Hell, said Sala, report him tomorrow. Bust him. Let them serve a complaint — he’ll pay.
Yeamon thought for a moment. That should come to a little over four hundred. I could live for a while, anyway.
This is a hell of a place to go broke, I said. Four hundred’s not much when you figure you need fifty just to get to New York.
He shook his head. That’s the last place I’ll go. I don’t get along with New York. He sipped his drink. No, when I abandon this place I think I’ll head south down the islands and look around for a cheap freighter to Europe. He nodded thoughtfully. I don’t know about Chenault.
We stayed at Al’s all evening, talking about the places a man could go in Mexico and the Caribbean and South America. Sala was so bitter about Yeamon’s being fired that he said several times that he was going to quit. Who needs this place? he shouted. Blow it off the goddamn face of the earth — who needs it?
I knew it was the rum talking, but after a while it began to talk for me too, and by the time we started back to the apartment I was ready to quit, myself. The more we talked about South America, the more I wanted to go there.
It’s a hell of a place, Sala kept saying. Plenty of money floating around, English-language papers in all the big cities — by God, that may be the place!
On the way down the hill we walked three abreast in the cobblestone street, drunk and laughing and talking like men who knew they would separate at dawn and travel to the far corners of the earth.
Six
Needless to say, Sala didn’t quit and neither did I. The atmosphere at the paper was more tense than ever. On Wednesday, Lotterman got a summons from the Department of Labor, ordering him to a hearing on the question of Yeamon’s severance pay. He cursed about it all afternoon, saying it would be a cold day in hell before he’d give that nut a dime. Sala began taking bets on the outcome, giving three-to-one odds that Yeamon would collect.
To make things worse, Tyrrell’s departure had forced Lotterman to take over as city editor. This meant he did most of the work. It was only temporary, he said, but so far his ad in Editor Publisher had drawn a blank.
I was not surprised. Editor, it said. San Juan daily. Begin immediately. Drifters and drinkers need not apply.
At one point he offered the job to me. I came in one day and found a note in my typewriter, saying Lotterman wanted to see me. When I opened the door to his office he was fumbling idly with his baseball. He smiled shrewdly and tossed it up in the air. I’ve been thinking, he said. You seem pretty sharp — ever handled a city desk?
No, I replied.
Like to give it a whirl? he asked, tossing the ball again.
I wanted no part of it. There would be a good raise, but there would also be a hell of a lot of extra work. I haven’t been here long enough, I said. I don’t know the city.
He tossed the baseball up in the air and let it thud on the floor. I know, he said. I was just thinking.
What about Sala? I said, knowing Sala would turn it down. He had so many freelance assignments that I wondered why he bothered to keep his job at all.
Not a chance, he replied. Sala doesn’t give a damn about the paper — he doesn’t give a damn about anything. He leaned forward and dropped the baseball on the desk. Who else is there? Moberg’s a drunk, Vanderwitz is a psycho, Noonan’s a fool, Benetiz can’t speak English. . . Christ! Where do I get these people? He fell back in his chair with a groan. I’ve got to have somebody! he shouted. I’ll go crazy if I have to do the whole paper myself!
What about the ad? I said. No replies?
He groaned again. Sure — wineheads! One guy claimed to be the son of Oliver Wendell Holmes — as if I gave a goddamn! He slammed the ball violently on the floor. Who keeps sending these wineheads down here? he shouted. Where do they come from?