big smile, then disappear without a goddamn word to anybody. He shook his head sadly. How can I put out a paper with nothing but wineheads?
Sounds bad, I said.
It is, he muttered, believe me, it is. Then he looked up. I want you to get acquainted as fast as you can. When we finish here, you go back to the library and dig into the back issues — take some notes, find out what’s going on. He nodded. Later on you can sit down with Segarra, our managing editor. I told him to give you a briefing.
We talked a while longer and I mentioned that I’d heard a rumor that the paper might fold.
He looked alarmed. You got that from Sala, didn’t you? Well don’t pay any attention to him — he’s crazy!
I smiled. Okay — just thought I should ask.
Too many crazy ones around here, he snapped. We need some sanity.
On my way back to the library I wondered how long I would last in San Juan — how long before I’d be labeled a weasel or a pervert, before I started kicking myself in the balls or got chopped up by nationalist thugs. I remembered Lotterman’s voice when he’d called me in New York; the strange jerkiness and the odd phrasing. I had sensed it then, but now I knew. I could almost see him — gripping the phone with both white-knuckled hands, trying to keep his voice steady while mobs gathered on his doorstep and drunken reporters pissed all over the office — saying tensely: Sure thing, Kemp, you sound normal enough, just come on down and —