They’ll read it, I said, knowing they wouldn’t.
Don’t give me that stuff! he barked. I read two pages and it bored me stiff — a goddamn mountain of griping. Where does he get that kind of nerve? He hasn’t been here two months and he tries to con me into using a story that sounds like something out of Pravda — and he wants it run as a serial!
Well, I said. You asked what I thought.
He glared up at me. Is that your way of saying you won’t do it?
I wanted to flatly refuse — and I would have, I think, but I hesitated an instant too long. It was no more than an instant, but that was long enough for me to consider the consequences — fired, no salary, packing up again, fighting for a foothold somewhere else. So I said, You’re running the newspaper. I’m just telling you what I thought — since that’s what you asked for.
He stared at me and I could see him mulling the thing over in his mind. Suddenly he whacked the ball off his desk and sent it bouncing into a corner. Goddamnit! he yelled. Here I pay that guy a fat salary and what do I get out of him? A bunch of crap I can’t use! He fell back in the chair. Well, he’s finished. I knew he was trouble the minute I saw him. Now Segarra tells me he’s running around the city on a motorcycle with no muffler, scaring the hell out of people. Did you hear him threaten to twist my head! Did you see his eyes? The guy’s a nut — I should have him locked up!
We don’t need people like that, he said. It’s one thing if they’re worth a damn, but he’s not. He’s just a big bum, trying to make trouble.
I shrugged and turned to go, feeling angry and confused and a little ashamed of myself.
Lotterman called after me. Tell him to come in here. We’ll pay him off and get him out of the building.
I crossed the room and told Yeamon that Lotterman wanted to see him. Just then I heard Lotterman call Segarra into his office. They were both in there when Yeamon went in.
Ten minutes later he reappeared and came over to my desk. Well, no more salary, he said quietly. Claims he doesn’t owe me any severance pay either.
I shook my head sadly. Man, what a rotten deal. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him.
Yeamon looked idly around the room. Nothing unusual, he said. I think I’ll go up to Al’s for a beer.
I saw Chenault up there earlier, I said.
He nodded. I took her home. She cashed in the last of her traveler’s checks.
I shook my head again, trying to think of something quick and cheerful to say, but before I could think of anything he was halfway across the room.
See you later, I called after him. We’ll get drunk.
He nodded without turning around. I watched him clean out his desk. Then he left, saying nothing to anyone.
I killed the rest of the day writing letters. At eight I found Sala in the darkroom and we drove up to Al’s. Yeamon was alone in the patio, sitting at a corner table with his feet propped up on a chair and a distant expression on his face. He looked up as we approached. Well, he said quietly. The journalists.
We mumbled and sat down with the drinks we had brought from the bar. Sala leaned back and lit a cigarette. So the son of a bitch fired you, he said.
Yeamon nodded. Yep.
Well, don’t let him play games with that severance pay, Sala said. If he gives you any trouble put the Labor Department on his ass — you’ll get paid.
I’d better, said Yeamon. Otherwise I’ll have to catch that bastard outside the building some night and beat it out of him.
Sala shook his head. Don’t worry. When he fired Art Glinnin he got socked for five bills. Glinnin finally took him to court.
He paid me for three days, said Yeamon. Figured it out to the last hour.