And here I was, a new face in the snakepit, a pervert yet to be classified, sporting a paisley tie and a button-down shirt, no longer young but not quite over the hump — a man on the brink, as it were, trotting back to the library to find out what was going on.
I had been there about twenty minutes when a thin, handsome Puerto Rican came in and tapped me on the shoulder. Kemp? he said. I’m Nick Segarra –you have a minute?
I got up and we shook hands. His eyes were tiny and his hair was combed so perfectly that I thought it might be a toupee. He looked like a man who might write the governor’s biography — also like a man who would be at the governor’s cocktail parties.
As we crossed the newsroom, heading for his desk in the corner, a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a rum advertisement came through the door and waved at Segarra. He came toward us — graceful, smiling, a solid American face, very much the embassy type with his deep tan and his grey linen suit.
He greeted Segarra warmly and they shook hands. A charming bunch out there in the street, he said. One of them spit at me as I came in.
Segarra shook his head. It’s terrible, terrible . . . Ed just keeps antagonizing them . . . Then he looked over at me. Paul Kemp, he said. Hal Sanderson.
We shook hands. Sanderson had a firm, practiced grip and I had a feeling that somewhere in his youth he’d been told that a man was measured by the strength of his handshake. He smiled, then looked at Segarra. You have time for a drink? I’m on to something that might interest you.
Segarra looked at his watch. You bet. I was about ready to leave anyway. He turned to me. We’ll talk tomorrow — okay?
As I turned to go, Sanderson called after me. Good to have you with us, Paul. One of these days we’ll have lunch.
Sure, I said.
I spent the rest of the day in the library, and left at eight. On my way out of the building I met Sala coming in. What are you doing tonight? he asked.
Nothing, I said.
He looked pleased. Good. I have to get some pictures at the casinos — want to come along?
I guess so, I said. Can I go like this?
Hell yes, he said with a grin. All you need is a tie.
Okay, I said. I’m on my way up to Al’s — come on up when you finish.
He nodded. I’ll be about thirty minutes. I have to get this film developed.
The night was hot and the waterfront was alive with rats. Several blocks away a big cruise ship was tied up. Thousands of lights glittered on the deck and music came from somewhere inside. At the bottom of the gangplank was a group of what appeared to be American businessmen and their wives. I passed on the other side of the street, but the air was so still that I could hear them plainly — happy half-tight voices from somewhere in the middle of America, some flat little town where they spent fifty weeks of every year. I stopped and listened, standing in the shadows of an ancient warehouse and feeling like a man with no country at all. They couldn’t see me and I watched for several minutes, hearing those voices from Illinois or Missouri or Kansas and knowing them all too well. Then I moved on, still in the shadows as I turned up the hill toward Calle O’Leary.
The block in front of Al’s was full of people: old men sitting on steps, women moving in and out of doorways, children chasing each other on the narrow sidewalks, music from open windows, voices murmuring in Spanish, the tinkle of Brahms’ Lullaby from an ice-cream truck, and a dim light above Al’s door.
I went through to the patio, stopping on the way to order hamburgers and beer. Yeamon was there, sitting alone at the rear table, staring at something he had written in a notebook.