What’s that? I said, sitting down across from him.
He looked up, shoving the notebook aside. Ah, it’s that goddamn migrant story, he said wearily. It’s supposed to be in on Monday and I haven’t even started.
Something big? I asked.
He looked down at the notebook. Well. . . maybe too big for a newspaper. He looked up. You know — why do Puerto Ricans leave Puerto Rico? He shook his head. I kept putting it off all week, and now with Chenault here I can’t get a damn thing done at home. . . I’m feeling a little pressed.
Where do you live? I asked.
He smiled broadly. Man, you should see it — right on the beach, about twenty miles out of town. It’s too much. You really have to see it.
Sounds good, I said. I’d like to get something like that.
You need a car, he said, or something like I have — a scooter.
I nodded. Yeah, I’ll start looking around on Monday.
Sala arrived just as Sweep came out with my hamburgers. Three of those for me, Sala snapped. Quick as you can — I’m in a hurry.
You still working? Yeamon asked.
Sala nodded. Not for Lotterman — this one’s for old Bob. He lit a cigarette. My agent wants some casino shots. They’re hard to come by.
Why? I asked.
Illegal, he said. When I first got here they caught me shooting at the Caribe — I had to go see Commissioner Rogan. He laughed. He asked me how I’d feel if I took a shot of some poor bastard at the roulette wheel and it happened to appear in his hometown paper just about the time he applied for a bank loan. He laughed again. I told him I couldn’t care less. I’m a photographer, not a goddamn social worker.
You’re a terror, Yeamon said with a smile.
Yeah, Sala agreed. They know me now — so I have to work with this. He showed us a tiny camera no bigger than a cigarette lighter. Me and Dick Tracy, he said with a grin. I’ll bust ’em all.
Then he looked over at me. Well, you got through the day — any offers?
Offers?
Your first day on the job, he said. Somebody’s bound to have offered you a deal.
No, I said. I met Segarra. . . and a guy named Sanderson. What does he do?
He’s a PR man. Works for Adelante.
The government?
In a way, Sala said. The people of Puerto Rico are paying Sanderson to tidy up their image in the States. Adelante is a big public relations outfit.
When did he work for Lotterman? I asked. I had seen Sanderson’s byline in some old issues of the News.
He was here from the beginning — worked about a year, then hooked up with Adelante. Lotterman claims they stole him, but it was no loss. He’s a phony, a real prick.
Is that Segarra’s buddy? Yeamon asked.
Yeah, Sala replied, absently tossing the lettuce and tomatoes off his hamburgers. He ate hurriedly and stood up. Let’s go, he said, looking at Yeamon. Come on — we may get some action.
Yeamon shook his head. I have to do this goddamn story, then drive all the way out to the house. He smiled. I’m a family man now.
We paid our bill and went out to Sala’s car. The top was down and it was a fine, fast ride along the Boulevard to Condado. The wind was cool and the roar of the little engine bounced around in the trees above our heads as we swerved in and out of traffic.
The Caribe casino was on the second floor, a big smoky place with dark drapes around the walls. Sala wanted to work alone, so we separated at the door.
I stopped at the blackjack table, but everyone there seemed bored, so I moved on to the craps game. There was more noise here. A group of sailors were yelling around the table as the dice bounced on the green cloth and the croupiers raked chips back and forth like frantic gardeners. Scattered among the sailors were men in dinner jackets and silk suits. Most of them smoked cigars, and when they talked it was with the accent of Ne’Yak. Somewhere in the cloud of smoke behind me I heard a man introduced as the biggest crook in New Jersey. I turned, slightly curious, and saw the crook smile modestly as the woman beside him burst into wild laughter.