The Rum Diary. The Long Lost. Novel by Hunter S. Thompson

I was too intent on leaving to pay any attention to him, but after I got out in the street I realized that he’d meant to be insulting. I guessed he was bitter because my bail was so much smaller than his. Hell with him, I thought. Sanderson had nothing to do with it.

Several blocks up the street I stopped at an outdoor restaurant for some Puerto Rican coffee. I bought a New York Times for sev­enty cents. It made me feel better, reminding me that a big familiar world was going about its business just over the horizon. I had an­other cup of coffee and took the Times with me when I left, lugging it along the street like a precious bundle of wisdom, a weighty as­surance that I was not yet cut off from that part of the world that was real.

It took me a half hour to get to Sanderson’s, but the walk was along the beach and I enjoyed it. When I got there I found him stretched out in his garden on a plastic sun pad. He looked thinner than he did when he was dressed.

Hello, slugger, he said. How was jail?

Horrible, I said.

Well, he replied, next time it will be worse. You will be a marked man.

I stared at him, wondering what sort of twisted humor he was practicing on me.

Sanderson propped himself up on his elbows and lit a cigarette. What started it? he asked.

I told him, deleting a few minor points here and there, categori­cally denying what little I knew of the official version.

I leaned back in the chair, looking out at the white beach and the sea and the palms all around us, and thinking how strange it was to be worried about jail in a place like this. It seemed almost im­possible that a man could go to the Caribbean and be put in jail for some silly misdemeanor. Puerto Rican jails were for Puerto Ricans — not Americans who wore paisley ties and button-down shirts.

Why was your bail so much lower, he asked, did they start the trouble?

Here it was again. I was beginning to wish they had charged me with something brutal, like violent assault, or mauling an offi­cer.

Hell, I don’t know, I said.

You’re lucky, he said. You can get a year in jail for resisting arrest.

Well, I said, trying to change the subject, I think your speech saved the day — they didn’t seem very impressed when we said we worked for the News.

He lit another cigarette. No, that wouldn’t impress anybody. He looked up again. But don’t think I lied for you. The Times is look­ing for a travel stringer down here and they asked me to find some­body. As of tomorrow, you’re it.

I shrugged. Fine.

I went inside for another drink. While I was in the kitchen I heard a car drive up. It was Segarra, dressed like some gigolo on the Italian Riviera. He nodded stiffly as he came through the door. Good afternoon, Paul. What was all the trouble last night?

I don’t remember, I said, pouring my drink down the sink. Get Hal to tell you. I have to go.

He gave me a disapproving glance, then went through the house to the garden. I went to the door to tell Sanderson I was leaving.

Come by the office tomorrow, he said. We’ll talk about your new job.

Segarra looked puzzled.

Sanderson smiled at him. Stealing another one of your boys, he said.

Segarra frowned and sat down. Fine. Take all of them.

I left and walked out to Calle Modesto, wondering how to kill the rest of the day. It was always a problem. Sunday was my day off and usually I had Saturday too. But I was getting tired of riding around with Sala or sitting at Al’s, and there was nothing else to do. I wanted to get out on the island, look at some of the other towns, but for that I needed a car.

Not just a car, I thought, I need an apartment too. It was a hot af­ternoon and I was tired and sore. I wanted to sleep, or at least rest, but there was no place to go. I walked for several blocks, ambling along in the shade of the big flamboyan trees, thinking of all the things I might be doing in New York or London, cursing the warped impulse that had brought me to this dull and steaming rock, and fi­nally I stopped at a native bar to get a beer. I paid for the bottle and took it with me, sipping it as I walked along the street I wondered where I could sleep. Sala’s apartment was out of the question. It was hot and noisy and depressing as a tomb. Maybe Yeamon’s, I thought, but it was too far out and there was no way to get there. When I finally faced the fact that I had no choice but to walk the streets, I decided to start looking for my own apartment — a place where I could relax by myself and have my own refrigerator and make my own drinks and maybe even take a girl once in a while. The idea of having my own bed in my own apartment cheered me so much that I felt anxious to be rid of this day and get on to the next, so I could begin looking.